


Clutch

by DemAmphi



Series: Pavlov [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:13:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 670,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemAmphi/pseuds/DemAmphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final book in the Pavlov Series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft was dressed and ready, sitting casually on Sherlock's bed. When he stirred, Mycroft was there, comforting as always. "It's alright. I'm here. I've got some good news for you." Mycroft wanted to judge Sherlock's mental state. 

"We can go home now, 'Lock. Everything is signed and ready."

Sherlock slowly pushed himself up, arms shaking under him, as he stared at his brother. Mycroft was properly dressed and put together, if not very tired. "H-Home?" Sherlock breathed, his vision instantly blurring, "p-please don't...don't b-be having me on I-" 

He closed his eyes as he tried to keep his breathing even, thinking warmly of Mrs. Hudson and the warm smell of Baker Street, of Greg and John, of his own bed and his own bath and the view of the pedestrians on the street below. 

"Oh g-god I want to go home." 

Mycroft hesitated. The way Sherlock said home made him think that he had Baker Street in mind, and Mycroft did not want to he the one to tell him otherwise. But it would be crushing to arrive somewhere else, and Mycroft gently took Sherlock's hand. 

"Sherlock, would it be alright if... As you know, John isn't at Baker Street anymore... I think it would be best if we went back to my home first while you recover."

Just like that, the flame went out, leaving a twisting line of smoke where there had been a warm spark. His lower lip trembled as he nearly physically reached out to snatch back the peace he'd felt at the idea of _home_ , watching Mrs. Hudson's face fade away, the warmth and familiar scent of home vanishing to the sterile sent of the hospital, Greg blipping out and John _screaming_ as he ran from him. 

"Oh...y-yes, of course. That...J-John and Greg don't...J-John doesn't live th-there anymore. That's...s-stupid of me I-" his head hung and he pressed his palm over his eyes, breathing deep and slow through it. 

"Your h-home would be...yes that's...m-much more sense. I'd like to l-leave here." 

Mycroft mentally abused himself for not being more clear on his definitions and pulled Sherlock closer. "You'll go back to Baker Street, though. I promise. I promise you I'll make sure you get back there, and that Greg and John are there too. I promise you." 

Mycroft texted Miller to let him know they were ready to leave.

Miller responded swiftly, walking into Sherlock's room and smiling at them, his expression falling as he saw Sherlock's distress. Quietly he spoke to them. "Alright, Sherlock, let's get you out of this hospital, yeah? I'm going to leave the tube in your nose, but we will disconnect it, just like John's, okay? And the drip will be disconnected but I'll leave the port. Do you feel like you could sit in a wheelchair to go down to the car?" 

Sherlock had his chin on his brother's shoulder, tears silently slipping down his cheeks in a complicated wash of relief, stress, grief, and elation. He nodded, though otherwise said nothing. 

Mycroft petted Sherlock's hair and spoke softly to him. "It will be nice living with me. Very safe, no white walls. You'll have water and a telly and a bed right next to mine, but you can sleep with me until you get tired of my snoring." He tried for a small smile, and moved the bed to the upright position. 

When the wheelchair arrived, Mycroft brought it to the side of the bed and gently lifted Sherlock into his arms. "It'll be nice. I promise." 

Sherlock caught Mycroft's wrist as Mycroft moved away, holding tight to it as he looked up. "I'm...I'm l-looking forward to it, My, h-honestly. I am sorry I...I long for things d-dead and gone and..." he shook his head and looked down at his lap, "I a-am homesick and I g-got ahead of m-myself." 

Mycroft's voice caught and he shook his head. Who was he to be receiving comfort from Sherlock? "Thank you. I hope I can make things pleasant enough for you. Really, truly, I do." 

Tears were already forming in his eyes and he brushed them away. But perhaps it was good for Sherlock to see that he was emotional, that he wasn't going to be as cold as he had become.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, startled to see him near _tears_ , saying nothing of it though. He reached for his blanket from Baker Street, which long since lost the smell of home, and hesitated as he looked over at John's shirt. 

"M-May I...I take that w-with me? I-" he swallowed and looked down, knowing it was foolish, "I...he w-was..." his voice caught and he spoke through it, "I love him...s-sentiment and all that f-foolishness."

Mycroft took John's shirt off the bed and handed it to Sherlock. "Of course you can. You can bring anything you want. I'll bring you anything you want." 

Mycroft began to wheel Sherlock down the hall, slowly, as to make sure he didn't react negatively to anything.

Sherlock did not want to raise alarm, but the idea of being in view of people he did not know was paralyzing. He clutched John's shirt in his hands and buried his face in the fabric, holding it over his eyes and nose like a blindfold, holding the ends over his ears to shut out the sound. 

By the time they arrived to the car downstairs, Sherlock was hardly breathing, chest aching for John's company and hands icy cold and trembling, sweating and in tears. he wanted to leave the hospital, but _Jesus_ was it stressful. 

Mycroft had them outside and swiftly transferred Sherlock into a waiting car. The wheelchair was folded up for him and put in the back. 

Mycroft could see Sherlock's distress and wanted it to be quick, like ripping off a bandaid. Once in the car, Mycroft wrapped Sherlock in the Baker Street blanket and pulled him onto his lap. 

Sherlock curled tight as he could in Mycroft's lap and held on for dear life, pressing his face to Mycroft's neck, breathing chaotically. Miller was following in his own car, but knew Sherlock was in distress. There was little for it, they were not going to sedate him for travel. 

Sherlock reached for Mycroft's hand and used it to cover his ear, openly whimpering in messy fear as they drove on. 

Mycroft covered Sherlock's ear and pressed him hard against his chest. "Hey, 'Lock. It's okay. It's okay. I've got you." 

When they pulled up outside Mycroft's house, the door was opened by his staff. "We're here. Would you like me to carry you in?"

Sherlock was sobbing when they finally arrived, sensory overload simply from the motion of the vehicle. He nodded and clung to Mycroft, "I d-don't want...want them t-to see m-me," he cried, openly afraid. 

Mycroft lifted Sherlock and called to the housekeeper at the door. "Make sure the way is clear. He's nervous about people."

She nodded and disappeared inside the house.

Just a moment later, Mycroft was carrying Sherlock up the stairs and into his room. "Here, see? Safe."

Sherlock utterly refused to let go of Mycroft, gripping him so tight it was painful. "W-wait!" He shouted as he thought Mycroft was going to walk away. He'd only ever been in his brother's bedroom a shy handful of times; it was not exactly familiar or comforting. 

It did smell of his brother and his brother's home, which helped, but still Sherlock was nearly in hysterics, hyperventilating, his chest tight and pained. "M-My don't l-l-leave me, don't l-leave me!" 

Mycroft put Sherlock into his bed and laid down next to him. He pulled the covers up around them, nearly over their heads, and curled next to Sherlock. "It's okay. I'm here. See? I won't leave you. Right here." 

Sherlock lay against a proper, real bed for the first time in many months, reaching out and wrapping around his brother as a small child would cling to a parent, sobbing as he tried to breathe. He was so overwhelmed there was no way for him to process what was happening in his mind. 

"I n-n-" he dragged in a swift breath, swallowing and sputtering as he tried to speak, "never th-though-t that I'd...th-thought I'd d-die...die...on th-the table I-" he gripped Mycroft desperately, crying hard enough to make his head pound, "n-never thought I'd....e-ever be....be ba-back here! Oh g-god thank y-you for g-g-getting me! My I- he c-could have b-b-been the last- last-" he shuddered hard, nearly panicked with the overwhelming amount of emotion raging over him, "last v-voice, l-last f-ff-face-" he gave it up when he began to choke, putting his focus to breathing.

Mycroft hushed Sherlock and petted his hair with a gentle, loving touch. "I would never have left you there. Never, ever. I love you too much. You're my little 'Lock. You're my dear baby brother. How could I let you die? I love you so, so much." 

Mycroft drew the covers up to their chins and held Sherlock to his chest in a protective embrace. "I will always love you. I will always be here for you."

Sherlock was damp with sweat and fully shaking by the time he was able to come back down from the rush, utterly exhausted. "C-Can I sleep? The b-bed...god the...so...so comfortable I'd...f-forgotten...I'd..." he dropped off to sleep mid-sentence, overpowered with exhaustion, still clinging tight to his brother. 

Mycroft let himself cry when Sherlock dropped off to sleep. He cried in a broken hearted, hopeless way, for he had resigned himself to this life and wallowed in his many failures. 

Mycroft clutched Sherlock with a desperation he had never felt for another human being. 

Here was his brother, tortured, raped, and traumatized, depending on him for everything, and Mycroft, incompetent human being as he was, couldn't even bring him his best friend. 

Miller paced on the ground floor, giving the men an hour before finally texting Mycroft. 

_I would like to check him over and get him set up, if you will allow it._

He'd also texted Paul, who in turn let Greg know that Sherlock was at Mycroft's home. Greg texted Mycroft as well. 

_I am told you are home. Congratulations! Expect the first few days to be a bit bumpy but really, he will do so much better so swiftly._

Mycroft sobbed openly onto Sherlock's shoulder and didn't bother with his phone for a full ten minutes. Depressing, terrifying images flashed through his mind, images of Sherlock on the table being cut, being-

_Don't think about it. Just don't think about it._

Mycroft finally got himself together enough to check his phone, and sent out diplomatic, concise responses.  
To Miller;

_If you would get him settled, that would be helpful._

And to Greg;

_It's good to be home. I hope you and John are doing well._

Miller made his way upstairs and quietly knocked on the door, letting himself inside and going over to the bed with his bag. He looked over the pair of them, nodding and offering Mycroft a few tissues. "This is stressful, he's going to sleep for a while, most likely, would you allow me to give you something very mild for nerves?"

Mycroft had no qualms with allowing Miller to see the tears that poured down his face, but he kept his voice as even as possible. "Yes. That would be appreciated."

Miller brought Mycroft a glass of cold water and a few tablets. "These will not knock you out, but they will help steady your nerves. I am leaving the bottle here. No more than six in a day, I'd prefer you keep it to four whenever possible. I'm going to get him set up in this bed then, if that's what you'd prefer. This will be very good for him, Mycroft, I think you'll see much more rapid improvement here." 

Mycroft took two of the pills and scooted over a bit to allow Miller to hook Sherlock in. "Yes, this bed will be perfect. If he has trouble, we'll use the other, but I'm hoping to get him used to this."

Miller got Sherlock fully connected in for the night, wanting to ensure that he was going to be alright after so much trauma from the day. "Okay, Mycroft, you should eat and take care of yourself. I can sit with him if you need the lav or a shower, I know you are very stressed, let's just get you cared for and settled, okay?"

Mycroft reluctantly got out of his bed, which was incredibly comfortable, with a high thread count, pillow top cover, and quality mattress. It would be perfect to remind Sherlock he wasn't on a table. "Yes, if you wouldn't mind, I'll have a quick shower."

Sherlock woke up ten minutes after his brother left, breathing in deep and mumbling to Mycroft, catching the scent of him as he buried deeper into the bed. When he opened his eyes, Miller spoke calmly to him, "Just in the shower, Sherlock, he's still here. Do you think you can eat?" 

By the time Mycroft returned, Sherlock was sitting up in bed with pillows at his back, very happily tucking into a steaming bowl of broth with a large glass of icewater beside him. 

Mycroft returned with damp hair and comfortable clothes. His mind was still throwing up hateful images of both the past, present and conjectured future, which made relaxation fairly difficult. When he saw Sherlock sitting up, eating, and looking well, he sighed in relief and walked over swiftly with open arms. 

 

\----

Greg frowned at the text and spoke quietly to John. "Sherlock's left the hospital," he said quietly, "Mycroft sounds...I don't know, off." 

John had leaned over and was resting his head on Gladstone's stomach when Greg spoke. "I'm glad he got out. That'll be good. Mycroft is going to end up sad."

Greg frowned at John, curious about that. "Why do you say so, John?" He watched John with the dog, abundantly thrilled that he'd chosen to bring the dog in. He reached over and scratched the dog's head, pleased with Gladstone and swiftly napping a picture of John with the massive beast. 

John closed his eyes and nuzzled his face down on the dog's soft fur, which felt fantastic on his skin, and muttered his answer. "Because it's hard to be around people like Sherlock and I and not get sad."

Greg blinked at John's words and inhaled slowly. "Well, I suppose that's true to some degree, but it's not how he's doomed to end up. It can also be said that it's hard to be around people like Mycroft and I, and not get happier," it was perhaps a weak rebuttal, but he was trying to get his point across. 

"I love you. He loves his brother. That trumps everything else." 

John looked over at Greg and gave him a peaceful smile. "I'm always happier when I'm around you." His tone had a bit of an _isn't it obvious_ and John reached out for his hand. 

"As long as he has someone to love him. Are we going to help him? I feel like I need to help him." John absently played with Gladstone's fur, and his expression grew just a bit more somber.

Greg held John's hand gently and rubbed his thumb over the back of John's knuckles. "How do you feel about the idea of helping him? We've talked about this already, but I suppose we should again now that he's not in hospital any longer." 

John though it all was very complicated, and preferred not to think on it further than his desire to help. "I just want... I don't know how, but I want to help him. Maybe I could... I don't know if I could visit yet, because outside...and cars and people.. But maybe.. Ah, he doesn't like me over the phone, or video call. I could write, but I mess that up."

 

Greg hummed and pulled John's hand to his face, kissing his knuckles. "For now, it sounds like anything we could do would be far too much stress. I think we keep on keeping on, and do what we can as we can, okay?" 

John responded well to the affection, as was usual, and leaned away from Gladstone for a moment to press a kiss to Greg's cheek. "So I just keep getting better so I can help him more when I can visit? That's how I help?"

Greg smiled and nodded to John, "Yes, I think that's the best way to help. I think I should take Gladstone downstairs, will you come with me?" He stood up and went over to the collection of things for the dog, digging through to find his leash. 

John looked a bit apprehensive about leaving the safe bubble Greg's house provided. "I...are you sure? What if there's a person?" 

Greg looked over to John and then whistled for Gladstone. The dog looked up at him and then back to John, sniffing John's hands and nuzzling into his lap further. Greg laughed and walked over with the leash. "Look at that," he said quietly, smiling and breathing calmly, "he doesn't want to leave you. That's incredible. You don't have to come with me John, but I imagine that no one is going to try and approach you with your dog. I'll be right with you, and it's just to the base of the stairs, there is a good grassy area there." 

John felt nervousness flutter in his stomach and he looked at the door. "I'm... Will there be people? I don't like... I'm not sure..." He stood up anyway and felt a bit of joy in him hen Gladstone hopped to his feet to follow. "I'm worried about being outside. In don't know if I'll like it. I'm... But I have to go outside to see Sherlock, to help him, so I guess I should." He shuffled over to the door, holding his arms across his chest, and looked to Greg. 

"Is it alright if... It's okay if you say no, I'll understand, but is it okay if you still hold onto me a bit when we go out?"

Greg wrapped his arm around John's back, securely holding his fingers in John's belt loop, pulling him flush against his side. "Here," he offered, handing over the leash, "you hold Gladstone, he won't pull you at all, and I'll hold you, yeah? If it gets too much we come right back, no pressure. This is safe, you are safe, and we can come back up as swift as you need to, I don't care if I need to carry you, that's totally fine." 

John leaned his head against Greg and his eyes slid shut for just a moment. He thought of the tube in his nose, capped off but still there, the port, also capped but plainly visible, the scars, his weight, his scruff, and he despaired. "You aren't embarrassed by me?" John didn't know if Greg would be alright with the possibility of others seeing them like this, seeing Greg with a broken, beaten, shuffling man and a massive dog. People might think them strange. 

John was worried about going outside for many reasons, and he hesitated as if expecting to see Moriarty on the other side of the door. 

Greg stopped dead in his tracks, letting go of John long enough to turn and properly face him, taking him by his shoulders and leaning in close. "John Hamish Watson, I want you to listen to me, yeah?" He kept his tone gentle, but unwavering, very certain in his delivery, "I am not embarrassed of you in the slightest, and I will knock any man who dares make a comment right on his arse. You are _incredible_ and all of this,"he touched the scars that ran along John's shoulders and then touched his face, "these are marks of your strength. I am not embarrassed to be by you, I'm bloody well honored." 

He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to John's cheek, brushing his knuckles against the opposite side of John's face, before taking him back to his side and snugging him close, Gladstone dutifully standing at John's side. "Ready?"

John glowed with admiration for Greg and blushed at the praise. This amazing man, Greg, the most beautiful human being on earth, was by his side and defending him. "Ready." John nodded to Greg and slowly opened the door. Gladstone peered out and seemed to scan the hall before leading John, whohesitated in the doorway. The first few steps John took were small, shuffling, and as quiet as a mouse, asif he were trying not to alert anyone of his presence. 

With a tight grip on Greg and a scared expression, John walked on down the hall. He was safe, sandwiched between a strong man who loved him and a massive dog trained to protect, but the world outside his little bubble was still quite alarming. 

They made it slowly but surely down the stairs to the grassy area without encountering more than a passing car, and a squirrel that caught Gladstone's sniffing nose but not much else. The dog naturally heeled at John's side, never so much as tugging at the leash. 

Greg carried on whispering encouragement to John as he watched their surrounding area, keeping his own behavior relaxed. there was nothing to be worried over, and he didn't want John to have the impression that there was. "Doing great, doing really great John."

John stayed glued to Greg's side and burrowed into him when the car passed. He was stressed, incredibly so, and, sensing his discomfort, Gladstone occasionally looked up at him. "I'm okay. Just outside. Just outside." 

John stood in the grass very close to the building and gripped Greg's arm with shaking hands. "I'm scared,"he whispered and held his arms tightly across his chest. 

Greg held the leash for Gladstone to do his business and wrapped John fully in his arms. "Nearly done, he whispered, waiting for Gladstone to finish his business. Soon they were heading back, and Greg carried on whispering soothing words to John.

He took most of John's weight as they went up the stairs, and when they were back the entire outing had lasted close to eight minutes. "You did well,"Greg whispered against John's temple, "very well. You ok?"

John wanted to run back to Greg's flat, but he didn't wish to leave his protection's side. When they were finally back, John slid down the wall just beside the door and put his head in his hands. With his shins tucked up over his stomach, elbows covering his ribs and hands splayed over his neck and sides of his face, John was protected. Gladstone sniffed him and tried to wiggle his nose into John's protective shell, which prompted John to reach one arm out and draw the dog in. 

"Scared. Scared." The words came out in clipped gasps, as John's chest was tight. 

Greg went down to his knees with John, keeping to his side. He slid an arm around John's back and pulled him to his side. 

"You did so well. Breathe for me. You are protected, you are safe, John, I have you. That was really hard, I know, but you've done brilliantly." 

He let go of the leash and put his hands to John, keeping as close as he could.

"Talk to me, John, let's slow your breathing." 

John's chest seemed to be trying to cave in, as it always had done when the burning clamps were millimeters from his skin. His eyes darted around and he struggled to draw breath, and John put his hands over his mouth just in case someone tried to suffocate him. 

"I'm... Hurts, hurts." John splayed one hand on his chest and looked up to Greg. "Tight. I can't- I'm scared."

Greg watched with fear spiking through him as he realized that John was having a full-blown episode. He got up, darting down the hallway and leaving John with Gladstone, ripping open the drawer with the pre-filled syringes. He’d failed to convey to John where he was going though, leaving the man at his back. 

John ouldn't comprehend what was happening when Greg suddenly ran off, and he cried out for him in a strangled, desperate voice. John had one arm around Gladstone and the other reached out to where Greg had gone as tears ran down his face.

He hit his knees as soon as he got back to John's side, taking his hand and slipping the needle into the port. 

"Breathe, breathe, relief is coming," he assured, capping the empty needle and sliding the syringe in his pocket before gathering John back into his arms, "let that help, I've got you, breathe John."

John clung to him with great panic as he tried to obey and fill his lungs, whole body shaking violently. 

Greg pulled John into his lap right there beside his front door, one hand over John's ear, the other wrapped protectively around his side, splayed over the side of John's hip. Gladstone sat with his back to John's side, nosing at him. 

"Follow my breathing, John, just like me," he instructed, taking deep, slow breaths to help pace John, rocking him in sweeping, side-to-side movements, slow and exaggerated to help soothe John's mind. 

The panic that had locked John in place was melting away, but he was still awfully confused by it. It had ripped away his calm, his logic, and his clarity, leaving him trembling and openly weeping on Greg's chest. Labored attempts at breathing slowly only resulted in him tripping over himself between sobs, and John tugged at Greg's shirt in an attempt to communicate his fear. 

Greg stopped pacing him, though he carried on rocking them both, Gladstone nearly sitting on his lap in an attempt to get closer to John.   
"Anxiety attack, John, that's what this is. It will pass, the fear will pass. Focus on where you are. Our flat. With Greg. With Gladstone. Safe. Warm. Dry," he kept his palm over John's ear and gently curled his fingers to rub lightly at his scalp there, trying to ease him through it.   
John felt the artificial, but nonetheless welcomed calm of medication sliding through him and he crossed his arms over his chest that had previously hurt so terribly and still felt a bit tight. Greg's words made sense, and he tried to think on them, but it was as if his panic went deeper than the words could penetrate.  
"W-With G-Greg," he attempted to repeat, "G-Glad-dstone t-too." With a pained whine he took Greg's hand and pressed it to his chest, where his pain was, where he needed comfort. His heart was hammering erratically and his breathing was even less steady, but he was beginning to see that his discomfort was his own body, not something being done to him.

Greg held his hand, fingers splayed, over John's frantic heart, willing the terrible wave that had swept John away to subside. 

"I love you. I'm sorry you are hurting. It will pass. You are safe," he carried on, trying to offer a constant flow of comfort where he felt utterly useless, "I would take this pain from you if I could, I'd take it all away and give you peace. This isn't fair. I love you. I'm right here with you. You will never be alone with this. I love you." 

The frantic, frightened, caged animal that was John's heart slowed it's pounding against the cage in his chest and John was left gasping, drenched in sweat, to slowly overcome the terrible emptiness in the wake of panic. He began the tedious process of piecing his mind back together, and as the attack had driven him to exhaustion, he turned to Greg for support. 

"C-Could you t-t-tell m-me where I-I am and-and-a-and y-you're h-here and tho-ose things?"

Greg carried on repeating everything he had been already. 

"We are home, my flat, you live here now. Greg is with you. There is no one else here. You helped walk your dog and we've come back inside. I love you, I am protecting you, and you are in no danger. There won't be any pain, nothing bad is going to happen to you. We are going to get in bed, and I'm going to hold you, and I'm going to read to you. We are home." 

John gave a small nod and a muttered response. He burrowed into Greg's shirt and closed his eyes, though not in the tight way that blocked out reality as he had before. 

"O-Okay. C-Can we get in b-bed? I-I want to g-go to bed." He covered his face with his hands and dampened them with tears.

Greg took a moment to get them up, John was not overly heavy, but the position was awkward. Nevertheless he managed to get his legs under him, and it was a short walk back to the bedroom. He set John on the bed, "Just taking off your shoes, John, nothing else," he said as he went to John's feet, tugging off the trainers carefully. 

He toed off his own shoes and settled down at the head of the bed, opening his arms to John. Gladstone sat at the foot of the bed with his head resting on the end, watching them with a slow wagging tail. 

John crawled to Greg and nestled down on him like a cat or a frightened child, which helped soothe his mind. "O-Okay...Okay... I'm okay...It's okay... I-I'm alright. Greg. I've got Greg." 

As he spiraled back from the reeling panic, John worked through the events in his mind. Shame welled in him, for it had only been a simple walk that set him off so terribly. 

"I d-didn't...It w-wasn't even bad outside."

Greg shook his head. This sort of victim care he was familiar with. "It was open and boundless, with many more possibilities than in these walls. This is like panic right after a near miss while driving or in combat. Nothing actually happened, but the potential for something terrible to happen is enough to cause panic. You did well, John," he looked down at the dog and patted the bed, happy to allow him up. 

"Gladstone," he called, patting the spot between John and the edge of the bed. 

"You are alright, and now I'm going to read you more of this Hobbit business. I love you, you're alright." He grabbed the book and cracked it open as Gladstone rest his massive head on John's lower back, warm and weighted. 

Greg was right. There was so much that could have happened. John still felt overwhelmed even though he knew he was safe in bed with the one who loved him. 

He reached one arm back and patted Gladstone's head, the weight and warmth of which was comfortable resting on John's back. Having a dog was already helping, and John marveled at Greg's abilities once more. 

"I like the Hobbit," John said a bit absently and stretched up to kiss Greg's cheek. "Thank you."

Greg kept to himself for then that it had been Sherlock who provided that insight, simply starting to read to John. Even though the dog was for John, it was comforting to feel the large beast breathing calmly against his own thigh. Gladstone had instantly taken to John, and it was nearly like having someone else there that John could trust. Nearly. He gently stroked John's back, hoping he'd be able to sleep, as he quietly walked them into a dragon's lair in a land that could only exist on paper. 

John floated off into the fictional world and imagined what it would be like to see a dragon, or to be a dragon, or to explore such lands, or to be so brave in epic battles. "I love you, Greg. Love my Greg." 

He closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep with thoughts of Greg and thoughts of the story running through his scarred mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg marked where he felt John drift off, though he carried on reading, wanting his voice in the background of John's mind in case he began to dream. 

Meanwhile, Miller was keeping a close eye as Sherlock did his best to feed himself. Sherlock ha'd not attempted to do anything requiring dexterity, and twice now had failed to get the spoon to his mouth, spilling over his tray. The first failed attempt, he'd been so hungry and so happy to eat, that he ignored his failure. The second time he rolled his eyes and set the spoon down, flexing his hand several times before trying again. Presently he was on his third attempt, not having managed another bite between, hungry and unable to get the liquid to his lips. 

He set the spoon down and stared at the bowl, holding his breath as his gut twisted. _Can't even feed myself. I can't_ feed _myself_. He'd mourned the loss of the violin, knowing his fingers had been too damaged to hope to play again, but he'd never imagined _feeding himself_ would be an issue. He held his breath until his lungs began to burn, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. 

"I-" he breathed, humiliated and heartbroken, "th-this...I-" what was there even to say?

Mycroft was on his phone in an instant and ordered something he had heard about months ago on overnight delivery. It was a special sort of utensil set, normally used for those with Parkinsons or stroke patients.

"Sherlock, I've got something on the way that might help with that. Don't lose hope. You haven't had enough physical therapy on your hands to be able to eat properly. Don't lose hope, though. Don't lose hope." Mycroft offered a small smile and took the spoon himself. "Until then, I can help you, or we can get a straw."

Sherlock nodded slowly, staring at the food that was right in front of him. His appetite swiftly evaporated under the weight of shame. He very gently pushed the tray away from him, wrapping his arms around himself as his face burned. It had been quite some time since he'd been so humiliated. Moran had never been able to incite such a reaction, as Sherlock didn't give a single damn of his opinions. This, however, did a brilliant job of highlighting how extreme his loss of autonomy was. 

He stared down at his hands, laying them on the duvet and suddenly feeling too filthy to be in his brother's bed, too damaged, too marred. He physically picked up his hands, looking at the white cloth of the bedsheets, truly expecting to see dirt where he'd touched. He kept his eyes downcast, wishing he could melt into the floor, chewing viciously at the inside of his lip. 

"I...th-this...q-quite un...unexpected," he breathed, working one hand over the other as though he could rub the damage away, "he...I n-needed my hands." 

The statement caught in his throat, choking off the words. John was his most catastrophic loss, but his hands were a very close second. Losing one or the other was devastating enough, but combined, along with his ability to read? 

"I needed...I n-needed m-my hands." 

Mycroft took one of Sherlock's hands in both of his. "Listen, Sherlock, you aren't fully recovered yet. You haven't given yourself time to improve. This will get easier, I promise. Moran was...he disregarded your ability to recover. You will do so anyway, though, I am certain." 

He pulled the covers back up and scooted closer. "Would you like a straw?"

Sherlock kept his focus on his lap, docile to Mycroft's touch, though not particularly responding to it. 

"Alone," he said quietly, "I'd l-like a few...f-few minutes alone." 

Mycroft's heart squeezed and nothing sounded so hateful as leaving his brother's side, but he would heed Sherlock's request. "I'll be just outside. If you need anything, just call."

Sherlock nodded without looking up, keeping his focus on his hands. When the men were out of the room and Sherlock was properly left to himself, he pulled the blankets off his legs and looked down at his feet. Carefully he stretched, reaching for his toes, feeling every muscle in his body strain as he worked to test his own mobility. He could only get his hands to mid-calf before the pull at his ankle and knee were unbearable. 

He stopped, tears in his eyes, and leaned back against the bedding again, panting with exertion. A few minutes later, he outstretched his arms to test his range of motion, finding nearly everything beyond a forty-five degree angle intolerably painful. 

His range of motion was deplorable. 

He struggled to push himself forward enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the rug, grimacing as the flayed bottoms of his feet touched the fibers. It was too much and he was forced to draw back from overload of sensation. He closed his eyes as he lay back down and tried to come to terms with what had been taken from him.

"R-Reading," he whispered, "writing-g...f-feeding myself....w-walking..." he exhaled a trembling breath and gripped the back of his own neck harshly, nails digging into the scar he'd put there himself. 

"J-John," he managed to say, voice breaking as his breathing became chaotic, "mind p-palace...v-v-violin..." he gripped the sheets at his side as panic swarmed up around him, a thousand bees stinging into his nerves, loss crushing his shoulders down as his heart tripped, the small shock of the pacemaker stringing along his collarbone and up his throat. It was too much to endure when put to a list and panic churned up in Sherlock’s gut, overwhelmed by the staggering weight of it. 

"M-My," he breathed, trying to get enough air in his lungs to cry out for help as he began to shake terribly, "MY!" 

Mycroft was in the room and by Sherlock's side within five seconds. From what he could see, Sherlock had been moving around, which would have created even more anxiety.

"Hey, 'Lock, it's alright. It's okay." Mycroft pulled the covers enough to slide into bed next to Sherlock and wrap one arm around his shoulders. 

"It's alright. You're alright. Could you tell me what is upsetting you? I can help."

Sherlock sat there, neither leaning into, or away from Mycroft, shaking apart. "E-every...I can't...my f-feet and...I'm..." He was choking on his words, nearly ready to scream, "n-nothing I...too m-much..."

"The injuries are recent. You haven't had proper physical therapy yet. Your range of motion and stamina will both be very low, but they will not remain at this level. Do you remember when you were young, and you broke your arm? When you got the cast off, you couldn't fully extend it, but now you can. I'm not saying you'll go back to fully normal, but this isn't the end of the line for you. It will get better." 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer and kissed the top of his head. "It'll be alright." 

 

"No it...n-nothing w-will be alright!" He shouted, "there is n-not even a st-start point." He leaned heavily against Mycroft, trembling hard, hopeless.

"I'm going to make sure it is alright." Mycroft rocked Sherlock slowly and took out his phone. "I'll play a bit of music and you can get some rest. I'll be right here. Do you want me to read again?"

Sherlock pressed his shaking hands over his face, "I can h-hardly move! C-can't even f-feed myself, m-mind it's...trash on a l-lawn I-" he sobbed, shoulders curling in, "John is gone and...m-my hands and-" 

Panic tore through him and it was all he could do to remember that he'd promised never to ask Mycroft to kill him.

His brother pulled him onto his lap and kissed his temple. "'Lock, I love you. I will help you through this. We'll make corrections and you'll have the best physical therapy in the world. You'll be able to read again, I am certain. John isn't lost either. You know what I can do when I put my mind to it. I will make sure you have a good life."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips, sobbing quietly. He rest against Mycroft, breath hitching as he tried to quiet down. Sleep pulled hard at him and he closed his eyes, Finally whispering to his brother. 

"Read....Read s-something?" 

Mycroft took out his phone and picked out a few poems to read. He avoided things such as Auden's 'As I Walked Out One Evening', which talked a bit too much about time running out, and other depressing topics of love that poets seemed drawn too. He skipped over a Keats poem he was fond of, as it was just a bit too romantic, and he didn't want to remind Sherlock of John. 

In the end he went through Frost, as he found nothing depressing about the beautifully written descriptions of nature. 

Sherlock tried to rest as his brother read to him, eyes heavy with sleep, though none would come. Nearly an hour passed with Sherlock resting against his brother, listening to him read, before he cut him off mid-sentence. 

"I c-cannot silence m-my mind," he breathed, the words brittle as spun glass, his nerves on fire. He'd never had issue calming his mind outside of boredom. Here, he was desperate for the complete chaos to _stop_. 

Mycroft stopped and put his phone down on the bed side table. An unruly, hard to silence mind had troubled him when he was very young, but Mycroft quickly learned to control it. However, he still understood the feeling. 

"I have a few sleep aids, I'm sure. We're fully stocked." 

Sherlock frowned, biting at his lip as he thought on it. "My mind...the palace...th-thousands of hours to c-create and...j-just a f-few weeks to destroy. Why...why c-can I not have j-just one of m-my...j-just one...was I s-so terrible that I-" he stopped speaking as his throat closed, breathing in deep to keep from sobbing, his head already aching with it. 

"I failed...f-failed to keep h-him safe..to...if-f I'd told John how I f-felt...it's...all this happened because I failed to...to tell him...All of y-you have said...b-but My...was it s-such an grievous mistake th-that I deserve..." he brought his hands up again, watching them shake in front of his face, running the pad of his thumb along his fingertips. 

"Th-the guilt is unbearable." 

Mycroft thought on it slowly. If he lost his mind palace, not that he called it that, he would be lost. Of course, he didn't keep everything in _one_ place...

"Let's make a new file. Don't worry about starting from scratch. Just make a new file somewhere else and we can add it once the rest is doing better. Tell me when you're ready, and I'll read you something to put in the file." 

Mycroft's mind was less like a massive house full of information and more of a library, account style filing system. He could picture each file, and prayed Sherlock could make a new one. 

"Ready?"

Sherlock waved his hands and then dropped them to the bed in visible defeat. 

"The l-lawn is full of f-files I've tried to create. I..." he desired to tell his brother of the most sensory one, though shame made him hesitate. 

"P-please do n-not think less...less of m-me for what I'm...about to s-say. When J-John..." he closed his eyes as one of his hands began to fist harshly over his thigh, thumb digging into a painful spot to keep him present, "when h-he...would l-lay with me I...it w-will never h-happen again and-" his voice broke despite himself, this was one of his freshest and most painful losses. 

"I knew...I knew I'd n-never know th-that f-feeling again and s-so I made...made a b-box and...all of m-my memory techniques...I employed th-them all so that I c-could go b-back and remember what th-that felt like..." he closed his eyes, pushing heavy tears down his cheeks inadvertently. 

"I c-can recall the sh-shadows of the memory, the mold th-they were set in, the adjective around them," _home, love, safe, John, home, wanted, home, John, safe_ , "b-but the...the d-data..I c-cannot remember th-the data." The shadows of how incredible it had been to be loved, even temporarily, by John were there, but he could not recall it exactly. 

Of course Sherlock would remember John lying with him more than Mycroft reading stupid poetry. It reminded the older brother just how vital he was...if he was working to get Sherlock and John back together. While he knew it was unlikely, it was undeniable that John was good for Sherlock's mind. 

"I'd never think less of you for that. I hope that he gets well enough to come visit us." Mycroft had picked up his phone again in hope that perhaps Sherlock might be able to make a new file, but his sails sagged now and he slipped it into his pocket. 

Sherlock's anger rose to the surface and he snapped at his brother, "I t-tell you this so that I can hear you assure me the damage is r-reparable, not pl-platitudes for a l-lost-" he pressed his hands over his face and dragged in a ragged breath, suddenly reciting back Mycroft’s poetry from behind his scarred hands, "A-And climb... b-black branches up a snow-w white tr-trunk toward h-heaven, till-l the tree could bear no more, b-but dipped its top and set me down again. T-That would be good both going and c-c-coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."

His face was slick with tears, and his jaw clenched tight, though he hoped the message was clear as he called back the poems his brother had chosen. "H-help me, My, I n-n-need help I w-was trying to ex-explain what w-was happening in the pr-process...s-so that you w-would maybe see wh-what was broken." 

It occurred to him then, that it was likely _all_ broken. He dropped his hands away from his face, searching his own brother's expression, "You b-believe it a l-lost cause." 

Mycroft’s response was immediate. 

"No, sorry, I never meant to imply it was a lost cause. I just... I couldn't tell if you needed comfort or mental assistance. I'm rubbish at this." 

Mycroft fiddled with the edge of the blanket and dipped into his mind. 

"I suggest you start with something very small. Take a memory that you have from before, flesh it out, set it in stone, and build up from there. You don't have to rebuild the mind palace, just dig it up. If you can get at something inside the palace and polish it, the rest might follow more easily."

Never once, in the whole of his life, had Sherlock ever heard the words ' _I'm rubbish at this_ ,' slip past his brother's lips. He grabbed at Mycroft, sensing desperation that he'd felt so relentlessly after finding John. 

"No," he whined, burying his face against Mycroft's chest, "no, n-no please, don't...don't l-let me make you...m-make you f-feel..." he tugged at Mycroft, pressing a hand over his brother's heart, "p-please, you are....I'd...I w-was alone. I am...I am f-forgotten outside of...n-no one knows h-how our m-minds work I n-need you. I need you. I'm...p-please, I am s-sorry I've m-made you...you f-feel..." he groaned and tugged hard at his brother, "I am h-horrible...p-please it's- you're brilliant, My, you're b-brilliant." 

Mycroft let out a broken laugh and let his chin drop to his chest. "I'm clever, Sherlock, and look where that's gotten me. Gotten us. I can't even help you properly. Inadequate is the word you were looking for, I believe. You would have been better off as the smarter one. I should have been normal." 

Mycroft looked over to Sherlock and offered a small smile. 

"But I know how our minds work, and I know you will have your palace back again. Start with one memory. Just one. Something small, but it needs to be inside the house, not outside it or near it. Do that much for me, 'Lock. Set it in stone. Every detail. Tell me the sight, sound, touch, smell, taste, temperature at the time, reflections, scenery, weather of the day, mood of the day, your thoughts, what you were wearing. Make one perfect memory and the rest will follow."

Sherlock was determined to comply, to do this for his brother. "The...the h-house is...f-frightening," he confessed as he reached out and found Mycroft's hand, holding it tight, pressing closer to Mycroft's chest. 

Very cautiously, Sherlock went still and slipped into what was left of his mind. He walked along the overgrown path, up to the rotted porch, his fingers flexing around Mycroft's before he pushed inside of the feted home and outwardly went very lax. 

The floorboards gave like sponge as he walked into the darkness, the entire place dripping with damp and mold. A memory from before...he needed a memory from before. 

An hour passed, and then a second, and then a third, all where Sherlock was unresponsive and deathly still. He'd made his way down to the lowest registers of the home, past the morgue, down where he'd scratch at Redbeard's head in times of great stress. It was there, in the dimly lit, rich-wood hallway, that he found it. 

"We were at the lake," he abruptly said aloud, though still very lax and eyes closed, "Y-you'd been w-writing all day and I'd d-dropped a cap with a quail feather t-tucked to it onto your head. D-Demanded you c-call me C-Captain Bluebeard..." he trialed off as he scraped for the memory, touching on it in the form of a little wooden toy ship in his mind. His brows knit and his hand flexed on Mycroft's. 

"I w-was...e-eight...R-Redbeard r-ran over your book and left a print. It had r-rained mid morning...short sleeves and...you g-got up and I was so sure you'd leave...but you...we..." he sat down in the hallway under the best light, examining the boat. 

Mycroft had been in the middle of working on a very important project when he was interrupted by this whole ordeal over a year ago. Nothing that he was assigned, or doing for charity, no. Mycroft was working inside his mind. 

All his files, while organized neatly in folders, drawers and shelves, were getting a bit crowded. While some with a mind palace might prefer to walk the halls and have a safe place to retreat, Mycroft wanted information instantly, and thus had begun a transformation. It was a white room, dome-like, with walls full of screens. A simple keyboard was at the center, elevated on a white pedestal, for him to type on. He'd begun work on this just a week before Sherlock had found John, and the room only responded to a few keywords. Luckily, he had started chronologically, and only silly, childish memories were available in the white room for display. 

Mycroft walked over to the keyboard and typed in BLUEBEARD, and the memory sprang to life around him. The screens on the walls transformed the little room into a virtual representation of what had been, and details about the day that he could not see appeared in neat, white writing with a black boarder in columns on the edge. 

"Yes, I remember." 

He could recall the book with the print, how angry he'd been, how happy Sherlock looked and how easy it had been to toss the book away and find a stick that looked like a sword to join the play. 

"It rained that day, so the air was fresh. I waited until you ran under a tree that still had wet leaves then shook it. Do you remember that?"

Sherlock frowned, turning the little boat in his hands, sitting with his back to the wall and knees drawn up. That would be a tactile memory, he should still have it. He shook the little wooden boat in his hand, mimicking the motion Mycroft had used to rattle the tree above him. 

Abruptly he was torn from the safe hallway of childhood, gasping for air as Moran's meaty hand wrapped around his throat, dragging him up off the freezing floor and shaking him hard in the same motion he'd just used to rattle the little boat. _John hated this table_ , he smirked as droplets of sweat skittered down from Sherlock's curls like rain off damp leaves, stinging his face where Moran had attempted to cave it in with his fist, nose pouring blood, eyes nearly swollen shut already. The first hour with Moran had been mercilessly brutal. 

He tried to scream, locked deep down in his destroyed mind, jerking hard as he was tossed on the metal,John's dried blood crunching under his back, making him gag. It smelled of the box Moriarty had sent full of the bloodied items he'd used to take Watson apart. 

He abruptly pulled his arms to his chest, twisting away from Mycroft in panic, mentally clawing at the walls in a bid to escape. _Where are the stairs? Find the stairs! Leave! Run!_

Mycroft didn't know if it had been something he said that triggered this response, but he wasn't going to assume Sherlock didn't want him there, even if he twisted away. 

"Sherlock!" If he was locked in his mind, feeling terror, it was very likely it would be hard for him to get out. "I'm HERE!" 

With arms wrapped around his brother, Mycroft spoke directly into his ear. It had been a good day so far as panic was concerned, and Sherlock had at least been responding to him. He started with the tapping and wrote a request that Sherlock come back to him. 

"Please, 'Lock. I'm here. Come back to me. I've got you. You're safe."

_The walls, Christ, he'd nearly forgotten the walls. Flashes of memory bit at him as he raked his nails down blood soaked concrete, the stench of stale copper, sick, and fear seeping into his pores as he sobbed in his panic. Where was the door? Where was the door!_

_'Say it, or I will take your eye,' Moran purred, and abruptly there was a pin thread through his eyelid and eyebrow._

Sherlock grabbed at his face as little clipped, choked sounds stuttering from his chest as he clawed pathetically at his eye, locked down in his mind where he'd been trying to focus on visceral recall, the effort horrifically backfiring as his brain demanded he sort the trauma that he was utterly unprepared to manage. 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock and hauled him into his lap. "You're alright. You're okay. It's alright." Mycroft rocked Sherlock gently and tapped on his arm quickly, and in a variety of different languages. 

_I am My. I am here to help you. Try to come back to me. Come back to me. I love you. You are safe_. 

"'Lock, come back to me. Please." Mycroft plunged back into his own mind and frantically typed in another keyword to bring up memories. 

"Do you remember when you found that old row boat? It was broken, had tons of holes, and surely wouldn't have floated. You and I worked on it for a week with some spare wood and a tarp, and went out on the lake. You painted a name on the side and everything."

Mycroft's voice echoed just outside the concrete walls and Sherlock _screamed_ for him, bloodying himself in the confined room as he frantically moved to find an exit, digging at the walls as he tried to break through them. _Mental walls, not real, mental, tear them down, get out, get out!_

Pain licked down his back as the familiar bite of a lash laid into him. _Not real, not real, not real not real Not Real N-_ "NOT REAL NOT-" he managed to shout against Mycroft's chest, his own voice in his ears suddenly and painfully ripping him out of the depths of his mind with a pained cry, eyes flying open as he pushed against Mycroft for a moment in horrified confusion, dragging in a breath as though coming up from underwater. 

Mycroft clutched Sherlock to his chest and rocked, tapped and spoke. Hopefully one of them could be an anchor. "Not real. Not real. It was not real. You are safe with your big brother. I've got you. I've got you. You're alright."

Sherlock blinked rapidly as he tripped over his breathing, suddenly clutching back to Mycroft, his skin crawling. "B-Bath I want- d-dirty I- please I-" he gagged as he smelled Moran as surely as if he were in the room, "NO! N-NO! God pl-please!" 

Mycroft scooted to the edge of the bed and laid Sherlock down out of his lap. "We'll have a bath, then. It's alright. I'm here, Moran is dead. Dead. I had him killed." 

Mycroft unscrewed Sherlock's IV and capped it, same with the tube in his nose, which was a bit challenging to do with one hand, as he insisted on keeping one arm around Sherlock. 

Sherlock was nearly shaking apart, sobbing as he pressed his hands to his eyes, babbling for mercy as he alternated fighting against, and clinging to his brother in a full blown panic, choking on nearly cinematic memory.

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and carried him into the bathroom, as he had no intention of leaving him alone in this state. He reached over with one arm, balancing Sherlock a bit awkwardly, and turned the tap on to let it heat. 

"Shhh...It's okay. I'm here. Would you like some warm water? Are you comfortable with a bath?"

The rushing sound of water, combined with the clean scent of soap helped to calm him down from the blinding terror to a sort of panic he could recognize if not overcome. "I- s-sorry, sorry, pl-please I-" he pressed his face under Mycroft's chin, trying to breath, trembling hard enough to cause his teeth to chatter. "I- I...I w-want...please I- yeah a b-bath I-" he began to scratch at his arms, physically feeling the rusted flakes of John's blood even though he was relatively clean, "g-get it off I- n-no more please I-"

Before getting into the shower, Mycroft turned the water on in the tub as well, which was much larger than the one at the hospital but also separate from the shower. He waited until the water was hot and slowly stepped in without taking off Sherlock's clothes or his own. If Sherlock wanted them off, he would do so. Mycroft didn't want to risk stripping him while he was still in panic. 

"You'll be nice and clean. It's alright. The water is warm, and you are safe." He sat down with Sherlock in his lap at the bottom of the shower, which wasn't a bath, like the other, and rocked Sherlock gently. 

Sherlock was pliant to his brother's movements, keeping wrapped close to him, one fist curled in the rapidly soaking material of Mycroft's shirt over his heart, shivering hard as the warmth began to soak into his skin.He wept bitterly for an indeterminate amount of time, repetitively dragging his legs together in his want to crawl out of his own skin. 

"It...it-t _crunched_ wh-when he p-put me on the t-table," he sobbed eventually, pulling at Mycroft, "it w-was _J-John’s_ and it...l-like dry p-paint, I w-wore it f-for _weeks_." 

Mycroft recalled Macbeth, where the Lady had repeatedly attempted to wash the blood off her hands in her sleep, despite the fact that the blood had already been washed away. 

"No more blood. No more of John's blood will be spilled, and you'll never have to see it again. You're clean." Mycroft rubbed his back, as he assumed that was where he had felt the crust of it. 

"I sh-should have _told him_! Sh-should have...h-have b-b-begged him...I'd...I..." his voice broke and he dragged in a harsh breath, stuttering as he sucked in water and abruptly trying to sit up more, holding tight to his brother to remind himself that it wasn't Moran at him, guilt overriding the panic. 

"I- it's n-n-not fucking _fair_ I- I'm t-terrible at people! I n-never meant to...to...it h-happened and I-" he shook his head, trying to keep his face from the water, pulling at Mycroft's shirt, "I sh-should have o-overdosed st-stupid f-f-fucking L-Lestrade I sh-should have _died!_ I...th-this is intolerable!" 

While he knew it would have saved him pain, and Sherlock was talking from a place of agony, it still burned Mycroft's insides to know Sherlock would rather be a corpse. 

Mycroft pulled him up out of the spray a bit so he could sit up and keep his face out of the water. "This is not your fault. You never knew he was planning this. We all thought he'd go for something more...global. It was never supposed to be personal."

Sherlock shook his head, tucking his free hand to his lips in childlike grief, "N-No...no he- y-you...ev-everyone h-has told me...h-has told me..." he stopped as he fell apart again. 

_Oh god, if you told me, I wouldn't have gone and this wouldn't have happened!_

_It was too late, Sherlock, to keep from getting attached. You should have told him, it was unwise to keep to yourself. He might have been...uncertain at first, but I believe he would have come to love you._

_It's not fair for you to be upset, Sherlock. John's allowed to be mad that you were not honest with him, it may have changed how this happened._

Sherlock let go of Mycroft's shirt, sinking a hand in his hair and pulling hard at his locks. "N-no...my...my f-fault I- if...if Lestrade h-had just l-left me in the fucking kerb all th-those years ago...oh g-god, John, I- he w-wouldn't have m-met me and-" he was choking on his own tears, struggling to breathe properly. 

_John hated this table._

_Please! Sherlock please stop! Oh god please! Why? Why!_

He managed to turn his head toward the drain moments before sicking up, losing the water he'd had earlier, his entire body curling hard around his stomach as he was violently ill. 

Mycroft smoothed Sherlock's hair back out of his eyes and rubbed his back as he doubled over. "I'm so sorry. You couldn't have changed anything by telling him how you felt. If anything, it would have made things worse when he thought it was you. Moriarty would have taken him either way, and would have kept him for the same length of time." 

Mycroft waited for the shower to wash down the bile and sick before slowly leaning back with Sherlock still in his lap. 

Sherlock pressed his hands over his face, shaking hard with grief and regret. "H-He...I have to know...I'll al-always know that h-he blames-s...the r-rest of my d-damn life that he b-blames me f-for e-everything. I w-wanted to- t-" he paused as he struggled to get himself under control, shaking his head and sobbing. 

"I can't l-live with this! He- I- h-how do I l-live with it?" 

"I don't think John blames you for this," Mycroft asserted although he was not certain about his answer. "He said so. He doesn't hate you and he said he loves you. You saved him. You sacrificed everything for him and in time he will come to see that."

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft's shoulder, sobbing his heartbreak. He held tight, quiet as his mind raced right along with his heart. "He s-says that...he s-says...but he's...he's n-not...that's not w-what he f-f-feels." 

The strength bled out of him on the words, knowing them to be true. The last memory he had of John said all that he needed to know. 

"I...c-can I j-just..." oh, how he wanted drugs, all the drugs, every single goddamn drug there was, "j-just put m-me to sleep? I don't...I c-can't do anything anyhow..." surely Mycroft wouldn't object to simply keeping his brother alive and semi-conscious. There was no other point. He was worthless, and recovery was so far away that he couldn't even see it beyond perhaps learning to hold a damned spoon. 

"I still believe in your recovery," Mycroft said softly and stared blankly at the opposite wall. He had to believe in Sherlock's recovery, or he would go mad. He needed that one shred of hope to cling too if hewas going to keep afloat. 

"John might not love you now, but he remembers more and more every day. He'll remember how much he loved you before. I know he will." Mycroft looked over and saw that the bath was nearly filled. "Let's move over to the tub, alright? It will be nice and hot, and you can relax."

Sherlock pressed himself closer to Mycroft, nodding slowly, sensing his brother's distress. "I'm...I'm s-sorry, sh-shouldn't h-have asked that," he cried over the shower, tugging at his brother, "s-selfish I'm- I'm s-selfish and-" he reached up while he still had his face against Mycroft's shoulder, eyes hidden, cupping Mycroft's cheek with a mangled hand, thumb softly stroking along Mycroft's jawline. 

"I'm s-sorry, I d-don't mean to h-hurt you." 

Mycroft turned his face into his brother's touch and exhaled shakily. "You aren't selfish. You are the most selfless man I know. You gave up everything for John. That is what love is. What you did was love." 

Mycroft slowly got up and lifted Sherlock with him. The water in the bath was pleasantly hot, and he placed Sherlock in before joining himself. "Nice and warm. I'll open the drain a bit and keep the tap on so it stays hot."

Sherlock scrambled back into his brother's arms the moment he could, loathing the feeling of only being in contact with his own skin, which he very much wanted to escape. Mycroft's beating heart under his palm or against his cheek was the most soothing thing he had in the world, and at the moment he was greedy for it. His drenched clothing did not bother him in the slightest, and the heat from the water began to work instantly on his pained body, taking his own slight weight from him and seeping deep into muscles that refused to relax. 

Mycroft's words had soothed him as well. He had quite literally offered up everything, and lost nearly as much. He still possessed his limbs and his vision and hearing. His tongue was still in his mouth. He had more he could have lost, though only had not due to Moran's inclinations. 

He pulled at Mycroft, trying to keep as close to him as possible, abruptly remembering his first hour in the new hospital, the terror that had been constantly present in his brother's absence. "Oh g-god thank you for c-coming back...f-for st-st-staying with m-m-me I'm sorry I-" he shook his head, twisting his fist in Mycroft's shirt hem as though that would ensure he wouldn't leave, "I couldn't...couldn't do it-t alone. I am sorry." 

Mycroft held Sherlock tight against his chest to remind him that he was actively being protected. "I love you. You know what love is now, little 'Lock. You sacrificed so much for John because you love him. I love you, and I will give up whatever I need to in order to help you." 

Mycroft gently pulled handfuls of water up over Sherlock's shoulders to keep warm even the parts of him that were not submerged. 

Mycroft moved his hands then and felt Sherlock's arm, which was tight, knotted and stiff even without taking the scarred skin into consideration. "Would you let me work on these muscles? They're very tight. 

Sherlock turned his face so that he could see his arm where his brother was touching, chewing his lip and slowly breathing. "It h-hurts," he whispered, afraid to feel even more pain there. He trusted his brother, but the idea of someone touching him like that frightened him, "pl-please don't hurt me."

Mycroft decided that he wouldn't work out the muscle, which would hurt, and would only gently massage it to help with circulation and get Sherlock used to it. "I'd never hurt you. You can keep that as a solid fact. I will never hurt you." 

Mycroft kept the arm under in the warm water and gently massaged it as lightly as he could. "I love you. That means I won't hurt you."

Sherlock remained exactly as he was, breathing slowly and allowing Mycroft to touch him. It wasn't as though his brother had not touched him before, he was simply vulnerable after such a graphic and tactile memory recall, thrust from a fond childhood event to indescribable horror. Slowly though he began to relax, his grip on Mycroft less desperate. 

His brother _loved him_. If this hadn't driven Mycroft away, Sherlock could not imagine an event that could. Perhaps...even if he was a burden...

He shuddered and tucked closer, leaning his arm harder against Mycroft's fingers. "Y-You wouldn't hurt me." 

Relief swept through Mycroft and a smile was apparent in his voice. "Yes! Of course! I'd never, ever hurt you. I'm so glad you trust me. It means so much. I love you. You know what love means, because you love John." 

Mycroft wanted Sherlock to slowly apply the selfless, sacrificing love that he understood through John to how willing Mycroft was to care for him. 

He worked on Sherlock's arm slowly, gently, and only increased pressure an infinitely small amount. "You're wonderful, 'Lock."

Sherlock listened to his brother quietly, accepting the words if not absorbing them. He knew the hell it was to try and care for John, if only in a limited capacity, and could only imagine what this was like for Mycroft. 

He was quiet, his tears slowly drying as he rest against Mycroft, feeling warmer and more protected than ever. It struck him then at something his brother had said. _Now you know love._

Perhaps that was true, but it was incomplete. "I've..." he swallowed, trying to find the strength to tell his brother, "a-always known l-l-love," he whispered, tugging very lightly on his brother's shirt, "only r-recognize it better n-now." His brother had always, always, without fail come to protect him, and play with him, and care for him. His brother had always loved him, he'd just been too blind and too afraid to see it. 

Mycroft reflected on years of being scorned by Sherlock. He thought to the times when he knew full well that Sherlock was in a gutter somewhere, strung out on heroin, and knew exactly what would happen if he tried to intervene.

Thank God for Greg. 

The strife seemed to have started when Mycroft left for Uni, and grew from there. Mycroft had never been a perfect older brother. He'd had his vices, such as openly viewing Sherlock as the stupid one, encouraging him to emotionally disconnect, and scorning his reaction when he left for his first semester away. But he was human, and he had always honestly loved Sherlock, been open about his love, and always welcomed Sherlock to him, even if that love had, in recent years, been expressed by video surveillance and tips to the DI on where to find him during a possible overdose. 

"I'm glad you're letting me love you."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips and again settled, quiet and as calm as he could be. His heavy clothes were starting to become a problem, uncomfortable now that the chaos had settled. 

"I th-think I'd l-like out now, My," he whispered, dreading the process of stripping down and changing. He didn't give a damn if he was nude around his sibling, he simply did not want to see himself. 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock back up and held him against his chest as he went back into the bedroom. "I'll lay you down on the bed they brought while you're still wet, that way the sheets in mine don't get cold. I don't want you to think I don't want you in there, because I do. This is just better for your comfort." 

Mycroft was walking on eggshells, or at least, that's how he felt. His primary objective was to instil in Sherlock an understanding that he was loved, valued, and protected. 

"Wait," Sherlock cried out before they were out of the bathroom, "W-Wait, please," he clutched at Mycroft's neck, the pair of them bringing half the water of the tub out in their clothes. "I...l-let me s-sit and I'll...let me d-do this? S-Surely I can p-pull on a shirt, that...I don't want- please l-let me try." 

Mycroft nodded and continued to walk towards the bedroom. The sudden cry had rattled him severely, though he knew he was simply being over sensitive. "Of course you can." 

He sat Sherlock down on the edge of the smaller bed and fetched clothes similar to the wet ones he wore now. 

Sherlock loathed being wet on a bed, of all things. It was wrong where he was trying to find some grip of normalcy. He'd wanted to stay in the washroom to do this, Mycroft's bedroom was chilly compared the the steam of the tiled bathroom, and far too open and exposed with windows and people on the other side of the door. 

He wrapped his arms tight around himself, watching the puddles of dripping water hit the floor under his feet as he dug his nails into his arms. His confidence was shot in the wake of how...how wrong the situation had become. He swept his focus around the room, starting to shiver with fear, breathing slightly faster. "I..." his focus slowly returned to the puddle under his dangling feet. 

_He hated when Moran hit arteries. Every single beat of his heart thrummed through his body like a gong, rattling his nerves, feeling himself bleed out. He stared, unfocused and detached as Moran whistled to himself, carving a lines down Sherlock's back, searing pain that he could not register pouring over his mind as he lay tied down on his side._

_Instead, his focus was to the fluid mechanics that caused each rippling wave, watching as each fresh drop of crimson caused another wave, brimming out until it crashed into the one before it, canceling out._

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Mycroft dropped to his knees in front of him and held his shoulders. "Stay here with me, 'Lock. Stay with me. I'm here. It's safe here. Don't go to the bad place. You stay right here with me." 

What had he done? What word was out of place, what action had triggered this response? Mycroft's mind shot back through the conversations, but found nothing he had done that was obviously wrong. 

Mycroft broke his line of sight, startling him. He jumped, eyes-wide as he looked to his brother, blinking to get his focus back. "The- I'm..." he looked down at his hands, expecting blood, finding nothing more than wrinkled skin and clean water. He looked back up to Mycroft, "I'd...wh-when it became...too...too much I'd...." he exhaled a trembling breath and closed his eyes, "w-watch the w-waves, I'd watch the waves." 

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's shoulders gently to remind him that there was someone there, someone who wouldn't hurt him. "You don't have to watch the waves anymore. No more. You're safe now, and you can tell me to stop anything at any time. You have control of this now. You control what happens."

Sherlock held his arms tight to his chest, hearing Mycroft, though not quite processing. He was rapidly getting cold, shivering with more than fear now. The sharp drop in temperature, leached from him from his wet cotton clothes, mixed with the vivid memory of his blood dripping on the floor, made remaining present exceedingly difficult. 

"It's....w-wrong, I sh-shouldn't...shouldn't b-be in h-here I've-" he flinched hard at the memory of Moran's voice. 

_Making a goddamn mess, Sherlock, a goddamn mess._

With a desperate whimper he began to tug at his sodden shirt, the material too heavy for him even though it was simply a thin shirt, panic licking up his nerves as he tried to raise his arms up enough on his own to get it off, crying out sharply in fear when he failed to get his elbows above his shoulders. 

Mycroft took the bottom of the shirt and began to slowly move it over his head. It was cold now, but the room wasn't terribly chilly. Nevertheless, Sherlock looked upset. 

"The water is still warm, the tap still running in both the shower and bath, if you want to go back while I get you clothes. We can shut the doors and let the steam warm up the room while you change."

_Say it, Sherlock. Say it. Tell me what you've done to John Watson, and we can stop with the water._

_It's really not that hard._

_That was twenty seconds, next is forty._

_Come now, Sherlock, you're only hurting yourself._

_Let's listen to John while we work, maybe that will jog your memory._

Sherlock stared at a random spot over Mycroft's shoulder, panting like he'd run a marathon, swiftly sliding out of reality and back to the hell he'd been trapped in. 

Mycroft made a decision then and picked Sherlock back up as gently and with as much comforting care as he could provide. He held his legs together with one arm and carefully held Sherlock's scar covered back with the other as he walked back into the bathroom. The water in the tub was still hot, due to the tap being left on and the drain open, and Mycroft stepped in himself before putting Sherlock in. 

"It's okay. I'm here. I've got you."

As soon as they hit the water, Sherlock pressed his hands over his mouth and nose, pinching his eyes shut and holding his breath. Heat soaked into his cold skin and he lost it, screaming in terror and using every bit of strength he had left to fight against the arms holding him. 

"N-" he gagged and twisted hard in an effort to get away, "NO! I’LL SAY I-IT!! I H-HURT-T HIM! I HURT JOHN! S-STOP! _ST-STOP!_ ”

"Okay, Okay, We'll get out. We'll get out. It's alright. I'm sorry." Mycroft stepped out of the tub and walked back to his own bed, the covers of which were already drawn, and put Sherlock down into the soft pillow top cover and duvet.He let go then, afraid his own presence would be taken as an attack. 

"It's My. Do you know who I am?" 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and began to rock himself, one hand in his hair, pulling tight, and the other locked to his chest, breathing shattered, completely unresponsive to Mycroft. 

_Of course you hurt him, you always hurt him, he hates you. Look what you do, Sherlock, don't you see? You always hurt people, that's your specialty, so now I'm hurting you._

"I d-didn't...I didn't h-hurt h-him I-" he babbled, flinching as he listened to John's screams tear through his mind. 

Mycroft stood over Sherlock, locked in place while a feeling of utter uselessness nearly knocked him down. "Sherlock," he said rather loudly, and reached one hand to gingerly rest on his shoulder. "It's me! Mycroft!" He tapped on Sherlock's skin lightly with his index finger to repeat the words in code. 

Sherlock jumped at his name being shouted at him, scattered and shaking. The rhythmic tapping on his arm pulled his attention from his sharp fear and he honed in on it, brows knitting as it took far too long for him to process what he was feeling. 

Slowly his eyes slid up, focusing on his brother. 

His _brother_. 

Seconds later he was looking around the room, finally registering where he was, that he was soaked wet and in Mycroft's bed, his brother over him virtually dripping with disappointment.

He'd asked for a bath and then...he'd gotten lost and...

He whimpered pathetically as he covered his face with his hands, dragging in a deep breath. 

"I'm s-sorry," he choked, deeply ashamed, "I- I'm sorry." 

Mycroft felt Sherlock's flinch as if he had been stabbed and took a step away. When Sherlock finally looked at him, finally responded to him, Mycroft dropped to his knees beside the bed and draped himself over Sherlock. 

"It's okay," he replied in a shaking voice, "I love you. I'm here for you. I won't let anyone hurt you." 

He drew Sherlock slightly off the bed and into his arms, as he had when he was unconscious. "Stay with me, alright? Stay with me. Please, don't go back to where ever you went. It's safe here, I promise."

Sherlock leaned into his brother, shivering with nerves, reaching out and wrapping an arm around Mycroft's wet shirt. 

"I didn't mean to," he breathed, doing his best to stop with the damned crying. "I'm s-sorry, I don't w-want to go there, I'm...I'm s-so sorry." 

"Okay. Okay. I'm here. I've got you." Mycroft was shuddering with relief and pressed his face against his shoulder. "I've got you. I don't blame you. I'll keep you grounded better next time, I promise."

Sherlock pulled at Mycroft, guilt and shame nearly stealing his breath. "Can w-we get dry? I need...I need to be d-dry...wet where I sh-shouldn't be makes it...bad...I- I'm sorry, My, I'm s-sorry, I w-wasn't scared of you." 

He pulled Mycroft closer to him, "I've r-ruined the bed, I d-didn't m-mean...I just wanted a b-bath I'm s-sorry." 

Mycroft reluctantly let go of Sherlock and moved to the dresser where he had several pairs of soft clothing. "We'll change in this bed, then I'll wrap you up in a spare blanket while I change the sheets. It's not ruined, 'Lock. Just a bit wet."

Sherlock endured his brother's help with changing into dry things, his muscles too locked up from fear and struggle, huddling in the warm blanket and watching over the edge of it from where he was seated on the spare bed, opposite the wet area from earlier. He was not, in reality, very cold, but he felt as though he'd been shoved in a freezer. Crushing disappointment with himself not helping at all. He was so sick of laying down, though the effort of sitting, even supported, was wearing him thin in the short time it took Mycroft to change the bed. 

'Wh-when can I s-start physical therapy? I d-despise this." 

Mycroft helped Sherlock change quickly and wrapped him up in a spare blankethe had in his closet. "I'll ask Miller when he can come help you. Miller is a good man, I'm sure he'll help us."

He pulled the blankets and sheets off his bed and dropped them in a bundle just outside the door. Not wishing to go to the linen closet down the hall, he texted one of his staff and within five minutes, a fresh pile of sheets and blankets were outside the door. 

Sherlock sat there shivering, rapidly growing exhausted. "You're upset with me,"he whispered, watching his brother and projecting his own shame in the way he interpreted his brother's expressions. 

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please...I...I'm trying."

Mycroft hastily put on the sheets and covers, but neglected the fitted ones, as this would likely happen again. "I'm not angry with you," he responded in a gentle tone, "just upset with myself. You're being so strong. I love you."

Sherlock stared at his brother as he fussed with the bed, his own anxiety levels swiftly rising. A tear spilled over his lashes, drawing in tighter on himself and wanting nothing more than to lie down and be held. "M-My," he whispered, slowly reciting his numbers in his head, doing his best to ignore the shadowed feeling of being watched. 

"My...I n-need help. I'm s-sorry...h-help me." 

Mycroft finished the bed and walked over to Sherlock. "No need to apologize, Sherlock. I'm very happy you asked." He lifted Sherlock off the mattress like a child and brought him into his freshly made bed. "I've got you. Could you tell me what is hurting you?"

Mycroft was warm, solid, and very real, all which served to immediately soothe Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck and pressed his face to the underside of Mycroft's jaw. "Was loosing..." he shivered and tried to draw up his knees, "wh-when I get...lost...it's as th-though he comes back with me. I _feel him_." 

The admission made him shudder and Sherlock tightened his arms, tugging athis brother. "You s-said...said you were u-upset with yourself. Why?"

Mycroft kept Sherlock in his lap and looped one arm under his knees to keep Sherlock in the position he had strived for, tucked and protected, without the damaged man having to exert any effort. 

"I'm upset with myself for letting this happen, and not helping you better. But that doesn't matter right now. I've got you. You're safe."

Sherlock was very quiet as he lay against his brother, humiliated at how comforting it was to be held like that, listening to the sound of air moving in and out of Mycroft's lungs. He kept his arms around Mycroft's neck and squeezed him tighter.   
"You...y-you didn't let an-anything happen. You n-never have just _let_ anything h-happen. It d-does matter right now, My-Mycroft," he attempted using his brother's full name in hope of getting his attention. 

"I s-scared you, I know wh-what that's l-like. I am s-sorry. I am t-trying to keep hold of your voice when it happens, s-sometimes it's j-just too much. A puddle of water should not set me off, th-that's not your failing." 

"I'll make sure you don't see any more puddles of water then," Mycroft explained simply. "If it makes you uncomfortable, you won't have to see it. Ever. I'd mop up all the puddles in the world if you wanted." 

Mycroft pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head and hummed lightly between thoughts. His goal was to give Sherlock as many things to be comforted by as possible. 

The comment was so unexpected that Sherlock cracked a laugh, relaxing his hold on Mycroft for a moment. 

"Will y-you also pull the m-moon for me, brother? Ch-Change the stars?" 

He exhaled slowly as some of the chill bled from the room, pressed closer and going quiet as he considered his position. 

Slowly he took an arm from around Mycroft's neck and held up his hand for his brother to see, trying to touch his fingers together, each of the digits crooked and mangled, despite the efforts of the surgeons. 

"They ache. Sometimes when I m-move them I can feel exactly wh-where he drove pins through them. I..." he slowly opened and closed his hand, staring wistfully at it, "I did such th-things with my hands...m-made my life with them." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand in his and turned it over a few times. "If you wanted me to drag down the moon, I would. I'd drag it down and land it wherever you wanted. As for your hands... I will get a therapist to work on them. They won't ache. If you wanted, if it wouldn't scare you, I could work on them a bit first to get you used to it."

Sherlock shivered as his brother took his hand, chewing his lip and nodding. "I am...a-able to endure pain at my hands and feet m-much better than at my core," he said casually, as though that was something everyone knew of themselves. 

"If it is not...repulsive to you, I'd...I'd r-rather you start. I'm...M-Miller is...is okay but...I'd rather you." 

Then, rather sheepishly, a bit of his more natural behavior seeping back into histone. "Careful wh-when you offer the moon, I m-may just take you up on such absurd demands."

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand gently in both of his and simply started to rub at the palm to get him used to the sensation. "If I thought you would be healed by the moon, I'd drag it down to earth. I'll work on your hands for now, though, until you decide you want planetary bodies."

Sherlock was quiet as his brother helped him, the only thing he wanted in the world was John, followed with his ability to read. 

He watched Mycroft's fingers on his palm. His brother was just as eloquent with his hands as Sherlock had ever been, he was simply less artistic and less prone to theatrics.  
"I suppose I w-will no longer be a worthy opponent for Operation," he said quietly, the nostalgia for their board game competitions making his eyes water, though a gentle smile curled up his lip. How he would miss it. 

Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be used to, or maybe even enjoy the massage before he worked any deeper into the tight, marred muscles. 

"I suppose not. Perhaps we should try something more sophisticated, like Candyland." 

Mycroft began on Sherlock's fingers, gently, slowly, with great care to not hurt him.

Sherlock gave him a very small laugh in response. "Shutes and ladders is preferable," he whispered, closing his eyes and allowing Mycroft to work at his hands.

He was exhausted, worn thin from the move from hospital and the events of the day. "Have you s-spoken to Miller about my ef-effect on you," he whispered under Mycroft's jaw.

"He has given me a few anti-anxiety medications that I can take to help me if I get overwhelmed. Nothing you do hurts me, 'Lock, it's just that I feel inadequate when I fail to help you. People like you and I are used to getting it right the first or second time." 

Mycroft pressed just a little harder so he was no longer simply rubbing the skin, but started on the meaty part on the heel of Sherlock's hand, where it should hurt less.

Sherlock hissed as Mycroft press into his hand, both enjoying and hating the feel of it.

"I know...I wish I was easier. It...wh-when I tried so hard w-with John before...before I was taken...it w-was devastating to fail o-over and over again. I cannot imagine the...horror of what he endured."

Mycroft removed some of the pressure when Sherlock hissed, but was greatly encouraged when he continued speaking logically. "You've done so well. You're infinitely better than John was at this time. John...if I recall, he still wasn't speaking this far out from being recovered. You're doing so well." 

Sherlock nodded and curled in more comfortably, alternating between watching his brother's fingers work into his hand, and calmly closing his eyes. 

"I kn-know. I was there for far less time and the focus f-for Moran was simply to physically maim, the psychological aspect w-was secondary. He'd already..f-first half hour was...John was made to believe those who he cared for most were indifferent to h-his suffering, and that his b-best mate was-" he cleared his throat and shook his head, "if it h-had been Moriarty, I'd not be speaking either. I'm l-lucky to have my tongue though...Moran often considered taking it." 

Mycroft took one hand and pressed Sherlock's head against his chest. "I'm glad it wasn't Moriarty. You're good for killing him. He was a right bastard." 

Mycroft worked with one hand and kept Sherlock's ear covered with the other in an effort to comfort. 

"You bear the scars physically that John does mentally. It's almost as if Moriarty wanted him to function physically again. Though, I'd not like to think why." 

With an abrupt change of topic, Mycroft began to speak again of the little boat Sherlock and he had worked on one summed. 

"Do you remember The Aurora?" 

Sherlock hummed in response. "I c-can't go back down and fetch the m-memory properly right now, too m-much effort and not enough control," he whispered, though the name whispered along memories scattered in the hell that was his mind. He'd been considering John and the abrupt change in topic was jarring. 

"Is...I don't want to disrupt...well, y-yes I do. Is there...does..." he huffed at himself for sounding so stupid. 

"I c-can't stop worrying over him. Greg is...is k-kind hearted but...but he won't understand wh-what's happening to John and..." he closed his eyes to inhale deeply, attempting to keep himself calm as he nearly turned inside out in distress. 

"I don't know h-how to...stop fixating on John. I must. He doesn't w-want me anymore. You...you have put aside your most ch-cherished accomplishment for me, that should be enough for me, I should b-be content. It shouldn't hurt. L-Love is...you were right to t-tell me..." he sighed and rubbed his cheek slightly on Mycroft's shirt, trying to settle himself. 

"Why did you w-watch the tapes?"

Mycroft drew in a long breath before ansering. 

"Because I wanted to understand what was frightening you. I wanted to learn your triggers, so I could avoid them. I didn't watch all of them, just the first few hours but... Sherlock, what you went through was hell. Utter hell. I can't imagine it. You know, better than any other, what John is going through. You know what is happening to him, which is why, for his sake, I suggest you continue to pursue a friendship with him. Greg is a wonderful man, but he simply doesn't _understand_ like you do. John won't be as alone in his experience with you. You'll be so good for him, once you both heal a bit more." 

Sherlock was immediately insecure and turned his face more to Mycroft's chest, blotting out the rest of the sensory input for a moment. He breathed in the scent of his brother, the familiarity in it soothing. 

"I broke s-so fast. So m-much faster than John. I can't-" he sighed, shoulders rising and slowly falling, "I can't...that is to say...he took...he took _months_ to b-break down and I- what? Days? A week? He wanted me to confess to breaking him and...and h-had John actually been there I'd have murdered him. John was there n-nearly three quarters of a year. I...it is humiliating how f-fast and hard I broke." 

He hummed to keep himself from crying, his voice muffled as he spoke into the material of Mycroft's shirt.

"John w-would be disgusted if he knew...if h-he-" Sherlock made a rough sound of disgust, skin crawling at the more degrading of the memories.

"John h-hates himself after a s-single event, showing me how he bargained out of more. If h-he knew...if he _knew_ how quickly I begged...no I'm...I will always mean pain to John."

Mycroft shook his head and rocked Sherlock slowly. "You broke swiftly because Moran's only goal was to break you. Moriarty had more...elegant goals. He didn't want to break John so quickly, so he didn't. I believe those months before were more about training an attitude of dependence on Moriarty rather than breaking him. I-" Mycroft stopped, as he suddenly realized he was speaking about very sensitive topics far too freely. 

"You are not going to be pain to him. Imagine, how healthy it will be for John, to live with Greg and you. You understand him. Greg can calm you both if either of you begin to panic. I can move in near by. I have- I have room here, if the three of you ever wanted to live with me. I have spare bedrooms, and you can stay in here with me." 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, nearly hopefully, but not quite. 

Sherlock would have curled his hand to his lips had Mycroft not been working into the muscle of it. He thought back to what he'd been shown of John, how defiant and _furious_ he'd remained, wanting to keep in his head that Sherlock was not the one hurting him. 

"That is...e-exceedingly generous of...of you I kn-know how you covet your privacy." 

Tears had begun to leak slowly down his face, though he himself was not entirely sure why. 

"Greg d-doesn't like me near John." 

Mycroft knew that to be true, on some level, but not in the personal way Sherlock described. 

"He doesn't like John to be in pain, but you don't scare him as you used to. John wants to be around you more, which Greg understands. What I would like, ideally, would be for you, John and Greg to all live here with me. I've enough staff, and a big enough house, and it wouldn't be crowded."

Sherlock shifted in Mycroft's lap, constantly seeking out comfort, distressed, but able to think. 

"W-Why then did...if I don't scare him...why could I not manage a proper goodbye? I tried _so hard_ to be c-calm and...and to watch how he was so that I didn't press him too hard...I w-was...it was the most difficult m-moment of my entire life and I just wanted to beg him..." his voice cracked as he spoke, voicing his pain lucidly, trusting his brother to help.

"If-f I thought for a moment it would have ch-changed anything I would have. I'd have handed him the taters of my pride and begged h-him...it was the last time I'd see him and I tried, brother, oh g-god how I tried to give him a memory of me that would not be horrible. If I do n-not scare him as I did, then why is th-the last sound I e-ever heard from him _screaming_?" 

Mycroft scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to adjust Sherlock in a way that would make him more comfortable. 

"You associate John's pain with the torment you went through, likely. Or, at least, in a small amount, his discomfort triggers the memories. It's stressful for you. I understand. You will see him again, you will hear him laugh, talk, joke, prattle on, all those things. Your last sound from him won't be screaming. I promise you that." 

He let go of Sherlock's hand and looped it back under his knees to hold Sherlock, who's legs were still as long as Mycroft's, like a baby.

Sherlock curled his fingers to his lips as he drew his arm away from Mycroft's neck, awkwardly tucking it down behind him until he could hold the hem of Mycroft's shirt. 

"Th-this must be hell f-for you," he whispered quietly in French, reverting to their childhood tongue, shame twisting around his spine at how comforting it was to be cradled so. In Sherlock's world, he was certain that he'd seen the last of John, at least in person, and decided to stop talking about him. It seemed to disappoint his brother and pushed Mycroft to telling Sherlock things that could not be truths. 

His body was gently shivering, stress finding any outlet it could. He was starving, and thirsty, though he'd no intention of trying to eat again. 

"I...I know you...y-you love me and th-that you are...freely doing this...all of th-this...for me. I'm...I j-just want to say now, while I've st-still no pride to protect, that...that I see you, and I...I know I'm hurting you and I know y-you are...feeling the loss of your work. I wish I could...get over this, or at least be easier. I-" he drew in a deep, slow breath, starting to suck at the tips of his fingers, a hazy fog beginning to wash over him.

"I love you and...I'm just sorry. I brought this on us all and I'm s-so deeply sorry." 

With a quiet whimper he nuzzled his face against his brother, making himself as small as he could, sucking on the ends of his fingers in distress. 

It should not have been so unnerving to have Sherlock say _I see you_ , but to Mycroft, a man who was mentally several steps ahead, a man who was whoever he wanted to be in the mind's of others, who controlled people's opinions of him like he could make their thoughts his play things, it was quite uncomfortable. 

"I don't...I know you can see me. I know you are aware this is difficult for me. I never said it was easy, only that I was doing it freely and willingly. I miss my work, yes, I miss it very much, but I would miss you infinitely more. You're more important to me than my work, just like John was more important to you than your hands."

Oh, how that was true. 

Given the scenario at the mental hospital to do over again, Sherlock would still, even in that moment, willingly put himself between Moran and John. It was so true. 

He'd also just managed to deeply unsettle his brother, where he'd been trying to simply acknowledge his effort and the degree to which Sherlock understood Mycroft to be sacrificing for him. John never once recognized what Sherlock had done for him, and that was alright,he did not owe Sherlock anything. It would have been...something...to know that John at least understood how loved he was. In that effort, Sherlock had failed. 

"I'm s-sorry," he breathed, "I did not intend to imply that you'd said...I only wished to express gratitude. I- I'll...it was just an attempt at th-thanks." 

He closed his eyes as tears steadily rolled down his cheeks, tamping down on the urge to pull his hair and rock himself. 

"John never...n-never realized what- I was...s-stupid I'm sorry, I was trying to do for you wh-what...I m-mean, you love m-me and you've sacrificed for me and- I w-wanted you to know that I see that and-" he bit at his fingers, afraid he was making it worse.  
Mycroft bent down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head and gave him a little squeeze. "I understand. I understand. Thank you for being so kind to me even while you are hurting. I am very grateful that you are being so logical and calm. I appreciate your efforts. Is there anything I could do to make you more comfortable right now? Anything at all?" 

Sherlock sniffed and tugged lightly at Mycroft's shirt, his voice heavy with tears now. "I th-think I need to sleep. Is...c-could I have headphones and...anything w-with a violin I- I can't play anymore b-but m-miss it, oh how I miss it." 

He wasn't particularly eager to try and sleep after the flashback he'd experienced, but he was stressing his brother and he was incredibly tired. 

Mycroft covered Sherlock's hand in his own to help him hold on and nodded. "I'll get you headphones. They're just in that drawer over there. I have a Vivaldi station, if that will work for you. If you'd like something more calming, it's in here too." He held up his phone and gestured to the dresser. 

"Just one second, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and allowed Mycroft to shift him, curling on his side on the bed, dragging a pillow to his chest as he rest his head on one as well. 

"Th-this is so...your bed is the most comfortable...I'd forgotten how good a b-bed could feel..." he stuttered as he very gently wept, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. 

"S-something l-less...do you have Einaudi? C-calm I n-need c-calm right now...am I allowed something f-for nerves?"

"Yes, yes, I've got- hold on," Mycroft went to the dresser and came back with soft, noise canceling headphones. He handed them to Sherlock and went back to the medicines Miller had left them, and brought over something to help him sleep. 

"Would you like a bit of water as well?"

Sherlock whimpered and nodded, pinching his eyes shut, his love/hate relationship with water deeply upsetting. He was so parched, but seemed to ruin himself when he tried with water. 

"I- p-please I'm...yes, w-water would be good."

Mycroft went into the bathroom, shut the taps off, which were still running, and came back with a little paper cup full of water. He helped Sherlock hold it, as he didn't want an incident like last time. 

"I'll stay with you and get some sleep as well."

Sherlock drank the water very, very slowly, forcing himself to be slow. "Th-thank you, I don't want to be alone. I don't...don't l-like being alone right now." 

He took up the headphones and put them on, somewhat panicked with the following silence, looking to Mycroft to get the music going for him as exactly nothing on the screen of the phone made any sense to him in the slightest.

Mycroft started the music and set the phone down on the opposite side of Sherlock before wrapping him up in his arms. "I won't let you be alone," he said, though he knew it was likely covered by the music. 

Sherlock rolled over, abandoning the pillow at his back, burying his face in Mycroft's chest. He breathed deep as the single, beautiful violin in his ears pulled both comfort and pain from him, making his crying less distressing and more cleansing. He wrapped a shaking hand over Mycroft's bicep, the other against the mattress, curled up to his lips, more comforted than he'd been since John had walked out of 221B.


	3. Chapter 3

The evening was merciful, and Sherlock was able to properly sleep. In fact, given the familiar smell of Mycroft's home, the deeply soft and comforting bed that failed to put pressure on any of his emaciated body, and the combination of sheer exhaustion and anxiety medication had Sherlock down hard for over sixteen hours, of which he never moved beyond breathing, not so much as twitching. 

Miller came in to check on the brothers that morning, changing out Sherlock's fluids, pushing his massive regimen of medication he was on several times a day. He'd almost decided to adjust Sherlock's pins, but the idea of waking him like that was intolerable. Instead, he reminded Sherlock's brother that it would need doing later. He had food sent up twice already for Mycroft by the time Sherlock finally opened his eyes, slowly reaching up to take the headphones off. 

Mycroft hated the idea of changing the pins, but knew it would be less stressful if he was the one doing it. 

He only slept once, for four hours late at night, and spent the rest of his time cleaning up his mind. There was a thin layer of dust over his thoughts, over his processes, which he removed and abolished throughout the beginning of the night. He had time to transfer a few more memories into his newer form of palace, his data room, which was proving useful despite the lack of any real information. 

When Sherlock stirred, Mycroft was already drawing him up into his arms. "Hey, 'Lock. How are you?"

Sherlock drew in a slow, deep breath, taking stock of himself. "Head hurts, but I'm...I'm alright," he said honestly, feeling comfortable as he had in a while, proper soft bedding making a world of difference, along with the rest that was uninterrupted and dreamless. 

"I'm...yes I'm...I'm here, and warm, and the pain is low." 

He shifted slightly, closing his eyes and still feeling the pull of sleep. He likely could rest for hours longer. 

Mycroft smiled broadly when Sherlock spoke rationally and let his happiness show. "Good, good, I'm glad. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can give you a feed with the tube, or I can get some warm broth and a straw. Whatever you want. Music? Reading?" 

Sherlock frowned at the idea of the tube. "Is...could the staff...f-fruit and yogurt in a blender? Oh, with ice, served cold, cup and straw? That...oh god that would b-be...bit of orange juice in and..." his stomach growled as his mouth watered, having wanted to eat actual food for days. He was off the idea of anything requiring spoon or fork, but surely something blended would be manageable. 

"And...and the telly I don't want to th-think about anything, I j-just want...please, some c-calm, all I w-want is calm today."

Mycroft grinned at Sherlock's appetite and texted the staff. Generally, he called, as texting was tedious to him, but they would be just as efficient this way. 

"It's being made right now. I have a powerful blender from when I tried the juice diet. It didn't go over very well, but I'm sure you deduced that ages ago." 

Mycroft leaned over Sherlock to the bedside table and grabbed the remote. "Anything in particular you want to watch?

Sherlock hummed, wrapping his hand in Mycroft's shirt. Typically when he watched telly, John picked the show. "No n-news. Something f-from the...I d-don't care a n-nature documentary or...or anything y-you watch for leisure..." He shifted then to sit up, suddenly crying out sharply as he engaged muscles not yet stretched or warmed, his entire body still very sensitive and the damage to his nerves extensive. He grit his teeth and wrapped an arm around his abdomen, breathing through it. 

"W-would you...m-mind helping me," he whispered, ashamed that even this was difficult for him. 

Mycroft helped Sherlock up in a very casual, unremarkable way, as if it were very normal for him to need help sitting up. He picked a nature show, which was showing desert animals at the moment. Mycroft listened to the man with the nice voice explain that animals in the desert often have large ears as a way to cool blood and lower their body temperature while he absently rubbed Sherlock's shoulder. "You know, I actually could have Chutes and Ladders ordered, if you wanted."

Sherlock rumbled a low, quiet laugh. "I doubt I've the d-dexterity to pick up the bits," he answered quietly, staring at the telly without really paying attention.His mind had wandered to Baker Street, and for a few blessed moments he was tucked up in his chair, amusing John with how he shouted at the programmes. 

He looked over to his brother and then down at his hands before returning his focus to the telly, very slowly beginning to touch each fingertip to his thumb, pointer to pinky and back, over and over as he waited for food. 

His staff had been informed not to knock, or to disturb them no matter what, and it was a text that alerted Mycroft that the food was waiting outside the door. He kissed the top of Sherlock's head and walked over to the tray, which had a delightful looking fruit and yogurt smoothie, spoon, and a straw. 

"It looks good," Mycroft remarked and set it on Sherlock's lap. Bless his staff for using the wide bottomed cups that didn't tip. 

Sherlock took the cup in his naturally unsteady hands and brought it to his nose, breathing deep and slow, inhaling the glorious scent of fruit with a low, appreciative groan.

It was perhaps a bit crass of him to dip his finger into the mix, but he did so anyway, bringing it to his lips and closing his eyes as the sweetness bloomed on his tongue, making him shiver.

"Oh...g-god," he breathed, so grateful that he was near tears, bringing the straw into his mouth and clutching at the cup as though afraid it would be taken from him. The whole experience of it, from the glorious taste to the thick substance that told his body this was a good caloric source, became swiftly overwhelming. He was soon shaking hard, cheeks slick with tears. He stopped inhaling the liquid long enough to breathe, whimpering with too much sensation all at once.

"M-My, tell...t-tell m-me I c-can h-have this...pl-please tell m-me this is...th-that I'm...I'm a-allowed to h-have..." He shuddered and looked up to his brother,fear in his eyes, knuckles blanched on the cup.

Mycroft's spirits were high for the first one in months and he put one arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "You can have it. Have all of it, as much as you want, and I can have them make more. Whenever you want, I'll have this made. Every day if that's what makes you happy. You are allowed to have it." 

He gestured to the cup as if to say _go on_ , and a hopeful smile was lightening his features. "I'm proud of you."

Sherlock edged closer to his brother, wanting to tuck into the shelter of him. "W-Would...would you..."

He leaned toward Mycroft with a quiet plea, even as he took the straw back into his mouth. He could not stop his mind from calling back the mix of bread and water forced down his throat, violent fingers at his cheeks.  
It was brilliant and terrifying all at once to eat.

Mycroft wasn't sure what the request was, but he could hear Sherlock's uncertainty and trepidation. "It's alright. I've got you. You are safe to drink this. It looks delicious! How does it taste?" 

Mycroft slowly drew Sherlock completely into his arms so he was curled up around the drink, tray off to the wide. "You're safe. I love you."

Sherlock instantly relaxed in his brother's arms, exhaling a shaking breath and again beginning to drink. The natural sugar set his lips tingling and he sank back against Mycroft, giving him his weight, holding the cup in his hands and closing his eyes. 

"T-talk to m-me about when we'd s-summer in France," he asked quietly, wanting to recall memories where strawberries and warm breezes had brought him happiness, desperately trying to escape the phantom feel of soaked, stale bread.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock close and kissed his temple. "We had the best time there. Remember that one room with the windows that we kept open? Mum let us keep it clear of furniture so there was nothing to break when we had sword fights." 

Mycroft accessed the memories, which were packed together. "I was a stronger swimmer, but you could hold your breath infinitely longer. Scared the hell out of me the first time. I thought you'd drowned. We had fun in the water, remember? When we'd sword fight to see who could topple the other into it?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed. He still had a bit of a scar on his lip where he'd attempted a roll that he'd seen on one of the many pirate movies during a sword fight, only to cleanly bite through, all to avoid Mycroft's wooden sword. 

"Those were...my f-favorite days," he said quietly, reaching down and holding Mycroft's hand where it wrapped around him, 

Mycroft hadn't realized how much he desperately missed having family, having someone who loved him and who he could love, and how much he missed having someone who understood his mind. "They were my favorite days as well. We can have good days again now that we're here."

Sherlock’s stomach growled loudly, already growing uncomfortably full despite his want for more. "They...I'm a-allowed th-these again?"

Mycroft nodded and smiled at Sherlock. "Of course you can have these again. You can have them whenever you want. And if you think of anything else you want, I'll get that for you as well."

Sherlock was beginning to feel physically ill and reluctantly handed the cup to Mycroft, "I...I c-can't it's-" he whimpered pathetically though he logically knew Mycroft would help him if he became hungry again. He'd managed a quarter of it, should likely have had far less, but it had been so soothing on his wrecked mouth, on his stressed throat, and the feeling of being full was so welcome he quietly began to cry, wrapping both his arms back around Mycroft's neck and holding on to him as he had when he was a child. 

"I am v-very fortunate to have y-you as a brother."

Mycroft set the cup down on the table and held Sherlock like a baby. "You were a fantastic kid brother, and you still are. We had such fun together, the type of fun we couldn't have with anyone else. Honestly, what sort of children make codes that use four languages just to talk about pirates? That was something we could only have done together."

Sherlock hummed and nodded, "Y-Yes we...no one else w-would play with me properly. Only you. I-" oh, how he'd mourned his brother when Mycroft left for Uni, refusing to speak at all for the better of three weeks to anyone at all. His mother had been so irritated with him. 

"I b-became accustomed to _alone_...th-thought I was f-fine with it until...u-until he came...I'd...it w-was just you before him." 

Mycroft had been a young man, with ideals, goals, and an understandable bit of restlessness when leaving for Uni, but he had been sad to leave his brother.He hadn't known how hard Sherlock had taken it until their mother called him asking for him to speak with Sherlock. 

"I never meant to leave you personally. I'm sorry I couldn't take you with me to Uni. I would have, you know."

Sherlock nodded, shrugging. "I w-was a boy. It is absurd to m-me now that I was so..." _devastated_ , "Th-there was no fault in you going to Uni. It w-was as it sh-should have been. I was not w-well adapted to change and in m-my anxiety over you l-leaving, had convinced myself th-that you would somehow s-simply _not_. It w-wasn't until your car w-was off the drive that it s-sank in." 

Mycroft had been so excited that day, still mostly a boy himself, ready to finally find something mentally challenging. He's graduated in just over a year, as the material wasn't overly challenging and he applied himself fully out of desperation for mental stimulation. 

"I never meant to hurt you, 'Lock. But look at what my efforts have earned." He rocked Sherlock back and forth with a little pause at each side. 

Sherlock nodded, "I kn-know...you've...I know. You're v-very successful...our p-parents are v-very proud. They will b-be...less than th-thrilled to hear I've..." he shook his head, tucking his fingers to his lip as he imagined how disappointed mummy would be that he'd interfered with Mycroft's career. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. 

"Wh-when they find out...pl-please tell them I am sorry."

Mycroft shook his head sadly. "I've not told them. I've kept up correspondence with them and just said I was overly busy. They think you're content and happy with John, but still sulking. They still view you two as a couple, and...I just never said otherwise. It keeps them happy and from prying."

Sherlock bit his lip, nodding. "Th-thank you," he whispered, feeling the crush of his mother's disappointment. She'd never been happy with him, furious that he'd not completed Uni, that he'd not found himself a respectable job, failed to understand the nature of people, and when he'd found the needle, that had sealed him as the black sheep of the family. 

Now they believed him as John's partner, living the life that he'd saw his own legs off to have. "B-Best that way," he breathed, his throat and eyes burning. It was truly Mycroft or no one, and he was on the final countdown to recover. Less than six months now, less than six. 

Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair absently and hummed in response. It was best that way. 

"If you wanted, mum could come and see you. If you wanted, and thought it would help." This was about Sherlock, after all. 

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and swiftly shook his head. "G-God no. She- l-likely demand you p-put me in a h-home and forget. I'm v-very forgettable. I'd....I w-wouldn't survive it. No, p-please, I don't n-need to see..." he could imagine her face already, the disgust and disappointment, "no...th-thank you for t-telling them I'm f-fine." 

"Okay, I'll keep writing to them. I'll not tell them." Their mum was a sweet woman, but she was just as ambitious about Mycroft's career as he was. 

"Anything you want. You're in control here. Is there anything else you need?"

Talk of their family and John had left him feeling very low. He shook his head very slightly and curled his fingers to his lips, feeling small and pointless. 

"I....I w-wish...I...perhaps y-you should return to w-work. I c-can s-s-sit with Miller or...or the telly and...it's as y-you said you can come home when y-you've time and..." his voice broke, loathing himself. Everywhere he turned, he was a failure, a disappointment, in the way and burdening. 

"I...I have been th-thinking only of myself. I can't do th-this to you." 

Mycroft wanted to return to work, but he would absolutely never leave Sherlock. He wanted John to live in his home, Greg too, and for Sherlock to not need him. He wanted to spend the weekends with Sherlock, eat dinner each night with him, go to work and know that Sherlock was happy with John. But that ideal could not be reached, and Mycroft would not even meditate on going back to work now. 

"I'm staying here with you. Why would I leave? I want to stay."

Sherlock pulled lightly on Mycroft's shirt. "Y-You are neither a n-nanny nor a wet nurse. I've...y-you worked s-so hard for what you have e-earned and I am th-threatening...I'd n-not considered enough...our...m-mummy will...and you...you've..." he shivered and drew in a deep, pained breath. 

"I am al-alright. I can do th-this here, there are n-not random doctors and th-the bed is warm and-" he had begun to breathe faster, guilt rising up, tangling with all his misdeeds. 

"You have to go to work! I'm...I'm l-leftovers, I'm...th-this is all w-with the goal that I w-won't be a raving lunatic, c-comfortable company for an evening, a v-visitor. I'm...the goal is n-not to repair a productive-" a sob ripped its way out of his throat, making him press his hand over his eyes, "I'm...th-this is a drain on y-your success, your life. I can't l-let you do this." 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, shhh..." Mycroft rocked a bit faster and he pulled the covers up over Sherlock's shoulders. "I'm not leaving. Six months, alright? Six months, and then we'll decide. You don't have to worry about a thing until then. I can get my job back at the end if everything goes according to plan. Either way, today, right now, I'm not at work. I'm with you. Why don't you tell me what you want to do?"

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft's shoulder, working hard to get his grief under control. 

"I'm...I am s-sorry I...I don't f-feel worth your r-regard. I'm..." his gut twisted as his mind hurled adjectives at him. _Homesick, lonely, suicidal, afraid, grateful, comfortable, going mental._

"I...w-we can watch telly. I am s-sorry." 

Mycroft bundled Sherlock up into a little ball and leaned over him. "You are worth it. You are a wonderful brother. You are worth my regard, my time, and my effort. I'd damn my whole position in the government altogether if you asked me to. I love you, remember? You are worth it."

Sherlock gratefully submitted to being held like that, quietly crying even as he nodded his understanding. Mycroft's embrace combined with the warmth of the blankets and the fullness in his stomach all helped to soothe the emotional riptide that was trying to tear him apart. 

It was as they were that Sherlock ended up crying himself to sleep, slowly going lax against his brother, cheeks wet and breathing slowed but hitching. Too much, too fast, and he'd had no choice but to surrender to exhaustion. 

Mycroft waited until he was certain Sherlock was asleep to lay him down beside him on the bed, with Sherlock's mess of curly hair and face, finally absent of major bruising, resting on his chest. He emailed their parents, assuring them that all was well, his position was secure, and Sherlock was in domestic bliss. 

Sherlock was restless in his sleep, aching and in distress more often than not. 

Miller came in just before supper time, knocking lightly and pushing the door open. "I'm just here to give him his meds. Were you able to turn the pins today?" 

He moved to Sherlock's side with his kit, crouching beside the bed as he drew up everything the man needed.

Mycroft shook his head and curled protectively around Sherlock, just in case he woke while someone else was in the room. "He was so calm, and he was talking about our childhood, and it slipped my mind entirely." 

Miller nodded as he began to slowly push medication into Sherlock's line. "I'd really prefer you let me be the exclusive medical bad-guy, as it were. He doesn't need to associate you with pain, and I'm not sure you...that it would be healthy for you personally to be the one doing that. It seems to trigger memories for him, I imagine it's not pleasant. There are many, many places where it's clear he was...wounded down to the bone. Very promising that he was calm, and he ate without vomiting, that is also very encouraging." 

Mycroft kept his eyes on Sherlock as Miller spoke, and agreed with every word. "I'd like to stay the comforting one in his eyes. Even if it is for his own good, I want him to trust that I will never bring pain. He'll logically understand, but this all goes so far below logic."

Miller nodded, "There is nothing logical about any of what's been done. I'm not adjusting them yet, just looking at the site," he said quietly as he took Sherlock's arm and drew it gently away from his chest. 

"You might want to wake him, I'm going to clean this and then we should just get the adjustment over, he's just had morphine." 

Mycroft took his advice and gently lifted Sherlock up out of his dimple in the bed and into his arms, which he assumed would be the gentlest way to wake him. 

"Little 'Lock?" Mycroft's voice caught in his throat and gave him a tone of grief he tried to mask. "Captain Bluebeard?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered as he drew in a heavy breath, still very tired. "Mm? Ship's abandoned," he muttered in reply, limp in Mycroft's arms, clearly fighting awareness. 

Miller opened the packaging he needed to tend the arm, mentally going over all the instructions ortho had given him. 

Mycroft let out a little laugh. "Come on, wake up. It's safe. Could we talk for a moment? I have a question for you."

Sherlock tried to stretch in his forgetfulness, swiftly cutting the motion short as pain twinged along his body, warning him off. He opened his eyes, lashes heavy and eyes red-rimmed. He gave his brother a very small smile, tugging lightly at his shirt. 

Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's hair playfully as he used to, which had almost always earned him a playful swat. "Come on! Up you go! Just a few minutes then you can go back to sleep and dream about storming the seas."

Sherlock huffed at him and ground his palms against his eyes, inhaling deeply, "What is it th-that you need?" He grumbled, still giving his brother a lazy half-smile, not at all having noticed Miller, his focus entirely on his brother. 

It broke Mycroft's heart to have to ruin this calm, and he felt guilt already building in him. 

_Do what is best for him in the long run, you sentimental idiot._

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's forehead and hugged him tight. "Would you mind if Miller helped you with your arm and hands?"

Tension returned slowly to Sherlock's back as he considered what was being asked. "I-" he drew his arm in protectively to his chest, heart beginning to gallop. He knew what was being asked of his arm, but what of his hands? 

"I- my h-hands?"

"We're just going to check. I'll hold your hand while he checks the pins a bit, alright? Is that okay?" Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and gave it a light squeeze.

Sherlock whimpered quietly and pinched his eyes shut tight as he offered his damaged arm to Mycroft, unable to speak through the sudden, shocking fear, but demonstrating his willingness to try. 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up so he was leaning against his chest and turned to Miller. "Be gentle. If he says it hurts, we'll stop. Sherlock, you're on morphine. You won't hurt. This will help."

Miller nodded, laying out a towel under Sherlock's arm. "I'm just going to clean this first, Sherlock, I'll be as careful as possible." 

Sherlock tucked his face to Mycroft's neck, breathing deep and fast, doing his best to fight the urge to pull away from Miller and beg mercy. The soap was cool from the sterile cleansing cloths and Sherlock bit hard at his lip, keeping himself silent, there was no pain, only intense fear. 

_I'm going to break your arm now, Sherlock._

He exhaled on a sound of dread, scrambling closer to Mycroft without pulling away from Miller. 

Mycroft pulled him away slightly and whispered into his ear. "You're better than this, Captain Bluebeard. Sherlock Holmes, you're smart, and you are brave. You know this is to help you. You are better than the fear. I've got you. I would never let anything bad happen to you."

_You're better than this._

Sherlock could feel each and every wall in his mind shuddering, trying to slam down around him in a bid to protect himself, each failing to offer much at all by way of a barrier in their rotted state. 

Mycroft was disappointed with him. 

_Not fast enough, you're not recovering fast enough._

He did not allow himself to try and close the space Mycroft had put between them, feeling the distance like cold, slick oil, shame twisting around his heart. Heavy tears slipped down his cheeks and he nearly bit through his cheek as he forced himself to shut the hell up. 

Miller spoke softly to him, "This shouldn't hurt, just like last time, okay? Feels a bit weird but there should not be pain." 

Sherlock held his breath as he felt the metal twist down in the bone, though his color bled away, leaving him pale and sweating. 

_What did you do to John Watson?_

His stomach rolled as his ears rang, lungs burning for want of air. He did not allow any of it. He was disappointing his brother. He would be alone in some god forsaken nursing home if he didn't do better. His hands were trembling terribly, the vibrations running up his arms and slowly overtaking his entire body. His muscles all locked up as he tried to stop himself from moving, cutting off a whimper by pulling in just a bit more air, and when Miller finally let go of his arm, he did not dare move it from the bed. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock flush against his chest and rocked him back and forth. 

"You did so well," he said quietly, though Sherlock's pain had hurt him terribly. 

"You stayed present. I love you. I love you so much. You're fantastic. Good job, Sherlock." Mycroft nuzzled down on him and exhaled shakily. 

"You're wonderful. Please, look up at me. I love you. You did it. You made it through." 

Sherlock was pliant in his brother's grip, leaving his arm vulnerably limp on the mattress, hardly breathing. He mentally pushed himself away, scrambling up into the wreckage of his mind. He'd rather listen to Moran than hear himself disappoint his brother again. He ran for the rotting house, stumbling and pushing himself forward until he made it past the door and his feet sank into the softened wood below him, pulling his hair and _screaming_ his anguish into the destroyed room. 

In Mycroft's arms he was deathly still, tight breaths and violent tremors the only indication he was not unconscious. 

Mycroft sat up and held Sherlock slightly up off the bed. "'Lock! It's me! Please, just look at me. Just open your eyes for a moment and look at me." Mycroft's voice was destraught, but loving, and he cupped Sherlock's face. 

"Just look at me. Please. Please, I just need you to look at me." 

Sherlock did not respond to him, remaining docile for his brother, leaving his arm out for whatever they wanted. In the quiet rot of his mind he sat rocking himself in the front room, screaming and wailing his grief. 

_You're better than this. You're better than this. You're better than this._

Tears rolled slowly down his face, pooling in the webbing of Mycroft's fingers. 

Mycroft leaned over and snatched the headphones from the little table. He found a song he knew to be soothing to his brother and plugged them into his phone. 

"It's alright," he said quietly and slipped them over Sherlock's ears. "It's okay."

Miller did not leave the room, though he retreated to a chair some distance away. This was new, for Sherlock, this sort of disconnect with quiet weeping, or at least, Miller had never seen it happen. 

Nearly twenty minutes passed before there was any movement from the man. Sherlock finally curled the fingers of his proffered arm, slowly testing to see if he would be allowed to pull the limb to his chest. That freedom seemed to call him back to himself, and a few minutes later he opened his eyes, looking up at his brother before swiftly looking away.

Mycroft helped Sherlock move the arm back to his chest and smiled when he opened his eyes. "Yes, yes! Sherlock, hey, it's me. Come to me. Stay with me, please. Please." 

Mycroft cupped his face and turned him gently in order to be the first thing he would see if he aquested. 

Sherlock reached up and pulled the headphones off, looking everywhere but Mycroft's face, nauseated and feeling terribly small and stupid. 

_You're better than this._

His lip quivered as his eyes watered and he spoke in a very quiet, broken voice. "I'm...I d-disappoint you...n-not...not b-b-better than anything I'm...I d-didn't mean...I'm s-sorry I...I w-was scared it- it's....a-are you going to l-leave now?" His voice took on a high, cracking quality as he forced the question out. 

Ah, so it had been his fault. "I won't leave you. I would never leave you. Ever. I don't want that. I love you. When I said that, I meant to express that I believed in you, that I knew you could overcome the fear. You're better than fear. You won. You came back to me."

Sherlock decidedly did not feel as though he'd won anything. He pulled his fingers back to his lips, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the fear. 

Miller decided that he would slip out, hating that the events had played out as they did, both the men having enjoyed such calm for so long. He gently closed the door behind him, but the sound called Sherlock's attention. He opened his eyes and looked across the room, humming softly in a bid to soothe his fright. 

"I t-tried...g-gave you m-my...my arm-m and...I'm s-sorry I did t-try! I m-made you-" he whimpered pathetically and pinched his eyes shut, waiting for Mycroft to pull away from him again. 

In order to help Sherlock stay in a protected, curled position, Mycroft held Sherlock as he had before, with one arm under his knees and the other around his back. "You did so well. I know that's frightening for you. I love that you handled it. You've come back to me and I am so glad you did." 

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's forehead and closed his eyes. "Would you like anything? Music, bath, telly?"

"I didn't h-handle it!" Sherlock shouted, reaching up and sinking a hand into his hair, pulling harshly, "N-Not w-well enough, not f-fast enough! I m-made you push m-me away and-" he sobbed, keeping his wounded arm tucked close to his chest, "s-stupid! I'm s-so _stupid_. Sh-shouldn't b-be afraid, m-made you- I c-can't do this! I can't do th-this!" 

He was near hysterics, sobbing and digging his nails into his hair.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hands away from his hair and dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. His eyes were squeezed shut as if end outing physical pain, and Mycroft was having a terribly difficult time keeping his composure. 

"I love you. You aren't stupid. I was insensitive and I didn't mean to be. Deep breaths, alright? Deep breaths." He set the pace, which was partially to help himself.

Sherlock turned in Mycroft's arms, wrapping his arms around his brother's back, threading his arms under Mycroft's and burying his face against his chest. He squeezed him as tight as he could, sobbing, shaking terribly. 

"I'm s-so sorry! I'm sorry it-" he dragged in as deep of a breath as he could, trying to mimic his brother's pace, "I f-f-feel it in....in the b-b-bone and I- it's l-like-" he shook his head and gave up trying to explain, just needing his brother to not be angry. 

"Forgive m-me! I j-just got sc-scared I'm so s-sorry!" 

"I'm not upset with you, my little 'Lock. Listen to my voice, and my words. I love you. I am not mad. I am proud that you did not fight me, or Miller. I am proud of you. You've done so well." 

He rocked Sherlock and hummed softly, a tune Sherlock would know and could continue.

It took nearly ten minutes for Sherlock's anxiety levels to lower, but he did eventually relax in Mycroft's arms. His breathing was still a mess, but the panic subsided and he took stock of himself. Mycroft was rocking him, holding him close and humming a comforting song to him. Nothing in his _behavior_ spoke to disappointment. 

He opened his eyes and spoke very quietly. "I- I p-panicked. I am sorry I...t-took that so...poorly."

Mycroft petted Sherlock's mop of curly hair absently and hummed a bit softer. "Yes, you panicked. But it was a very logical reason to panic. Your body expected you to be in pain, and reacted as if it were. Very reasonable. Very understandable. I don't blame you for it, and I think you did very well."

Sherlock shook his head. "N-no...no I..g-gave my arm and...w-wasn't enough it...You wanted b-better and..."  
He grabbed at his brother and shook his head, "you wanted better f-from me and I...I couldn't h-handle it."

Mycroft sighed and curled around Sherlock protectively. "I didn't say I wanted better, I said you were better. You're better than the fear. I have complete confidence that you can beat it, that you can come back to me, because your mind is stronger than Moran."

Sherlock kept his face pressed to Mycroft's shoulder and breathed slow and deep, doing his best to remain grounded. "I th-think he e-enjoyed the feeling of hitting bone. He'd l-leave the..." he shuddered, curling his hands in tight, protective fists, "in m-m-my hand and l-lean...lean on th-them casually while t-t-telling m-m-e... t-...t-telling-g me...J-John...wh-what h-h-e-e d-did-d to h-" 

Sherlock whimpered and pulled in tighter to Mycroft, the memories visceral, leaving his palms tingling and his arm pulsing where Moran- _Miller_ \- had hurt- _helped_ him. 

"He was a bastard, and I had him killed. He'll never hurt you again. Not ever." Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his shoulder and quietly swore he would make this easier somehow. 

"The rest of the day is yours. What do you want to do?"

_Fade, vanish, anything that results in my quiet demise._

_See John. Go home. Kiss Mrs. Hudson. Beg Molly to still carry on with me even though I've been damaged. Beg Greg's forgiveness for upsetting John. Work a case. Play my violin. Walk through London. Eat at Speedy's. Wear my coat. Put on a suit. Walk. Read._

_Stop it, Sherlock. Stop._

"N-N-Nothing," he whispered, hoping they might just sedate him for the day. 

Mycroft leaned back and down, so he could rest Sherlock against him while still holding tight. "Then let's get some rest, alright? You'll feel better in the morning. Each day will get a bit easier."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips and kept his eyes closed, grateful for the reprieve. It would have been exhausting to attempt to comply with his brother's efforts at fixing what could not be fixed. 

Sleep was elusive to him. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see John on the wall projection, this time sleeping, curled tight on his side, weeping even as was unconscious. Sherlock had watched him for hours, soaking in the responsibility like a sponge. He could feel John's pain in his own bones, even when no one was touching him. 

This was likely his penance. He'd been let out of Moran's hell far too soon to give John any justice. That would be what this was, the reason he'd not been allowed to die, to open his own throat, to remove himself for John's benefit. 

He could last another six months, he could. 

Mycroft couldn't sleep either, not with Sherlock in such a state, and took to gently running Sherlock's shoulder where his hand rested in order to remind him that someone kind and gentle was protecting him. 

His mind was a wreck. Yes, all his things were still there, but the processes, the machine that produced his thoughts and decisions, was shot to hell. 

"Have they t-told you...my pr-prognosis for walking again? N-Not your overly optimistic h-hopes, but their a-actual opinion? I n-need reality...I c-cannot carry on w-with...with _h-hope_ and _wish_. I n-need to know where I sh-should focus my energy." 

He pushed himself up with his better arm, the pinned one cradled tightly to his chest, giving up the effort to sleep more than an hour later. 

Mycroft assisted Sherlock up and supported him in the position. "I...I'm sure it's changed... I'll ask Miller, alright? I'm sure, either way, you will do well."

_Will he walk?_

The reply was a bit delayed, giving Miller time to verify his answer with ortho. 

_Unassisted? Without more time in theater to properly correct those bones, likely never. With the surgeries...it is difficult to say given his other injuries. I doubt we will see him without some sort of support in the next few years._

Mycroft willed the text to say anything but that, and he slowly read it twice. "He said... He said that if you don't have more corrections, you won't walk unassisted. But we'll have the best surgeries and therapy, and I'm confident you'll walk."

Sherlock was shocked silent for a few minutes, blinking down at his lap before looking at his brother. 

"But...but I h-had..." he waved to his legs and then looked to Mycroft, "the...there were p-pins and...and the halos and...I th-thought it was enough. I thought...you m-mean if...if I don't...so it's more cutting and p-pins and metal in my bones, or...or I c-can't walk on my own? Those are my choices?" 

His lip trembled and he looked down at his lap before slowly pushing the blankets off his legs, drawing up the loose trousers enough to get a look at himself. 

The scars were deep and numerous, puckering and twisting his skin. His kneecap was...it wasn't even shaped like a kneecap any longer, the skin surrounding it nothing but scar tissue, all deep purple and furious reds, sickening puncture marks where the pins had been holding the bones in place at even, patterned intervals. 

"What is th-the point of m-me, that I-" he covered his face with his hands, struggling to breathe. "What is the _point_?"

Mycroft shook his head and desperately clutched Sherlock in an attempt to comfort him. 

"You have a point! You're a smart man, and your worth isn't defined by your legs. Just because a man can walk, doesn't mean he's worth more than one who can't. You have a mind! You have your voice. You're worth so much to me."

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against his brother. "Please d-don't m-make me...l-let them c-c-cut me open again...no m-more pins I- god please, My, p-please no more. I'll...I'll f-figure something out I'll...please...please no more. I...I h-have nowhere to g-go anyhow. Please." 

Mycroft hummed softly while Sherlock spoke and hated the way his baby brother was begging him to not be hurt. "I won't let them do anything you don't consent to. I won't let them hurt you. No more pins, if that is what you want. We'll do the best we can with physical therapy."

Sherlock nodded, hands still pressed over his face, every ounce of him wanting to fade into obscurity and never be seen again. The road ahead was impossible. He stared at it, feeling as a guppy tasked with crossing the pacific, the sheer enormity of it nearly comical if it were not his reality. 

"It....it is an imp-possible...I...th-there is too m-much...too m-much to face...I cannot possibly..." he groaned in desperation and shook his head, "please just...put me to sleep until you w-want something from me. I w-will play cards and...I w-will l-l-listen to your day just- p-put me under f-f-for when I'm not in use and-" his throat closed off and he just lay there, tears heavy down his cheeks, longing for peace that he'd lost sight of. 

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's hair and noted that it needed to be cut soon. "It is not impossible. Not at all. You are so important to me. Your worth is more than the sum of your abilities, you are worth more than your ability to walk, or play violin. I don't give a damn about those things! If John could no longer shoot a gun, would you say his value to you was less? Do you have no use for him now that you don't get the same emotional benefits as before?"

"He has no u-use of _m-me_!" 

Sherlock curled his fingers into his hair, nails biting into his scalp, "You have no u-use of me, I have no u-use! I am a h-horrific conversationalist and I h-h-have nothing to offer b-by way of work, I c-comfort no-one, I d-deplete resources, I-" he was doing his best to make himself bleed in the inferno of violent self-hatred that erupted up from his chest, scorching and brilliantly painful. 

"I am th-the _freak_ that m-managed to get by due to my intellectual acrobatics, I've...u-until John..." he could not continue, talk of John more painful than the twist of pins in his bones, the heartbreak unrelenting and merciless. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hands out of his hair and held them against his chest. "You have emotional value to me! I care for you! You are the only other person who understands how my mind works. We have shared childhood experiences. You keep me mentally sharp. If you're a freak, than I am too. John..." 

Mycroft dipped his head and spoke quieter. "If I would feel alone because nobody understands my mind, imagine what John feels like, alone in his trauma. You understand what he went through."

Sherlock sobbed, shaking his head. "He p-prefers that f-f-f-" a sob choked off his words and he had to drag in another sharp breath, "that f-feeling is preferable to...t-to him-m than my c-company! I know he is....I know he's in h-h-hell but I am n-not allowed to help him! He prefers his s-s-suffering alone to....b-b-being subject to m-me." 

"No, Sherlock, that isn't the way it is! He needs you to understand what he's been through. Would it make you happy if John and Greg lived here with us? Would that be alright with you? I can ask them, once you're feeling a bit better and John is settled." 

Mycroft didn't know how Greg would respond, but at the moment, Mycroft was paying his way. He could always threaten to cut him off. 

Mycroft was disgusted with himself for that thought, but his mind was beginning to disregard things if it meant Sherlock got what he wanted. 

Sherlock pulled at his brother and shook his head. "He w-will just be...no...no I- I c-can't...can't en-endure him l-looking at me like th-that again I-" he shook his head and sobbed, pulling at Mycroft, "he would l-l-loathe it. No. I refuse to inflict myself...I c-can't...I can't do th-that to him!" 

Mycroft had been hoping for a more positive reaction, but kept his dissapointment hidden. "Okay. Okay. Whatever you want. We'll let him come to you if he wants to. You won't be inflicting yourself on anyone. If he comes, it will be because he wants to."

Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face, breath hitching. "I w-want him here but...god I w-want...I m-m-miss him and I want him here, but n-not...not...he _hates me_. He c-can't even look at me." 

"Now, you know that's not true! He can look at you, and he held you, and he came every time he could. John has improved very much since you last saw him. He eats now. He drinks tea." 

Mycroft wanted to bundle Sherlock in such a way that the pain couldn't touch him, but it seemed impossible, despite his shifting.

Sherlock struggled to get any correct memory of John, they were all so knotted up with one another, a chaotic mix of screaming and pain, tears and begging, that the few moments where John had not despised him were difficult to cling to. 

"H-He..." Sherlock shuddered and pressed closer to Mycroft, aching with heartbreak, "he w-w-wouldn't...I...he was screaming...a-always screaming e-even when he wasn't. H-He held me as on d-does a s-snake...I th-thought...he stayed a f-few times and th-then it w-w-was over, he...his _face_...he- I th-thought he might forgive m-me, I called him a mountain and he w-w-was so happy and then..." 

His voice broke as he recalled the way John's open, relieved face had suddenly shuttered off, rage and disgust instantly replacing the brilliant warmth that Sherlock had given everything up for. "H- he...those moments were n-not honest. He w-was h-h-hurting himself with me so that he could...could find some purpose to e-exist. John Watson...John...m-my John... despises me... and th-there is nothing in the w-w-world I can do to ch-change that." 

Mycroft couldn't take it. Sherlock was so distressed, and Mycroft was doing fuck all about it. 

"No. That's not how it worked. John is a deeply scarred, traumatized, and damaged man. He was conditioned to view you as someone evil, and yet, even when he still thought you were his torturer, he demanded you be helped. He could have shot you, and he didn't. Now, so much later, John knows you didn't hurt him. What other than love would have kept him from avoiding you altogether? It's not a purpose for existing! He can find that by helping Greg. You mean something to him that Moriarty could not erase."

That was all true. John had not shot him. 

John had not shot him. 

Perhaps that was what he would forever have to cling to, when he remembered John. That when given the chance, he'd not killed him when he could have. He bit at the tips of his fingers and tried to breathe through the horrible ache of it. 

"He...y-you're right, he did n-n-not kill m-me. I- h-he spared my l-life." 

He was having a difficult time catching his breath back, broken to bits from speaking of John. "I- it sh-should be....should b-be enough that he...I shot him and I watched him f-f-fall and I've never felt such relief in m-my life. It was just a m-m-matter of waiting until my b-b-body gave up or...or I could get another string or....scalpel or..." he slowly raised his hand to the thick scar at his throat where he'd opened it. 

"I don't see an-anything but p-p-pain and darkness ahead. N-Nothing. B-But you are r-right. He did not shoot me." 

Mycroft leaned his head down on the pillow and looked up at the ceiling while absently tracing patterns on Sherlock's arm with his fingers. "You aren't thinking all that clearly, and I'm going to ask you to trust me that you will have a future with John. Not right now, and maybe not soon, but you and John will be happy together again. That I can promise." 

Sherlock savored the gentle touch on his arm and simply lay there with his brother, quietly crying, overwhelmed and hopeless. 

After nearly twenty minutes, when his eyes were swollen and his nose red, he whispered quietly, "He's...h-he's eating? That's...I'm g-glad to hear that. Did..." he paused, tucking his fingers back to his lips as he debated knowing the answer to what he was about to ask. Curiosity got the better of him. 

"Did...did h-he accept th-the tea? He'd know it was from me, I'm so _s-stupid_. I- pl-please tell me it didn't m-make him scream. I don't want to h-h-hurt him anymore." 

"He got the tea, and it helped him. I forgot to tell you, I suppose I've just been a bit preoccupied. He said that it meant a lot coming from you, and he was thankful, and he hoped you were getting better." 

Mycroft spoke with a smile in his voice in an attempt to brighten Sherlock's mood just a bit.

"He knew it was from you, and apparently, that was value added."

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief that he'd not harmed John with a gesture meant to help him. Again he was quiet, suddenly overcome with the want to do something more to help John heal from what he’d done to him. 

_I could write him a-_

_No, you can't._

_I...I could...he likes tea and he enjoys...he enjoys...you could..._

_You can do nothing for any of them. Nothing._

_Stop it, that can't be true, there must be-_

_What will you do then, Sherlock? Compose for him? Impossible. Write to him? You've lost the ability. Call him? You are too terrified of his voice on speakers and he loathes the sound of you. Send him gifts? What would you send?_

_You can give him the gift of silence. Be. Silent._ He dashed a shaking hand over his damp eyes, destroying himself with vicious inner monolog.

"Th-that is good. Now G-Greg will know wh-what he likes. They...he will take care of him, al-already is...that's...they will be alright. They will be. They'll b-be...they'll be...s-so I'll just...be h-here and you will...w-will tell me as I should do and...that...th-that will be..." _the extent of my life_. "I'll...y-you tell me what you want...and I'll...th-that's what I'll do." 

Sherlock seemed to be missing the positive aspect of the news, and Mycroft had to keep himself from getting discouraged. 

He clearly did not understand that his life might be pleasant, and Mycroft knew full well that it would take time. 

"You will stay here with me until things get better. I'll make sure you're safe and well fed, and you'll make sure I don't become an irritating old nag. It will get better. Trust me on that part, alright? It will get better. I'll shape the stars into a picture you like."

 

Sherlock did not look at his brother, simply whispering, "Alright," around his fingers. His chest felt as though it had been hollowed out, scraped raw and left empty, a sucking void that was never going to allow him to feel anything other than empty and battered ever again. He did ease a bit closer, tucking his head against Mycroft's shoulder. 

"I am s-sorry I...I al-allowed myself to...to g-get involved...to l-love him. I...I didn't m-mean to. I'm s-sorry. Can...c-can you just...put me to sleep? I d-don't know h-how to...h-h-how to just...lay here." 

Mycroft would have knocked Sherlock into next week if he thought it would do him a bit of good, but as it was, he wanted Sherlock to accept where he was, and not use sleeping as escapism. "I can, but I'd really rather not. I...if you need it, tell me, and I'll give you something for sleep. But I was hoping you would fall asleep on your own. I suppose that's stupid. I'll get them for you."  
Sherlock whimpered pathetically. There was nothing right, nothing. Immediately he regretted making the request. "N-No I'm...I'm sorry, n-no I'll...I'll just...I'll...I-" he dragged in a pained breath as he swallowed down a pathetic sob and bit at his fingertips. 

He'd disappointed his brother _again_. 

"I...I c-can just b-b-be here that's...that's f-fine I-" _will stare at the wall...will...shut the hell up_. "I'm s-sorry, y-you're r-r-right I shouldn't h-have...h-have asked I'm...I don't n-need...that w-wasn't s-smart I- I sh-shouldn't n-need..." he trailed off and dipped his fingers into his mouth, trying to soothe himself as tears slid down his cheeks. Slowly he began the retreat into his mind. There was plenty of wreckage there that he could attend without disappointing or hurting anyone. 

Mycroft felt Sherlock's slow retreat into his mind the same way he would feel his heart slowly pulled from his chest. 

"I'll get them," he gasped, and pulled Sherlock with him as he leaned to the small supply of medication on the table. He didn't want Sherlock to feel he was drawing away, and ended up dragging him along, held tight and close, until Mycroft had some pills that would assist Sherlock with sleeping, but not knock him under entirely. 

"Here, Sherlock, here. Would you like some water with it?"

Sherlock opened his puffy eyes and stared at Mycroft's hand, at the offered pills, and shook his head. "N-no th-thank you I- I d-don't need..." he shook his head and closed his eyes again. Mycroft had not wanted Sherlock to take them, and so he would not. 

"I'll...I c-can work on...w-work on m-my...it's a m-ess and...y-you're r-right I shouldn't have...h-have asked I- y-you will give m-m-me what I need to take. I sh-shouldn't h-h-have asked. 'm s-sorry." 

He was rocking himself slightly in his brother's arms, feeling foolish for his request, moving quickly back into his mind where he couldn't keep doing this. The terrible front door lay just ahead and he stared at it, terrified to go inside, terrified not to. 

"Sherlock, no. Don't work on your palace. Please. I'm offering you the pills because I was persuaded by your reaction that they are the right thing. The opinion that in previously held, the one stating I did not wish you to have them is no longer valid, and I offer them freely without any disappointment or resentment." Mycroft did hope that cleared things up a bit, and he rocked Sherlock so he wouldn't have to do it himself. 

Deeply relieved that there was an option outside of the hell that lay beyond the doors, Sherlock opened his eyes and slowly reached for the pills, whispering his apologies as he tossed them in his mouth and swallowed them dry. He tucked his fingers back into his mouth and whimpered pathetically, knowing that he'd done something wrong in asking, making a note not to again. Mycroft would tell him what he needed, he'd had no right. 

"P-Please don't b-be angry," he breathed, wishing the pills would affect him faster. 

Mycroft rocked Sherlock and whispered to him in hopes the calm would prompt him to sleep. "I'm not angry with you. I love you. I hope you sleep well. I'll stay right here with you while you sleep, and I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not angry, my little 'Lock."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and did his best to blank out his mind. It was an agonizing wait for the pills to take effect, the half hour spanning eons and eons before darkness slowly crept up on him, heavy and demanding. Sherlock ran to it with open arms, whimpering with relief seconds before the wash of darkness pulled him down, and the tension bled out of his muscles, leaving him limp and silent in his brother's arms. 

Mycroft did not want to risk waking his damaged baby brother, and stayed as still as death, with his hold on Sherlock only wavering when his arms grew exhausted from the tension he held. Eventually, the older Holmes brother dropped off to sleep as well.


	4. Chapter 4

With a long, drawn out gasp, John jolted awake from memories that presented themselves as nightmares to plague his sleeping mind. His eyes flew open and a view of the harsh walls and concrete ceiling came into view as he became aware of the table underneath him. John jerked to test his restraints, and to his absolute thrill found he wasn't strapped down. It only took him another few seconds to realize, to his horror, that there was someone holding him. 

John screamed and scrambled away, hitting the concrete, bloody floor with a painful thud. His chest heaved and he spotted the door with a desperate eye. Freedom! Tears poured down his face and he almost dropped to his knees in relief when he found the door to be mercifully unlocked. 

John pulled the door open, prepared to escape and finally end his life, but a nauseating voice struck him and he froze. 

_Trying to get away, are we, John? You know what the rules are about that. But go on, run away. I can't punish you if you don't leave._

John choked and trembled in the doorway, for his freedom and death were within reach, but fear of Moriarty held him locked in place. 

Slowly, with a wretched sob, John turned back into the room to subject himself again to punishment. He dropped to his knees, hands shaking in their attempt to cover himself. 

Gladstone was on the bed beside Greg, whining quietly as John panicked, obviously in the throws of a night terror. Greg quietly got himself off the bed, snapping his fingers for Gladstone to move, and pulled John's long-favored blanket into his hands. 

"You're dreaming, John," he said quietly, his own heart twisting in pained sympathy for the terrified man, "you are dreaming. Everything is okay," he gently draped John's blanket over his back, going down to sit crossed-legged in front of him without touching him. 

He waved over the massive dog and watched as Gladstone approached John, crawling over on his belly, whining softly as he bumped his nose against John's jaw, just under the blanket Greg had put over him. 

When something was thrown over him, John struggled violently and crawled back until he hit the closed door. A tarp? A rag? 

John's attention snapped up as a new voice came to him, and he raised puffy, tear filled eyes. It took several moments for John to actually see Greg, and when he did, his face was devoid of the relief and love he generally showed when looking at his protector. 

"Greg?" John's voice was confused, hitching with sobs, and high pitched from fear. Had Moriarty brought another one of his friends to torture him? 

"G-Greg, please," John stammered and held his trembling hands up for protection. "W-We're mates. Please d-don't-" His stomach lurched and he gagged hard. First Moriarty had let Sherlock in, now Greg. In his terror ridden mind, the past year was absent, and John found himself thrown violently into the past, right to the middle of when his trauma had taken place. 

The color drained from Greg's face as he watched John, swiftly putting together that John believed him about to do him harm. He backed up as Gladstone situated himself tight to John's side, his body along the length of John's at his side. 

"John, I'm not going to touch you, okay?" He eased down so that he was on his belly, eye-level with John, hands where he could see them. 

"You are home. You're with me. I love you and I would never, ever hurt you. It's okay, John. You've your blanket and your dog. You're having a dream." 

John jumped to the side and stared at the fucking _massive_ dog beside him, which appeared friendly, but well trained. He was certain it would attack if commanded. 

Greg was saying things, surely a precursor that he was about to start the next beating, just as Sherlock always began speaking just before cutting into him. 

John screamed in a wretched, heartbroken and exhausted way that spoke measures of how much pain he had endured and how much he believed to come. 

"P-Please!" He cried, "P-Please! I-I-I-" John gagged again and curled up on his side, back against the wall as he tried to prepare himself for the agony. If he withdrew, if he dove into that safe place he had desperately tried to carve into his mind, he would be punished. If he tried to escape, he'd be punished. 

John wept for sheer hopelessness and his own inability to cope. When he opened his eyes, he saw Greg, his friend, the one he trusted, here to beat him. 

"B-Be good," he whimpered, "I-I'll b-b-b-be g-g-" Another hard sob wracked him and he broke down once more.

Greg's heart lurched and he called Gladstone back, patting the bed and whispering the command for him to stay. John was pinched into the corner, promising to be _good_ , twisting Greg's stomach with nausea. Slowly he moved to John's side, steeling himself for the reaction he was sure to get, reaching out very slowly and pulling John into his lap, keeping him wrapped in the blanket, rocking him as he slid his fingers through his hair. 

He did not dare speak, lost for what else to do, hoping that the feel of someone holding him without pain would slowly pull him out of it. 

John struggled hard against Greg and let out another agonized scream. "What d-d-did I-I DO?" John tried to wriggle free and hated himself for whatever he had done. 

"I W-WON'T DO IT A-AGAIN!" John arched his back in an effort to distance himself from Greg, as the alarming touch was entirely unwelcomed to him. 

Perhaps the fingers in his hair and the soft words meant he was supposed to be still, calm, and kind. John forced himself to be very still, muscles locked tight. "G-Good, being good," he muttered and nodded his head inanely. 

Greg picked John up, tears on his own cheeks, and carried him over to the bed where he laid him down and backed away, his own breath hitching. What had happened?  
He turned on the soft music Sherlock used to play John and curled himself up in the chair across the room, being quiet, terrified to make another move.

Gladstone walked to Greg's side, and together they watched helpless as John fell apart.

John lay still, locked in panic, every single muscle in his body contracting. His head was slightly off the bed, his legs stayed bent in the way they had been when Greg carried him. 

The music reached him and he flinched, but it was not that one song, the one that Moriarty liked to play, and John slowly accepted and began to recognize it. "Explain," John gasped and his eyes locked on Greg. 

Greg spoke swiftly. "You woke up having a nighters. You're safe. You didn't want me or Gladstone, so I put you on the bed where it wouldn't feel like the table and backed away."

John shook his head just a bit and his eyes closed in confusion. "No, no, no, not a b-bed, table, t-table!" He reached down and touched the cold metal, which was surprisingly not as hard and blood crusted as he had thought. 

When he looked back to Greg, his friend, the one who would surely hurt him in the end, he saw something other than his usual pub mate. 

"I don't-" John screamed again, this time in confusion, and moved just enough to grab fistfuls of his hair. "H-He b-brought you to punish m-me, I know it. I-I know it. Where is h-he? Bring h-him! I-I'll b-be good!"

Greg tore his fingers through his hair and asked John, "Who, John? Who do you think sent you here?"

John jumped and dragged his fingernails over his scalp. "M-Moriarty! He s-sent _you_!" John's breathing was chaotic, hitching, his whole body shuddering in anticipation of fear. "He S-SENT YOU T-TO P-PPUN-NISH M-ME!" 

John dissolved into panic again and grabbed his knees to protect himself. "It's b-because I went unconscious, isn't it? I-ISN'T IT?" John screamed in an accusing voice, but sounded angrier at himself than Greg. 

"F-FUCKING I-IDIOT! I-I just -I c-c-couldn't- God, I-I'm s-sorry! I AM SORRY!"

How the fuck anyone could cause a man in such a state any further pain was beyond Greg. He watched John in a sucking void of sheer sympathy, getting a first hand view of the terror John had lived in for such a long time. 

"I am so sorry they hurt you like this, John," he breathed in pure grief on John's behalf, "I can't imagine how terrifying...my god, John...I'm so very sorry you are suffering like this...I don't know what to say to help you. This is what it was for you...my John, oh god I'm so sorry. I'm right here when you want me back. I love you."

John rocked himself back and forth, rapidly, going back until he nearly hit the headboard and forward until his forehead touched his knees. 

"I-I fell asleep j-just- I didn't m-mean to and - oh, g-god, I'm sorry!! P-Please don't. Don't!!" J

ohn could hardly breathe, his vision spotted and blurred, and he slammed his head back against the headboard. "N-Need to sleep! I-I c-can't! Can't!! I'm s-sorry! I'm so tired. Tired! T-Tired! It's n-not my fault! He hit m-me in the f-fucking HEAD! I C-CAN'T HELP IT!" 

John crossed his arms over his chest and doubled over. "My fault. M-my fault. P-Punish m-me, th-then I'll d-do better. Promise. P-Promise." It was the same speech, the same bargain and promise, that he had repeated so many times in his months of captivity. 

He rocked himself for quite some time before turning and looking over to Greg. "Love?" The color drained from his face and he shook his head rapidly. "No. NO. I DON'T WANT IT!"

Greg nearly fell apart then and there, his own chest hitching hard as he wept for John. "Not that, n-not that, John. I...I'm not going to touch you. Not that."

He wanted to give John a sedative, but there was no way he could get a needle toward him. Instead, he decided to try something else.

"The new rules say that you can sleep. You have been good. There is no punishment. I want you to describe this room for me John. Tell me about the surface you are on."

"BULLSHIT!" John looked up from his folded position and glared at Greg. He wasn't going to fall for that again. Not again. There were far too many mind games; too many times had Moriarty claimed he was changing the rules when he was really just weaving little mental puzzles to get John doubting himself. It kept John from having any sort of stability in knowing the rules.

"The surface I-I am on is-" John was about to describe his table, but felt the soft covers beneath him and whimpered. "Sheets, and-" his vision seemed to unlock, and he saw the bed. 

"Oh, god," he whispered, with no comprehension of why he was in a bed, but a terrible feeling either way. "I am in a bed," he said in as stoic a voice as he could muster, though he sounded like someone asking to be murdered.

Greg covered his mouth with a trembling hand, closing his eyes as tears poured down his cheeks, keeping himself from sobbing aloud. "I don't know what to do," he whispered in agony, looking back to John and aching for him.

"I am so sorry, I'm right here with you, John. You're not alone. I don't know what to do, but I'm not abandoning you. Oh, my John what they did to you, I...oh g-god...I'm so sorry you suffered like this."

John screamed into his knees again and his head pounded. "Not FAIR!" He sat up abruptly, panic, raw and unfiltered, showing in his eyes. "You're sorry? Sorry, are you?" 

His voice had grown calm, deathly calm, and he slowly scanned the area. He had a drawstring on his pants which gave him a surge of hope, and John grabbed a handful of blankets. 

"If the new rule says I-I can sleep, I'm going to bed." He dragged them up over his head and stayed still as death in hopes Greg would leave him.

Greg was paralyzed in place, unable to speak or move, hardly breathing, watching John with unwavering attention. What if he didn't come back?  
"John...do you r-remember the dragons? You liked the story, those grand beats that could t-take flight, soaring above everyone, no one could hurt them? Y-you remember? Caves of gold and...grand wins...f-flying where no one else could go?"

John nodded from under the covers and fumbled with the drawstring. Moriarty would likely be back at any time, and he had a very small window to work with. "Yes. I remember. I remember the dragons. May I sleep?"

Greg was quiet then, hands trembling. He kept an eye on the lump that was John, heart in his throat, finally texting Paul for help.

The psychiatrist responded quickly that he could be there within the hour, leaving Greg in tears, petrified.

John moved at a snail's pace and kept his movements minimal as he removed the drawstring on his trousers. He didn't know when he had changed, or who had changed him, and the thought brought out a small whimper as he tied a know that would tighten, but not loosen. 

He could feel his pulse pounding against his fingertips as he located his carotid in order to ensure that the noose would cut off blood flow to his brain, but not choke him. It would be faster that way, easier, and less painful. John whimpered in fear and considered stopping and hiding the drawstring when he remembered how his previous attempts at suicide had gone. But Moriarty wasn't there to catch him and punish him. 

Greg had said he could sleep, and sleep he would. 

Relief washed over him as he felt the familiar pressure in his head as he drew the constricting noose as tight as he could. Just a few seconds later, his vision grew fuzzy and his fingertips tingled. Not long now, not long. 

The tips of his fingers twitched, and John slipped into darkness with a mixture of fear and relief. Hypoxia was turning out to be a delightful reprieve from his chaos, and unformed, fuzzy thoughts drifted through his mind without him directing them. He knew two things; that he still might be punished for this, and that he did not care. 

He wasn't aware of going unconscious when it came, warm, safe and merciful, and he failed to recognize the loss of his mind or breath. 

The blackness was the most beautiful thing to take over John's mind, better than the shallow sleep he'd gotten over the months with Moriarty, where he'd wept and trembled. This was peace, an end, a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep. No more. 

Gladstone began to whine, walking away from Greg and nearly making it to John's bed before Greg called him back, "Gladstone, come," he whispered under his breath, watching as the massive dog simply sat down, front paw scratching at the floor as he whined again. Greg snapped his fingers at the beast, surprised at his behavior. "Gladstone," he repeated, realizing then that John was failing to react to him speaking. 

His gut twisted, though he wasn't sure why, and slowly he stood up to approach the bed. "John?" When John failed to respond a second time, Greg moved swiftly forward, propelled by Gladstone's odd behavior. "John, I need you to respond to me, please," he repeated before suddenly moving the covers down. He blinked in pure shock at the blotchy, sheet white and alarming red nature of John's skin color, eyes dropping to the string around John's neck. 

"No," Greg whispered as he reached out, fingers scrabbling on the knot, forcing himself calm enough to manage getting it off. It took an infuriated ten seconds to do. "John, JOHN! No, no god please, _no no no_ ," he begged as he flipped John to his back, leaning down to feel for his breathing. When he found none, he tipped John's head back and forced a breath into his lungs two times before listening again, feeling for his pulse, which was there but very slow and weak, "no, John, oh god _please_ , John no! John!" Again he breathed for him, his tears splashing down John's cheeks as he fought to bring him back. 

When John’s lungs finally responded to Greg's efforts, it was in shallow, almost random little breathes that hardly moved his chest. 

"Oh god, John _please_!" 

Greg watched his chest flutter and breathed for him again, two steady, firm breaths, leaning back enough to grab a few pillows and shove them under John's feet to get the blood flowing back to his brain. "John, please! I can't- don't do this to me, John, oh god please," he was begging as tears poured down his cheeks. He vigorously rubbed John's chest.

"Please, John god come back, oh please breathe, breathe!" 

John took another shallow breath in and exhaled weakly. He was hardly filling up any of his lungs, and his color remained off as his weak pulse struggled to maintain it's slightly steady rhythm. 

He was as still as the death he had almost achieved, still oblivious, blissfully calm. 

Slowly, he began to take proper breathes, though he seemed unable to gather the energy to draw fully in.

Greg grabbed his phone and called Paul, shouting for help before dropping it, breathing again for John and holding down on his pulse to keep track of it.

When he pulled back from giving two more breaths he resumed roughly rubbing John's chest, pleading with him to breathe.

"John! John breathe, come back, please, John!"

John took a breath and his chest rose normally, and his breathing returned to something that was nearly sustainable, though not entirely healthy. 

His face was still blotched with red, his lips were ashen and pale, but his normal skin tone was starting to show through.

Greg gathered John up to his chest, sobbing, vigorously rubbing his back. He rocked him, terrified, waiting the fifteen agonizing minutes before Paul let himself into the flat, running to John's room.

"Lay him down, Greg, let go," he instructed as he grabbed the red trauma bag and pulled out the small oxygen tank, holding the mall in his hand.

Greg shook his head, clutching John tighter to his chest, sobbing. Paul simply put the mask on John, cradled in Greg's arms, calling out loudly to John as he took his pulse.

 

John drifted back up into some semblance of consciousness very slowly, then snapped awake all at once. 

His eyelids fluttered and he felt terribly heavy, sluggish and confused. As memoirs began to filter back, the true ones about his state of living crashed violently with the fabricated ones born of nightmare.

Moriarty had sent Greg, but Moriarty was dead. Greg was here to hurt him, but he loved him. There was a beast near him, one he called Gladstone. 

Most notably, as he struggled to think with a mind that made thinking comparable to trying to knit strands of loose wool, he knew he was alive, and therefore would be punished. 

It took him several long minutes to come to that conclusion, during which he stared up at the ceiling with eyes half lidded. 

Greg whimpered in relief, sliding his palm over the side of John's face, speaking to him through his tears. "It's okay...it's okay...it's alright now...just breathe, your safe, breathe for me John."

Paul kept a close eye on John's physical condition for the time being, not yet trying to speak to him, knowing John would confused for a while.

John did not respond to Greg for several minutes as his mind scrambled to create a narrative for what had happened. He had been in one of Moriarty's holding places, that he knew. Probably a warehouse. Maybe a storage unit. He could remember Greg being there, he could remember almost escaping, and he remembered the string, but all the memories were in isolated pictures with no cohesive story between. Confusingly enough, he could recall being held by Greg, kissing him, and laughing with him.

John made a strangled whimpering noise and blinked slowly up at Greg, whom he both loved and feared. 

Greg rocked John in his arms, physically pushing Paul away with the hand he'd been stroking John's face with, speaking to John as he did so, "It's okay, John...it's alright, you're safe, you're home with me, you're okay. Keep breathing, it's going to be alright, you're safe, you're home," he voice was brittle with tears, forcing him to drag in sharp, messy breaths between hitching sobs and the gentle words he was trying to soothe John with. 

"Just b-breathe, you're home, you're safe." 

Paul stepped back, not exactly surprised with Greg's behavior, though not particularly thrilled about it either. John had a purpling line around his throat where he'd tied the string. Paul kept his eyes on John's breathing, still quiet and observing for now. 

As the warm and calming tendrils of confusion and lethargic thought began to slip away, John found himself increasingly anxious. He was in Greg's house, which was in Moriarty's warehouse, but Moriarty was dead, and he'd almost made it there himself.

Tears slipped down his face and he drew in a strong but slightly chaotic breath. 

He knew full well the punishment for trying to escape, and suicide was included as a method to get away, just as sleep was. With jerky movements he slowly drew his arms up to his chest and closed his eyes in preparation for pain.

"That's it, that's good, John, very good," Greg encouraged, his voice breaking, carding his hand through John's hair with caution not to dislodge the mask. 

"Keep breathing, that's all you need to do, just breathe. You're safe, everything is going to be...to b-be okay," he tried to soothe him, pulling the blankets over John and tucking them tight around him, rocking him in large, sweeping movements. 

"You're safe, just breathe, I-" he nearly said that he loved him, but he would not risk that again, "I'm protecting you, you're safe. I'm here, you're okay."

John moved his head back and away in an attempt to escape whatever was on his face, but when it didn't come loose he seemed to accept it bitterly and without any understanding beyond fear. He wanted it off, but did not dare move his arms from his chest to grab it.

He whimpered again and slowly moved his eyes from one spot in the ceiling to another, and another, until he was very lethargically moving his eyes around the room. It was out of sheer hopelessness that he began to breathe again, as he needed air in his lungs if he was going to cry. Greg's words were not making any sense, and John could discern neither meaning nor tone from his voice. 

Paul watched this with clinical interest, and deepening concern. "Greg, he's frightened. It might help if you put him down." 

Greg shook his head, tightening his grip on John, determined not to let him go. "I know he's scared, of course he's scared, he th-thought I w-was working with...thought I was going to hurt him and-" he shook his head, "No, I l-let him lie down on his own and th-this happened, he's going to understand that I'm not hurting him." 

He carried on rocking John slowly, doing his best to keep him there. "If-f you want to help, sit down and sttart reading that book," Greg added, watching John as John watched the ceiling, refusing to look at Greg. Quietly he whispered to him, "I've got you...it's okay now...just breathe, just k-keep breathing. You're safe." 

John whimpered in distress and tried to draw himself into a tighter ball. While the rocking was predictable and calming, John did not understand why he was being held. He's been held in captivity, but for the most part it was only to keep him down, still, or from hurting himself.

With a clipped sound of raspy fear, John wiggled sideways and searched for the next instrument that would be used on him. 

He'd broken so many rules. He'd tried to walk away, he'd tried to escape through death, and he'd slept. "B-Be good," John gasped on an exhale, "I-I-I-" In an effort to keep his arms from being pulled away to expose his chest, John dug his fingers into his skin and curled them as best he could around his prominent collarbone. Finding, to his surprise, that he had a shirt on, he grabbed the fabric instead. 

Greg shifted John so that it was easier for him to keep his arms curled tight to his chest, keeping John's blanket tucked over him. He reached down and grabbed the worn edge that John always liked to rub, putting it just between John's clenched hands, making no attempt to pull his fingers away from the fabric of his shirt. 

"You've been good, John, y-you've been good. It's okay...I'm keeping you safe...you're okay. No pain, you are not going to have any pain."

Paul checked the clock and then spoke to Greg. "He woke up like this? How was he before you went to sleep?" 

Greg kept his eyes on John, his own face blotchy and swollen with tears, speaking very quiet and calm. "We'd...the day had been alright...he was calm." He dragged in a slow breath, a distressed sound of grief cracking from his chest as he carried on rocking John.

"Do you want to hear about the dragons, John? I'll read to you, want me to read? I'll...wh-whatever you want, John...you are not going to be hurt. I lo-" he snapped his jaw shut and rocked him. 

John shifted and snatched the corner of his blanket. He brought it up to his mouth and slipped a bit of the fabric between his teeth, which would help him cope with the pain he was about to endure. 

At the mention of dragons, John shook his head and covered himself. "L-L-Leav-ving- c-can't- I-I'll b-be-" John's stomach churned and he gagged. If he tried to retreat into his own mind, he would be punished. It counted as trying to leave. Moriarty had wanted John mentally present for his beatings, and had found many clever ways to shock John back into reality. 

"N-N-No, I w-want-" John inches his hands up to his hair and held on. "P-P-Pl-lease, I-I...I can't... I'll die, j-just-" His words stumbled out of his mouth with little meaning and hardly any inflection other than dread. 

Paul spoke softly, "I'm going to give him something for anxiety, see if we can't get him calm and aware again." Greg nodded without looking away from John. 

"No one is going to cause you pain, John. Breathe. No one is going to hurt you. You're with me, we're home, you're having a flashback, John, this is a confused memory. Paul is going to give you something to help make you less scared, he's not going to hurt you, there won't be any pain." 

Paul moved swiftly, slipping the needle into John's port at his hand without allowing him to see the needle, doing his best to touch him as little as possible, swiftly giving the medication and then stepping back away. Greg gently traced the back of John's hand where he was pulling on his hair, keeping his touches gentle. 

"Breathe, it's alright, John, breathe."

John whimpered and pulled the blanket up over his face. He could feel something drawing him to numbness, and was very afraid it was a sedative that would force him to sleep and be punished again. 

"P-Please... Not fair, not fair!" He grabbed at the port on his hand, but only to cover it, not to pull it out. "Y-You... Stop! G-Get OFF!" He kicked his feet weakly and rolled in Greg's arms. 

"OFF! _OFF_!" John was taxing himself and could already feel his energy draining away, which frightened him even more. "I w-want to LEAVE!"

Greg let John loose, carefully putting him down on the bed, having promised never to restrain him unless it was to protect John from himself. He was nearly in hysterics of his own, backing off, horrified of how out of control the situation had become. 

Paul spoke softly to John as Greg gave John space, tucking himself up on the far end of the bed opposite John, arms tight around his own chest as he leaned his head against the wall and wept. 

"John," Paul called out calm and slow, "I need you to tell me what you believe is happening."

John responded instantly to the command, as he always did when ordered. "I am in...I-I'm in Greg's room but... B-but it's not and-" John rocked himself in a frozen sort of way while he struggled for an answer that would make Paul happy. 

"I-I'm sorry! Sorry! W-Wareh-house? S-Storage, or a n-new place?" He shied away and found his arms were free, which prompted him to grab a bundle of blankets to protect himself. "M-Mercy," he gasped, "m-mercy, p-please. Sorry. T-Trying...confused, sorry!"

Paul spoke calmly to John. "You were correct, John, you are in Greg's room. Inside Greg's flat. You have mercy, John. No punishment is coming. I understand you are deeply confused. The medication I gave you will help to calm your mind, and ease your thoughts." 

Gladstone whined again and walked to the foot of the bed, close to John's bundled self, resting his muzzle on the edge of the bed and staring at John with wide, watery eyes, very quietly whining at him. 

"John," Paul spoke again, calmly, "the dog's name is Gladstone and he belongs to you. He takes commands from you. If you tell him to get back, he will do so, or if you tell him to come, he will as well. You have control over the dog." 

John whimpered and looked to Gladstone, who didn't appear incredibly threatening, and snapped his fingers. The dog surged forward and put its nose under John's outstretched hand.

"I don't understand-"John seemed to catch sight of Greg for the first time, and his expression changed drastically to that of relief. 

" _Greg_ ," he whispered and rushed over to him, as a floodgate of understanding washed over him and he suddenly remembered that he needed Greg. John wrapped his legs around Greg's waist, his arms around his neck, an burrowed his face down into his shoulder.

"Oh, God, Greg!" John clutched Greg with his arms and legs, which shook violently, and struggled to speak. "Y-You've g-got to h-help m-m-me! I slept... Oh, G-God, I tried t-to-to- and- P-Please, protect m-me!" John drew back enough to press his lips desperately against Greg's. 

"Th-They're g-go-go-going to h-hurt me!" John was conveying pure terror as he spoke and his whole body shook with sobs. "H-He's g-go-going to h-h-hurt m-m-me so b-b-bad! I-I-I d-do-don't w-w-wa-ant it!"

Greg's entire demeanor shifted as soon as John was at him. Though tears still tracked down his cheeks, he corrected his posture, arms wrapped firmly around John's back, drawing his knees up to help cover John, Greg's back to the headboard to help support him. He cradled the back of John's head in one palm, the other gripped tight over John's bicep. 

"You're safe, I am right here, John. Nothing is going to hurt you. I have you. I will destroy anyone who tries to hurt you. Breathe, John, breathe for me," he said very firmly, no waver in his voice, pushing every bit of the police officer he was into his tone. He called to Gladstone, who rushed over and sat down on the open side of Greg and John, so that John at the wall on one side, and the beast on the other, wrapped tight around Greg, who was rocking him gently. "You are safe. John, you are safe. I won't let anything bad happen. You are safe. Breathe. I am protecting you. I need for you to try and breathe slower."

John took deep, gasping breaths and sobbed violently into Greg's shoulder. His Greg was here, keeping him safe, but his experience told him that nothing could keep Moriarty from dealing out a punishment. 

"I-I-I tried to-to-to escape and-and I-I-" John held tightly to Greg with his legs and clutched fistfuls of his shirt. "Oh, God, d-don't let him! I-I d-don't want to b-be hurt!" He was in complete and utter terror as he shivered in Greg's lap, for he had not yet fully grasped the situation. 

“D-Don't w-want- I don't I-I-" John screamed into Greg's shoulder and his whole body locked up in preparation for pain.

Paul moved very quietly, picking up John's blanket off the edge of the bed and offering it to Greg, who took his hand off John's back for a moment to grab it. He wrapped it tight around John's back, wanting John to feel the protection there as well, bundling him as tightly into his arms as he possibly could. "You will _not_ be hurt," Greg said very loud and very firm, "I am protecting you. You are _safe_. There is not going to be any pain, John. No pain. His fingers moved down from the base of Johns' skull to wrap protectively around the back of his neck, rocking John as he held him as tight as he could without hurting him. 

John tried to communicate his fear once more, to communicate how absolutely tired of pain he was, but his words came out as halting syllables. 

He took several minutes to get to a place where he could breathe properly, and even longer to speak. His mind was utter chaos, fringed with terror and laced with panic. "H-He's g-going t-to h-hurt me!"

John's terror was so encompassing, so pure, raw, _visceral_ that it stole Greg's breath away. There had been times when John was _this afraid_ , only for good reason. To think that someone had put John into a state like this, only to carry on causing him additional terror and agony, was enough to crack stars along Greg's vision. Paul was at Greg's side and caught his attention, indicating that he was about to give John a second injection of tranquilizer. This level of fear was too extreme to allow John to carry on in, the physiological effect such terror had on the body enough reason in and of itself for an additional dose. 

Greg pressed his palm tenderly to the side of John's face to ensure he wouldn't see Paul, speaking swiftly as he rocked them forward enough to give Paul access to John's port, without them having to force John to let go of the fistfuls of fabric at Greg's back. 

"Moriarty is _dead_. Moran is _dead_. Greg has you. You are not going to be hurt. You are safe, John. No one is coming for you. No one. I would slaughter any man who came for you. You are safe," he repeated as Paul managed to push a second dose without having to touch John's skin at all, letting go of the port and stepping far back, tossing the needle away. Greg rocked back again, resuming the rhythm. 

John screamed twice more, each time with such intensity that it sounded as if he truly believed that if he screamed with enough raw desperation, he would be spared the horrible pain that he was sure was about to be inflicted on him. 

When the steady slide of the tranquilized began to numb him, John fell suddenly silent. If they wanted to sedate him, then they would soon beat him for falling asleep. "P-P-Pleass, no. No, no, no, no..." The strength that had been gained by terror and adrenaline bled from his muscles, which brought a new spike of fear into John's already functionless mind. 

"D-Don't let them t-take me," he begged and tried to maintain a strong grip. "Please. I love you. I love you."

"John, I love you. You don't have to sleep, just breathe. No one will take you. John, I need you to hear me," Greg instructed while tears poured down his cheeks, the ache in his chest for John so deep he could hardly breathe around it. How the _fuck_ could one man hurt another to the severity of what was done to John for no other reason than sport? To know that John had screamed like this, begged like this, soaked in this level of terror while strapped down to a metal fucking table, taunted and tormented, made to jump through psychological hoops in a game he'd never win, made Greg bite down on the inside of his cheek until he felt the flesh rip, copper sliding along the side of his tongue. 

"No one is going to hurt you. You don't have to go to sleep, but you can if you want to. It's not to make you sleep, it's to help you breathe. That's all. That's all, John. You can stay right here against me. We don't have to move. You are safe, I love you and you're safe." 

John did everything in his power to obey, as he always did when he was in these fits, regardless of who gave the order. He took a few deep breaths, but it was halting and hitching from the tightness of his chest and force of his sobbing. He leaned into Greg and pressed his face against his neck where he could breathe deep the calming smell of someone who loved him. 

"W-Want t-to have a-a-a rest," he pleaded and nuzzled Greg with obvious love and affection. "Please, d-don't....don't let h-him hurt me. I can't...I-I can't. I don't w-want to be h-hurt anymore. Please. Please." 

John continued to weep on Greg's shoulder, but his grip with his legs slowly lessened and he held onto his shirt only loosely. "P-Protect m-me, please. Y-You're g-good. Good to me."

Greg nodded and gently shifted him, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm still holding you. Let me help," he eased John to the side so that he was cradling him in his arms. He used his bent knees to support John, draping John's knees over his thigh, pulling the blankets around John tightly, keeping John's ear right at his own heart. 

"I am protecting you. No one will hurt you. No one will hurt you I swear it. I love you. Rest. Just rest. You're safe," he assured as he reached over, trailing his fingers through John's hair. 

"I love you," he whispered, his vision heavily blurred, weeping right along with John, "you're safe." 

 

John was exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally, but there was absolutely no way that sleep would find him in this state. He latched on to Greg's words and pressed himself against the wonderfully calming heartbeat that assured him there was a living soul willing to protect him against Moriarty. 

"Scared," he whimpered in a heartbroken voice, but the tranquilizer had helped take the sharp edge off his panic. "I d-don't want to b-be hurt anymore." 

Greg nuzzled down against the top of John's head. "I know you're scared, I know. I'm so sorry you are scared. It will pass. It will. You've not been hurt here, John, you won't be hurt." He rocked him as his own breathing hitched terribly, openly in tears as his strength flagged and he spoke freely, "I am so...oh, my John, I am so deeply sorry this was done to you. I am so sorry they treated you like that. I am right here, I have you, you're not going to hurt. No one is going to hurt you anymore."

John trembled violently, but knew better than to actively resist when he was being offered time to recover physically. Not that it meant a damn thing about being allowed to psychologically rest, but he would take what he was given.   
"I'm...I'm so confused," he whispered into Greg's neck. "H-He's coming, but he's dead. And y-you love me and you w-won't hurt me but I'm scared."

Greg nodded against John's head, his heart clenched in renewed fear that he'd lost John again. He held him desperately tight, wishing he could take the trembling fear from him. 

"He's not coming. He's not. Feel me, yeah? My heart, my arms, the way we are rocking, your blanket, soft pillows, quiet music. No pain here, John, your mind is tangling old memories together, trying to cope. It's just confusion, it will pass. It will pass."

John squeezed his eyes shut and whined with each exhale. "You've got me. You l-love me, and I-I-I love you, too. You're good to me even when I'm not good and don't d-do things right." 

He leaned back and forth with Greg's rocking and noted that the mercy of Greg was amazing, that he would be kind even when he had disobeyed. 

"N-No hurting today. No h-hurting. C-Can I have a full day?"

Greg fought the urge to try and explain again that John was _safe_ , only nodding and saying a quiet, "Yes," to John as he held him tight, heart bleeding for him. The little sounds of tight distress on each of John's exhalations were deeply painful, slicing through Greg's chest as he carried on rocking him. 

"You can have the full day, absolutely." 

John began to weep freshly, though this time with the relief of a weight being lifted off. "Thank you. Thank you. A day... I get a day..." John closed his eyes and went nearly limp against Greg in the sudden rush of exhaustion that came after the fight is over and the wounds are realized. 

"I love you. I love my Greg. I get a day." His voice slowed and while he still had tears flowing down his face, he began to relax. 

It was only another few minutes and John had given up to exhaustion. He jolted awake just fifteen minutes after, worried, still confused, and still cowering in Greg's arms. 

Clarity was beginning to filter to him, or if that word is too optimistic, it was awareness that came in a slow, steady slide. "Greg's flat," he whispered as if the identification would ward him against pain.

Greg had wept over John in the time he was asleep, clutching John to his chest and rocking him. Paul had spoken quietly to Greg as he held him. "Try and calm, Greg, try and calm. This isn't your failing, breathe," he encouraged, trying to walk Greg through his panic. 

That John had nearly successfully committed suicide in full view of Greg was exceedingly troublesome. They were going to have to consider their options, if Greg could not keep him safe at home. 

When John startled hard in his arms, Greg spoke calm and slow, despite his hitched, struggling breaths, not quite having gotten hold of himself. "Our f-flat, John, our flat. You're home. Safe. You're safe."

With another series of distressed whimpers, John thought about what had happened in his mind. Fiction and reality clashed terribly, especially when fiction was based so heavily in his real experiences. 

He knew he had been in danger, tried to escape, tried to kill himself, and gone to sleep. He didn't know why he wasn't yet being punished for those things. Perhaps it was because Greg was here, and Greg was keeping him safe. 

"I'm confused," he admitted quietly. "I don't know... I tried to... But now I'm safe, I think, and... Greg, help me."

Greg gently trailed his fingers along the side of John's face, rocking him and speaking to him very gently. "You are at home with me, in our flat, John. You woke up in a night terror, you were having distressing dreams and you tried to run. Only you stopped yourself, and you've been confused, thinking you are with them again. You have not been in any danger here. Your mind is mixing up your memories is all, just a bit jumbled. I have you, and you're safe. You're safe, I swear it, John. Nothing bad is going to happen. You are safe. No pain. I love you, and you're safe." 

John closed his eyes and turned his face towards Greg's fingers. The gentle touch was so utterly contrary to the beating that he had expected it was nearly euphoric. 

"I'm... I live here." John could recall those things now; drinking tea, playing with the birds, and watching telly. But he also had the past day's event in his mind, that horrific nightmare that he'd believed he was back in. "I'm... I was back," he said in a voice so piteous even John noticed how small he sounded. 

"I was back with him and I don't want to be back because he hurts me and you don't hurt me but that doesn't really mean he won't but he's dead and-and-and-" 

John stopped and pressed his face against Greg's chest. 

"I'm...night terror? That was real, I thought, I was... I tried to..." John reached up and touched his neck, high up under his chin where he had tied the string. 

"Real! It was real!"

Tears spilled down Greg's cheek as he touched the ligature mark with John. "Yeah...th-that was real, John, you did try. But you were never back. You were in my arms, in our bed, and then you tried to run from the dream. You have not been outside this room since yesterday." 

He could hardly stand to look at the purple line around John's throat, shaking his head and gathering John tighter. “You are safe. I promise you, you were never back. You watched Moriarty die, they are long gone."

John slowly retracted his arms from around Greg's neck and held them over his face in shame. 

"It... No, it had to be real, I..." John had been about to say the things he had seen, how there had been a door, Greg, a dog, and a blanket, but those things were here now, and none of them lended evidence to the fantasy he had woven. 

"Greg, that had to be real, I just... I can't..." John whined again and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I'm sorry," he gasped as uncertainty crept into his mind. "I thought... I was back, I felt like I was back!"

Greg leaned down and kissed the backs of John's hands, carrying on rocking him. "You don't need to be sorry! You were having a flashback, John, it's not your fault! Everything is okay, I'm not upset or disappointed with you, I know you thought you were back, I know. I'm so sorry this happened to you today."  
John let the gentle rocking lull him into a slightly easier state of mind and he nuzzled under Greg's chin. "I thought I was done with this! I thought in was done with being like that!" John was rattled, and understandably so. The amount of pure terror he had been in was enough to rip away even the calmest of minds. 

"Is it over? Am I done?"

Greg carried on gently stroking his fingers over John's face. "I hope so, I hope so. It's okay, John, you're here now, I'm so sorry that happened. You're safe, John, you're safe."

As John put the pieces into his narrative, he found many lacking, sideways, or just wrong completely. He was not in Greg's room, in a warehouse. Greg had never been a danger to him. John was actively turning his face in Greg's hand to get as much feeling out of it as possible.

Greg carried on touching John, encouraged with how he was reacting now to touch. He pulled him up higher on his chest, bending his knees closer so that John was seated closer to him, cupping the side of John's face fully, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. 

"Paul is here because...because you stopped b-breathing and I needed help," he tried to explain calmly, though his voice cracked. The guilt was overpowering, sliding into every nerve ending, feeling it oozing from his skin, that he'd been staring right at John when he'd almost died. 

"You're safe," he repeated, "you're safe."

John bowed his head and gave a small nod. The realization of what he had done was crawling into him like a nasty virus, and it leeched all comfort away from him as if he didn't deserve it. With a clipped sound of distress he nuzzled back onto Greg and eld a bit of his shirt over his face. 

"I thought I had gotten away. I didn't mean to try and get away from you. Please, don't be cross with me. I never meant to...I mean, I did, but I failed, but that's..." John did not yet know if that was a good thing, or a bad thing, as he was still holding on to the irrational idea that this would get him beaten. 

"I thought... God, Greg, I thought I was back. I don't want to be back!"

Greg pressed soft kisses along John's hairline, inadvertently dripping tears on John's face as he desperately sought to comfort him. "I'm not cross, John, I'm not. I saw how terrified you were, I'm not upset with you, I'm...god I'm sorry you went through that. You will never, ever go back there, not ever."

He eased John's hand back from his face, "please look at me, John, please look. I love you...I love you, I'm not upset with you. I'm...I'm so...I cannot describe...what you went through is so far beyond my understanding and I am so sorry that you were treated that way. I love you."

John allowed himself to think back on what had happened and his shoulders shook with quiet, broken little sobs. "It was like that," John whispered into Greg's shoulder. 

"Being there was like that, but with pain and shouting and hunger and cold and no sleep and no water and soreness and he was always watching. That was just...Just the in-between parts." 

He looked up to Greg with a sombre expression and his own tears mixed with Greg's. 

"I don't w-want to go back, even if there aren't the other things."

Greg swept his palm across John's cheeks, one at a time, before dragging the back of his hand across his own face. 

"You won't go back, there is no 'back there,' it's gone, and Moriarty is gone, and you are not going to go cold or hungry again, and you can sleep when you need to sleep, and you will never again be left to suffer. I didn't leave. I've been here with you the whole time. You've got medication in your veins right now to help with the fear. Gladstone is here, and you're wrapped in your blanket, and you are _never going back_. Not ever." 

With a small, quiet whimper, John grabbed Greg's hand and held it to his lips. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I never want to go back. Never. I love you so much. Everything hurts. My mind hurts. It just hurts. I think...God, it was real, and I hurt. I mean, I never actually hurt, I guess. Nobody was hurting me, but I was afraid they would. I tried to...God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." 

He let go of Greg's hand and touched his neck shamefully. 

"I...I wasn't breathing. I wasn't breathing...I don't remember that. You..." John tried for empathy, to imagine holding Greg while he wasn't breathing, and the image, so sharp and real in his mind, caused him to cry out in pain.

Greg jumped, at a loss of what to do, covering John's hand at his neck with his own as he rocked him. 

"Are you in pain? We can give you your pain medicine. I know your mind is in pain, but is your body hurting? I know all of that was real to you, I know John, I saw your face. I know. God I'm sorry you had to go through that, are you hurting?" 

He felt the tendrils of panic whispering in his gut and forcefully tried to combat them, breaking out in a light cold sweat as he desperately fumbled to help John. 

John wrapped both arms around Greg's neck and began to shake as though he were freezing. 

"I m-made you see me not breathing," he gasped and his self-loathing hit an all time high. 

"How could I do that? I love you! I'm not supposed to be hurting people!" 

John pressed a kiss to Greg's cheek as tears stung his vision. 

"I-I don't want t-to see you not breathing, and I made you see it! I-I hurt you!"

Greg rubbed his hand over John's back, rocking them a bit faster given his own distress. 

"You were trying to escape a horrifying place, John. If...if I were in your position, I likely would have done the same. You were not trying to hurt me! You were trying to save yourself. You were terrified, John, don't do this to yourself. I should have taken better care of you, I...I should have protected you from yourself, I am sorry. I...I'm not upset with you, John. Please don't do that to yourself. I'm okay, you've enough to worry over."

"I thought... At first, I thought you were sent to hurt me, and I was sad, because we were friends, and then I remembered all this," John pressed himself against Greg's chest to demonstrate what 'this' was.   
"And then I thought you were going to hurt me and it was _worse_ because I loved you! And-and-and I was...I wanted to get away and I hid from you and I didn't know and Gladstone was scaring me and I thought you were trying to play a game on me, and I-I-I d-don't know what happened!" 

It was a desperate attempt to explain himself, as he had often been encouraged to.

Greg closed his eyes, holding his breath to keep from falling apart. Literally everything he'd done to help had led to John attempting suicide. He'd brought in a dog and foolishly hoped it would help make John feel safer. He'd cuddled him and it had made John hate him. He rocked John silently for a few minutes, battling hard with himself, hands shaking as nerves finally won out. 

"I'll...I'm s-sorry, John. I'll have Eli come get Gladstone. I don't know what I was thinking. He'll...he'll come get him. I didn't hold you down, I thought...I'm sorry, if it happens again, I won't touch you at all. I'm..." his voice shattered apart on him as he gathered John closer, breathing overly fast himself. 

"None of this is your fault. I'm so sorry I made it worse. I'm sorry I didn't protect you properly. I- I hoped that allowing you to hide would...would help you realize you were safe. I...oh god, John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No, don't take Gladstone," John exclaimed like a small child and turned to loop one arm around the dog's neck. "He didn't do anything wrong. I just...I like having a dog here, it just..." 

He struggled for the right words to explain why the dog had been frightening before but was a comfort now. 

"He… _in the context_ of being with Moriarty, a dog like Gladstone would be very, very bad. But I like him, and I don't want him gone." 

John looked up to Greg and his bottom lip trembled. "Please let me keep him. I won't panic next time we walk him, and I don't want him to be gone. I like it when you hold me. I just thought...I thought you were like Sherlock, a friend to come hurt me. Then I remembered all this and it made it worse because I still thought... It just made it worse."

Greg was trying very, very hard not to dissolve into hopeless, desperate panic. 

"You can keep him, of course you can keep him," he said quietly, burying his face at the crown of John's head. He had no idea what to do now that his touch made it worse, and the dog made it worse. Even speaking to him had made it worse. Greg's stomach turned as he remembered his mistake of telling John he loved him. 

"I won't touch you, I'm so sorry. I...I don't know wh-what to do John, I'm...I should be better at this by now. I'm-" his voice broke on a pained whimper, muffled by John's hair as he shook his head and dragged in a wavering breath, reality finally hitting him that he'd very nearly lost John in the very real sense. He'd had to breathe for him many times to get him back, it had been so desperately close. 

John held himself responsible for what had occurred, and he pressed a chaste but affectionate kiss to Greg's lips. "I'll try and say the right thing, but I can't think very well, so I'm sorry. I don't want you to be sad because I don't remember where I am. I...There's not much you can do when I think I'm with him, Greg. Not much at all. I just think he's playing a game. There were so many games." 

He dropped his eyes down and breathed slowly. "You didn't do anything wrong. I should have known that he was dead. I did know, towards the end, and it just didn't help."

Greg just pulled John closer and held tight to him, rocking him, burying his face back to the top of John's head. He couldn't fix it. He was completely useless to John. 

Paul had taken a seat at the far end of the room, deeply concerned with the situation.Were this any other patient, he'd have already had John sent by ambulance to a facility to be cared for. He tented his fingers and watched the pair. 

John shook his head at Greg's silence to dispute it. "No. It's not your fault, if that's what you're thinking. I need you for this. I need you so much. But if I think I'm back there...God, if I can kill myself, I will. You'd...I don't know. I don't know how you would deal with that. I know that...I know that I will respond to commands, but-" John's voice broke suddenly and he pulled the neck of Greg's shirt over his face. 

"I don't w-want that to happen again."

Greg lost hold of a broken sob, clutching John to his chest as his ribs buckled and he fell apart. He couldn't keep him safe. He couldn't keep John safe. He held the man with ligature marks around his neck, not an hour before trying to breathe life back into him, and all of this happening right in front of his eyes. He rocked them desperately, anguished, lost. He was _never, ever enough_. 

John nearly died as a result.

"Greg, please," John held his face between his hands and tipped their foreheads together. "I'm sorry. I only meant to say that if I ever think I'm with Moriarty again, you might not be able to help because I'll think you're playing a trick on me or something. I don't want to make you bury me, and if you need to hold me down so you don't have to, you can."

Greg kept his eyes closed, his breathing a wrecked mess, nodding against John's forehead that he understood. 

"K," he managed, still rocking them, the horror of what happened slowly washing over him as John calmly informed him that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help him, and that John would do everything he could to kill himself. If Greg had to hold him down, it would perpetuate John's idea that Greg was actually hurting him, likely keeping him there longer, perhaps irrevocably, and he had no idea how to handle that. 

John had stopped breathing. John had _stopped breathing_. 

Paul spoke up as the nature of Greg's grief slipped more to panic. "Greg, slow down. Let's slow down. I have some suggestions here, but first I need you to calm down for us, okay? Slow down." 

Greg would have laughed if he could have caught his breath. Slow down indeed. He'd fucked up, again. Nearly lost John, again. Not been enough. Again. He'd been so fucking terrified when he'd tried to get that rope off, his fingernails bloodied where he'd so desperately fought with the knot. His fingers blanched in John's shirt and he simply clung to him, helpless to the overpowering fear. 

He couldn't keep John safe. 

John felt Greg's panic as surely as his own and he slowly sat up and out of his arms, an action that was so uncomfortable for him it bordered being physically painful. Not wanting him to get the wrong idea, John took both his hands.   
"Can we talk about this? Please? We can make a plan for what we want to do when I panic...God, I don't want that to happen again. I hope it doesn't. Maybe I can have a thing... you can sedate me, or...Yeah, that might be the best option if I think I'm with him. Please do. Paul, can we do that? If I think I'm back, can he just sedate me?" _I can't do that again._

Greg stared down at the bed, hands trembling, unable to look at John.

Paul spoke softly to John. "That is something that can be done, yes. Is that what you prefer? The only trouble with that is the recovery time. Here, you've realized within a few hours that you are safe and who Greg is, who I am even. Historically, when sedated, it has taken you...much longer, and you typically shun...company for that time. We will have to come up with a plan for after sedation."

John had sat up to try to make the two men in the room take him seriously, and demonstrate a need to make plans like a sensible person, but when Greg looked so despondent, he leaned forward and landed right back on his chest. 

"Which is easiest for you, love?" 

At this point, with tears in his eyes and a creeping blackness in his heart, he knew he was not truly free of his captivity. John wanted to scream, to run, to kill himself, _anything_ to keep from going back, which he now saw as a very viable option, whereas before, with Moriarty dead, he hadn't viewed it as such. 

"I'll do whatever is easiest for you." If Greg said sedation, he'd do it. If Greg said it would be easiest to strap him down and leave him alone in a shower while he sorted it out, he would do so. He accepted he would be going back to hell, and his only consolation was that Greg might have an easier time of it.

Greg leaned away from him, though kept hold of John's hands, looking at him full on then. 

"What is 'easiest for me,' is completely irrelevant. You said you wanted to be sedated if that happened again, then I'll sedate you. Is it...is it alright if I stay in the room with you after you wake up, even if...even if you..." he dropped his eyes, recalling how sure John had been that Greg had helped Paul rape him, the long days of John refusing to listen to him.

"I h-have to stay with you, even if you hate me. I need to hear that it's okay with you if I do that. I'll only hold you down to give you a sedative, and then I'll let you go and I won't touch you again. I just...I can't leave you alone."

John's heart sank and shattered along the same cracks it did every time he hurt Greg. By now, it was as familiar a feeling to John as hunger, thirst, or pain. 

"I want to not ever do that again, but Paul said it might make it last longer. That might be worse for you. And Greg, _love_ , I never hate you. It's never me that hates you. It's the person that I was, the one Moriarty made." 

John let go of Greg's hands and crossed his arms over his tight, pained chest. 

"Pavlov, remember? That's what he called me sometimes when I did things right. Wrong. I guess they were wrong. But I didn't get hurt for them, so it was right and..." John shook his head and took Greg's hands again to place them on his chest where his pain was. 

"I never hate you. Never."

Greg kept his hands where John put them, but shook his head. "You are not two different people. 'Pavlov' doesn't exist. You are John Watson, and you had a flashback. I hope it never happens again either, but if it takes longer I- I don't give a _damn_ if it's worse for me. I watched you walk in hell today and I'll do absolutely anything that I can to make it easier on you. I can't touch you or talk to you while you're in it. I clearly can't protect-" his voice broke over the word and he roughly cleared his throat, determined to get through it, "can't protect you. I wanted to sedate you but I promised- I promised I would never hold you down again and you thought I w-was going to-" 

He had to close his eyes and breathe for a moment. When John thought that Greg was going to use sexual violence against him, Greg always lost it, raw and vulnerable to that specific crime. "I will sedate you. I will deal with the fallout, I don't want you to ever have to go through that again."

John flinched hard when Greg brought up what he thought was going to occur. 

It was amazing to him, in a awful, hateful sort of way that something that had only happened once could affect him so terribly. It had been threatened since day one like a looming weight suspended over his head, a knife held just above his skin, and while he had only felt its sting once, it was drilled into his mind as a constant danger and possibility if he slipped up. 

Images, prompted by Greg's words and his own bloody imagination sprang into his mind and he froze, torn between pulling away from Greg and burrowing back into him. 

"Sedating me might make it last longer, and then I'll be worse for longer. I'm sort of alright now. I hate everything, but I know where I am and all. I don't want to be like that for days, even if it's just a little bit at a time. I want to do what is easiest for you, because it's hell for me either way. I want to be able to make it easiest for you." 

Paul chimed in then. "John, do you need space? You can ask for space." He'd seen the way John suddenly went stiff and nearly pulled away from Greg. This was one hell of a situation. 

Greg sat there, staring at John, his own color drained from his face and a thin sheen of sweat at his hairline. He was not going to draw back from John, he would let John pull away from him if he wanted. 

"If...if you don't want to be sedated that's fine too. I'll just be sure I can see you, and I'll just...just sit with you. We'll...figure something out. I cannot accept that it's just going to be hell and that you have to be left to suffer alone there. I refuse. We...they last for less and less time now, you know? Days...it used to go on for days but this was a f-few hours. It would have been less had I-" his eyes dropped to John's throat and then away, "if I'd caught that sooner. I'm not going to just l-let you be in hell without trying. I'm not." 

"It's going to be hell whether you accept it or not!" 

John shouted suddenly and his expression hardened to an unexpected amount of contempt. He clenched his hands into fists and his chest heaved for just a few moments, before a horrified expression came over his face and he froze. 

"Sorry, God... I don't know...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry. I just meant that I didn't want to...Jesus..." John ran his fingers back through his hair and exhaled slowly.   
"I just meant that if that is going to happen again... It's going to be hell no matter what anyone does. If I am going back to that place, there...God, there was nothing that could have comforted me at that point. I thought...Sometimes, I thought I was free, but then I wasn't. The first time I saw Moran, he was a cop, and...I don't know."

Greg drew his hands back as though burned when John tore away from him.. He stared, unblinking, tears rolling down his cheeks until John went quiet. He wrapped his arms around his chest, holding himself in an effort to calm down, already bloodied nails digging into his sides as he struggled to keep breathing. 

He'd known Moran had presented as a cop, after, of course, he'd used his own badge to try and settle John down. "I'm sorry I showed you my badge," Greg whispered, eyes pinched shut and stomach twisting, "I'm sorry I kept telling you I am...was...a police officer. I- I'm sorry. What I meant was...w-was that there h-has to be a way to r-reach you and pull you _out_ , not comfort you while you th-think you're there, b-but to show you that you are not with them. It...I'm sorry, it's a stupid-" he drew his knees up, back pressed hard to the headboard, trying to settle down the feeling of his heart pouring his own blood into his chest cavity. 

Paul spoke up then, his voice calm and quiet. 

"John, it's normal that your mood is...chaotic at the moment. That is not a failing on your part, it is part of the process of healing from trauma. What do you think of the idea of trying to pull you back? Gladstone was able to do that when you realized you could command him. Do you think that's worth a try?"

John rocked himself with his head pressed to his knees and tried to stay as still as he could to avoid hurting anyone. 

"Normal. Normal. Normal." 

John rolled the word around in his mouth as if trying a new food he had not yet formed an opinion about yet. 

"Right. Normal. Because all of this is just so _fucking_ normal." 

John nodded a bit neurotically and did not stop until he noticed how devastated Greg looked. Perhaps explaining would help. 

"You were a different sort of cop, I think. He came and..There were guns going off, and people shouting, and a whole bunch of them came in. Moran carried me. I was so glad to see him. I cried on his shoulder and he carried me out. I thought I was safe." 

John laughed inanely at the ceiling and sat up oddly straight. 

"But it's just a game, you see? Up here." He tapped his temple as he had in the early months of his recovery when he was still unable to articulate his pain. 

"Took me to a proper police station, then a hospital. I thought so, anyway. I cried. I cried for relief and I thought it was over." John abruptly curled back into his ball and shook his head. 

"Then he started speaking and hurting and bad bad bad _bad._.." 

Again Paul's calm voice interrupted the uncomfortable silence. "John, would you be willing to speak to me while Greg steps out?"

Greg was quietly hyperventilating, the shock of John nearly dying in his arms, of watching what the man he'd become so sharply protective of suffer so terribly, of being so useless to do anything about it, was already too much. Now he was listening to how futile and worthless his efforts were, what Moran had done in the same, desperate, pathetic way he and Sherlock had done, and now...all the hope drained out of him as he stared down at his hands in his lap, yet again wondering if he should have just...let John go? What was there to do? His entire body began to vibrate with anxiety as he sat in the sucking void of overwhelming hopelessness. 

John sucked in deep pulls of air and tried to fight off the disappointment and heartbreak and _horror_ when Moran, the police officer that saved him, had strapped him down and started to cut. He rocked himself and muttered phrases he found comforting, and while he heard Paul's question, he failed to respond for several minutes that he never realized had passed. 

When he finally did look back up and stop his murmuring, he saw Greg in such a state of panic that it cut him to his core. 

"Love?" His voice was a whisper, hardly audible as he leaned forward and brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek. "Paul asked us something."

Greg jumped hard when he was touched and looked down at John, and then over to Paul. "Oh...I...r-right I'll..." he looked back at John, his expression crumpling as he caught sight of the violent purple ring around his throat. 

"I'm _s-so sorry_ ," he sobbed, slowly unfolding himself from the bed, feeling like a kicked dog being thrown out, "I'll...I'm...if-f you w-want me b-back I'll....I'll j-just be on the s-sofa and..." the words caught in his throat, choking him off, knowing that John desperately needed help and knowing he was useless to offer any. His knees nearly gave on him as he stood up, making him grab the bed for support before gaining his legs back, 

"I l-love you," he managed, brushing his palm over Gladstone's head as he headed for the door. 

John got up and ran to Greg, in some need to comfort him before the man left. He wrapped both arms around Greg's neck and dropped his head down. 

"I hate it when you leave," he whispered into his ear and pulled back just enough to press a kiss to his lips. "Love you, alright? Please, stay close. I'll come back for you when Paul says I can." 

With a sad, dejected expression he turned away from Greg and stood in front of Paul with his arms crossed over his chest. "You need to help him."

Paul waited until Greg closed the door behind himself before he answered. "I am helping him right now. He is overwhelmed, and you very much need to talk. You can do so more freely without worry that what you need to say will hurt him. You, of course, per our standing rules can refuse to speak with me and you can tell me at any time to leave. However, for the sake of you both, I'll only move to the sitting room until I'm sure the both of you are safe." 

John stood near the door so Paul wouldn't be able to block his way to Greg. "I don't know what I am supposed to do. I am killing him without even meaning to! I am hurting him! He doesn't deserve to be hurt the way I am hurting him. He's is a beautiful human being and I am slowly destroying him."

Paul tipped his head slightly to the side as he calmly watched John, noting his position and saying nothing of it. "That's an interesting thing to say, John, that _you_ are hurting him. I've never once see you hurt him." 

John shot him a loathing glare. "Shut up. You know what I mean. You knew Greg. He's been low before when he lost his family, but he never was reduced to the way I've made him now. Apparently, my company is worse than a divorce and losing contact with your children!"

Paul said nothing for a moment, allowing John time to sit with his anger. "Let's go back to psych 101, John. I know you took that in Uni, you're a doctor. Do a little role reversal, you did just a few minutes ago with Greg when you told him you'd never want to see him not breathing. If you were in Greg's shoes, watching him suffer as terribly as you are, what would your reaction be?"

" _If_ I was watching him suffer? I cause him suffering!" John took a step back to the door and leaned against it. "I can't do this! I can't! I'm messing up! If our roles were reversed I would have-" 

John turned and looked to the door, as if nervous that Greg would be listening. 

"I don't know. Tell me what I need to do to help him. I don't give a shit about what it means for my psychological state. Tell me how to help Greg."

Paul put his hands up to settle John. "You're right, that was sloppy wording on my part and I did not intend to belittle what is happening right now, John, I apologize. It is impossible for you to help Greg by ignoring your psychological state. Greg is hurting _with you_ , though you believe it to be _because_ of you. You see him hurting, and it hurts you. I can see that, anyone would be able to see it. You care for him very deeply. So, when you see Greg hurting, and that causes you pain, it is _not_ because Greg is hurting you. Do you see my meaning? I will help you help Greg, but first we need to talk about today."

John slid down the door and sat down on the carpet with his head in his hands. "Talk about today. Right. It's always talking. Always talking about the bad things." 

John tugged lightly on his hair and stared at his feet. 

"Bad day. I thought I was back in hell and hurt the man I love because I thought he was going to torture me. I then attempted suicide while still delusional, stopped breathing, shouted at Greg, and now he's alone."

Paul watched John's demeanor, picking apart what he'd said, or rather, what he had not. "Yes, all of that is true. You've mentioned nothing of your own pain, though, John. You were driven to suicide. That tells me you have been in a catastrophic amount of pain today." 

Gladstone slid off the bed and quietly went to John, laying at his side and dropping his muzzle to John's lap. 

"I thought I was back in HELL!" John shouted the last word, and he had no qualms with shouting against this man who was not his Greg. 

"I thought I was going to be tortured, played with mentally and burned! I thought I had a way out. I thought I had a way to be done with all that. I forgot that I had been saved and just wanted a way out. I thought Moriarty had made a mistake, and that maybe he wouldn't get to me in time and I'd die."

Neither Gladstone nor Paul jumped, allowing John's voice to ring through the room. "In that context, John, suicide was a perfectly logical response. You were skilled with your plan, careful, and ingenuitive. I want you to take a moment to realize that had you actually been in, as you so rightly say, _hell_ , you would have saved yourself. Greg was only made aware by the behavior of Gladstone there. You would have saved yourself. Even under great distress, acute fear and horrific threat, you were able to think clearly enough to form a plan and act on it. That is a rare, rare thing."

"Rare thing. Right. of course. I'm so lucky to be so clear. I tried to kill myself, but it's a good thing that I know where the carotid is and didn't attempt to cut off my air supply so I didn't notify the one person who wanted to save me. Rare thing. I think when death is such an amazing option, you get creative." 

John doubled over and leaned on Gladstone, who's tail thumped a few times in response. 

"I never managed to escape when Moriarty was there. I only managed to get as far as I did because it was Greg, not Moriarty! Do you think I had fucking _blankets_ with Moriarty?"

Paul watched John with the dog. "I'm not sure, John. At times, Sherlock was put under a blanket to keep him from succumbing to shock. Were you ever given a blanket, or made to be under one despite your wishes?" 

John shivered and shook his head. "No. Never. No blankets _ever_." His eyes darted around for a moment and he searched for another topic. "Today was bad. Very bad. Can you tell me how to make it better?"

Paul got out of his chair, very slowly, and simply sat down on the floor directly in front of it, not coming closer to John at all, simply getting to his level. 

"John, tell yourself where you are, you sound like you're slipping. Do you feel like you're slipping right now?" 

John nodded and held Gladstone's head in both arms. "Slipping. Yeah. But I'm okay. Just nervous." He ruffled the massive dog's ears and used his calm to keep him from panicking. "Lets talk about Greg and how to help Greg."

Paul nodded and spoke softly, "This, right here and now, is what will help Greg. We have to identify when you feel yourself slipping into confusion, and work on a plan to pull you back to yourself. That is something that would help Greg enormously. You never had blankets or pillows, the music that you hear now, or this room. Correct?" 

"So focus on the music and the blankets and the pillows. Think of those things. I don't want him to have to comfort me. I want to be comforted, but not...I don't want him to have to help. I want him to feel like his comfort actually helps me, which it does, but I don't think he sees that. When I start to forget where I am, I think about the things that are here that Moriarty didn't let me have." 

John laid down on his side and curled around Gladstone. 

Paul shook his head, "I don't mean that we cut Greg out of the picture, I simply mean that we find ways that will successfully help pull you back. Greg will want to be involved in helping you, it's not something he does out of obligation. Now, you've said that many games were played with you, which notably compounds how hard it is for you to trust your environment. At present, it sounds as though seeing and hearing Greg exacerbates this, making your confusion worse. Would it be helpful, then, to be alone with comfort objects and to call Greg in when you are ready to see him?"

John pressed his face into Gladstone's fur and allowed his breathing to slow before beginning again. 

"Greg helps me because sometimes I think I'm with Moriarty, and then I hear Greg, and it reminds me that I'm not there anymore. And...And then...today, I heard him, and I thought he was my friend, and I thought he was going to hurt me, and it was bad. Then, _then_ I remembered that I love him, and it hurt worse because I still thought he was going to hurt me. It made it worse. But...I don't know. Usually he helps." 

Paul was exceedingly proud of John for remaining so clear on a topic so difficult. 

"That is very good input and useful information John. I would like to point out that in many months with Greg, this sort of reaction from you is very rare. Very rare. I believe in a situation as severe as today, I am going to advise Greg to sedate you. I am optimistic you will not experience anything so severe in the near future, and during that time, we will work on methods to keep you present. Gladstone is a fantastic mental touchstone for you. He is a new addition. He responds to your commands. If we can get it into your mind that Gladstone's presence is a positive thing, I believe you will have a much easier time focusing. Moriarty would be hard pressed to turn an animal against his owner while the dog was still in such good health, yes?" 

John listened to everything Paul had to say with his face still tucked against Gladstone. 

"Moriarty trains people like you and I would train a dog. He programs brains like researchers teaching mice how to do a maze. If he wanted Gladstone to attack me, he could do it. But I know he's dead. I just forgot that Gladstone was our dog, and thought he was Moriarty's and that's a fucking terrifying notion." 

Gladstone's tail thumped in response each time he heard his name, and John closed his eyes despite his stress. 

"I would honestly rather be shot than go through that again, were it not for Greg being sad about it. He'll kill himself if I die, you know that, right? If things get too bad with me, if I get worse or don't recover, he'll kill me then himself." John spoke out of worry, and there was no accusation in his voice. Suicide was a lovely way to end things. 

Paul had suspected as much, and Greg had, in moments of distress, exhibited behavior in keeping with John's statement. Now that he had the direct concern from John, things became complicated. 

"Meaning then, that Greg is a danger to you. That," he hummed and kept his eyes on John and the dog, "is a problem. Are you telling me this as a request for relocation?" 

John's eyes widened and he stared at Paul with utter shock for a few seconds just to be sure he wasn't attempting some form of sick joke. When he discovered that Paul was very serious, his expression hardened. Greg was never a danger to him, and relocation would easily drive him to suicide. John stood up and stepped aside to clear the way. He snapped his fingers and Gladstone moved as well. 

"Leave. Right now." 

Paul stood up and walked to the door, opening it to the muffled sound of desperate, panicked sobbing coming from the sitting room. He hesitated for a moment more, turning back to John. 

"It was not a threat, John. I am asking after the men in my care." 

With that, he headed down the hall and sidestepped the sitting room, letting himself out the front door. It was more critical at the moment that he show John the extent of power his spoken word had in their relationship, very much doubting either of them would be a threat to the other in the next hour or so.

John absolutely adored the control he had to send Paul away, and was quite sure the man now thoroughly understood his opinion on Greg being a danger and being relocated. He realized then that he did have a good bit of power over a few people, which was strange to think on but absolutely true. Sherlock had tried to kill himself on the off chance that John might benefit from it. What would he do if John ordered him to do something else? What would Greg do? Likely, they would both cater to him. 

John made a disgusted face at his own thoughts, though the power was delicious after so long out being tossed about like a rag doll. He never intended on using the pity he had from others for gain, but it was nice to have an option. 

The sound of Greg crying called John over and he pulled him into his arms on the sofa. 

"I'm better now, love. I'm much better. Thank you for helping me."

Greg had been curled in a tight ball, having wretched twice already in the bin that was pulled close to his face, despite having had nothing but water in the last few hours. He was shaking terribly, cold, pale, and sweating, pliant in John's hands as he went unresistant with John's pull. John's words were clearly utter bollocks, even in his state of shock, Greg knew there was no way he was that put together from anything he and Paul could have spoken about. 

He leaned against John, speaking softly, his voice hoarse and rasping, "I did fuck all."

John forced down waves of panic and spoke softly. "Love, it is understandable that you are upset. That was a tough thing we both went through. But I want you to know that as soon as I was able to remember who you were to me, I remembered nearly everything else. That was my breaking point. After that, you were very helpful."

Greg shifted, twisting so that he could pull John into his arms, giving up the effort to mask his devastated state. He pulled John to his chest, spaying a hand over the side of John's face, breath catching chronically as he fell apart.

"I'm...s-so....g-god John...what you w-went.....th...through, I..." He shook his head, giving up trying to explain himself, hauling John into his lap, wrapping up around him as though he could save John from pain with his body. Of course he couldn't. He couldn't do shit for John, not even protect him, but he still felt intense sympathy and grief on John's behalf.

John nodded and closed his eyes. Greg was warm, comforting and loving, all things that John needed like he needed air. 

"You saw how I acted with him, and why he was always mad. That wasn't as bad, because nobody threatened me and nobody hurt me. So I got out without being cut or drowned." 

John realized his words, which depicted his time with Moriarty as being worse than what he had just demonstrated due to the presence of physical pain, might upset Grey further. 

"I love you dearly," John said softly and shifted to look up at Greg. "You knew that was what happened. Why does it bother you more now?"

Greg shook his head, already seeing stars, pulling John tighter to him. He was too upset to articulate the extremely complicated mix of what he was experiencing.

Instead he kept John wrapped up as tight as he could, panic and deep set fear cloying like tar in his mind, looping him in the new reality that he couldn't protect John, that he couldn't save him, couldn't help him. He knew what it felt like to breathe life back into him, knew what it was going to feel like when he eventually failed beyond repair and had to hold John dead in his arms.

"P...pl...please....I...." He choked on his own grief and shook his head, going silent again.

John whimpered and tried to figure out what it was Greg was asking. He utterly hated it when he didn't know what was being asked of him. "Please what? I'm here for you. I'm here. I love you. You are so good to me." He tilted Greg's chin and sat up a bit so he could look him in the eyes. 

"I love you. Can you hear me? Please listen to me." He leaned in and kissed Greg slowly, in the hopes that it would calm and reassure him as it always did for John. 

Greg reached up and held John's face in his shaking hands, lingering there, trying desperately to calm down. The kiss only served to remind him of his earlier attempts to get John breathing and he drew back, trailing his fingers along John's neck, feeling as guilty as if he was the one who put them there.

"I-" he could not catch his breath, pressing his hand over John's chest, ears ringing, "f-forgive....forgive me I....I was watching! I...I...sh...should have....r....realized!"

"Greg, I deliberately deceived you. I asked if I was allowed to sleep, because I knew you would say yes. I thought it was to trick me... But either way, I knew you would allow me to go under the blanket and lie still long enough for me to fall asleep. It was my fault." 

John shifted so he had Greg in his arms and rubbed his back. 

"You're not to blame for this. I love you so much. I don't blame you for what I did. Thank you for saving me."

Greg tipped his face down against John's shoulder as brilliant, racing spots of gold zipped across his vision. 

_It hurts when John traps me._

Betrayal burned brilliantly in his chest, searing his heart as he processed those words. " _I asked if I was allowed to sleep, because I knew you would say yes_." His effort to show John that he was protected and loved had been twisted and used against him. If John had died, it would have been his fault for being so soft, for allowing John so much leeway when lost. 

What if he had said no? He could picture the panic on John's face perfectly, could hear John's words confirming that Greg was somehow turned, ready to destroy John for Moriarty. It wouldn't have been a valid alternative. 

_It hurts when John traps me._

_I'm taking the kids and I'm leaving._

_I will do everything in my power to die._

_You can't do anything to help._

He was bordering on unconsciousness, overwhelmed and crushed. "I c-can't...th...wh..." he tried to speak, little broken gasps cracking from his chest between syllables, hands trembling horribly as he clung to John's shirt. 

John pulled away abruptly and took Greg's face in his hands. "I am alright now! Things like that will happen! Please, don't blame yourself. And please, above all things, forgive me. I'm sorry, I just..." John pulled out of Greg's arms and stood up. 

"I'm getting you an pill for your nerves. You need help." 

He ran as best as his stiff, limited ankle would allow and got the bottle off the desk. The distance between himself and Greg was physically painful, and John raced back with uneven steps. "I'm here, sorry, sorry, forgive me, you need these." 

Greg had drawn in on himself, most of his focus on his struggle to breathe properly. He was utterly trapped. There was no solution, no path to take, no way to take that did not end in catastrophic failure. Why the hell had John thanked him for saving him? 

When John came back in, Greg looked up at him, tears tracking down his face, focused on the ligature line around his neck. He'd failed. He'd completely failed. Mycroft was going to be enraged that he'd allowed this to happen, and Paul was already threatening that this couldn't carry on, and John...and John...

Was offering him pills. 

Greg blinked at the bottle, both relieved and terrified. "Y-You..." he looked up at John, hearing him beg forgiveness. Had he already taken his? Greg released a broken, clipped sound of pain as he reached out with a quaking hand and took the bottle, staring at it for several seconds before closing his eyes and nodding. He briefly debated sending a message to his children, before he realized how devastating that would be. No, if it was time for him to die, then he’d go out quietly.

"Ok...al....alr-right, John," he whispered, pouring a handful out, staring at the forty or so blue tablets in his palm and wondering how the hell he was going to take them. 

John didn't know what was happening in Greg's mind until he saw the overdose in his hands. "What the hell? No!" John grabbed both of Greg's hands, causing the pills to be strewn about around them. 

Did Greg want to die? 

Clearly, he did.

John gripped Greg's wrists and pinned them against his knees. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please, don't. Please! I can't...look, I'll do better. I will do better than I have been I swear. One more chance. Just one. That's all I ask. I can make things better. Things will get better! Greg, please!"   
John had rapidly lost what composure he had gained during his time with Gladstone, Greg and Paul, and now had the same horrified look on his face that he had when he believed he was about to be tortured. 

"Greg, PLEASE! I will do ANYTHING! You can't leave me. Y-you can't I-" John suddenly broke and wrapped his arms around Greg's waist. He shoved him back into the couch and held him there with one hand holding Greg's bicep from behind his back, which would give him control of the man's spine without requiring strength. 

Greg hit his back, arm pinned, pills scattered on his lap and in the folds of his clothes. "J-John," he breathed around the tightness in his chest, exacerbated by John's weight on him, "d-did you take an-anything?" 

He'd managed to put terror back on John's face, so opted to close his eyes, tears sliding over his temples and dripping into his hair, "I- I th-thought you w-wanted...me to...I..." he did not give struggle in John's grip, allowing the man to keep him how he wanted, "d-don't make me w-watch this...if you took- pl-please don't m-make me watch this again. I'll go w-with you."

John relaxed his grip, but did not let go. "I'm not dying! I haven't taken anything but the tranquilizers someone gave me when I was having the flashback! I'm not dying! Jesus, can't you see by the amount in the bottle? You know full well I can't open them very easily anyway. Jesus... No! I'm not dying! I never meant to make you watch me die! That wasn't my fault! Don't you dare try and leave me!"

John pressed himself over Greg to prevent him further from wiggling out, and were it not for the arm he had trapped, it might look as if they were cuddling. 

That is, if one could choose to ignore the tears, pained expression and scattered pills.

Greg simply lay there in tears for several minutes, paralyzed with doubt, not trusting a word John was saying in his panic.The fact that the bottle was so full, that John struggled to open those sorts of lids, slowly sank in and in hindsight he began to feel very, very stupid. 

"I...I w-wasn't..." he cried, his breathing a wild, chaotic mess, "I th-thought...it...I...s-stupid I...I...'m s-sorry I-" his stomach heaved and he shook his head, taking in tight, sharp little breaths as the ring in his ears rose to a shrill scream, "I- it's- 'm s-sorry!"

John let go of Greg's arm and blanketed himself over him. "Shhh...Shhh... It's alright. It's okay." He was grateful he had the medication in his system or he would not be handling this well at all. Already his heart was fluttering in his rib cage and he couldn't think straight.

"Just take two. Just two. You need to calm down. Can you do that? Only two? Please, don't die. I don't want that. I wouldn't handle it. I am sorry I made you watch me try to die. I didn't mean it. I was so confused. Greg, I want to be happy. Please, I want-" John couldn't finish the sentence, and broke down hard. 

Greg reached down and curled his fingers around two of the pills still lying on the sofa, startling as Gladstone's cold nose brushed his hand. He forced himself to open his eyes and look over at the dog, finding him close, sitting right next to them as they broke apart. The pills were difficult to swallow dry, but he forced himself to anyhow. 

With his hands free, he gently wrapped them around John, listening to more tablets hit the floor as he shifted. He pressed a quivering palm to the back of John's head, the other gently rubbing his back. He had no words to offer. His words always hurt. Instead he lay there, waiting for the artificial calm of the pills, struggling to keep his breathing sufficient while he tried to comfort John.   
John forced his body to relax as his mind whirrled out of control. What could he say to help? He wanted to express how much he needed Greg, the amount that he loved him, and how he abhorred the idea of him leaving, but all of those things he had already stated. 

"I made Paul leave because he asked if you were a danger to me or if I wanted to be relocated. I told him to leave and he left and now he knows just what I think about that." 

John spoke far too quickly, without pausing or drawing in breath, and the last few words were quite forced because of it. 

"And I need you to stay with me because I love you and you keep me from being sad and you got me a dog and showed me the birds and know what tea I like and what shows to put on when and you know what music to play when I'm sad or scared or anxious and you know how I like to be held and you help me even when I don't do good and you love me even though I d-drove you to suicide."

Greg curled his fingers gentle and rhythmically against the back of John's head, doing his best to soothe him in his obvious spiral. John was trying to fix it, and that, in and of itself, eased the burn of how cruelly he'd twisted Greg's efforts before. Not that John had been aware of what was happening. He'd believed Greg ready to hurt him. Apparently, he would always believe Greg willing to do unspeakable things to him at the drop of a hat. 

_That's not fair of you, Greg. Stop it._

"Was...j-just going to...f-follow you into th-the dark, John. You...you don't l-like...it when...when it's dark. Wasn't...wasn't going to...let you....go alone," he managed between terribly hitching breaths. The damned pills were taking forever to kick in, and he was struggling with so much guilt and hopelessness that he could not see straight. 

The touch was greatly reassuring, but John couldn't close his eyes. He was pressed against Greg, though, so he couldn't see how wide they were. 

"I don't want to go in the dark, and I don't want you to either. Greg, listen to me. One day, you and I will go with Sherlock to a pub. We'll drink, laugh, talk, and tell stories all night. We'll all be happy, I won't be afraid of anything, you won't feel guilty, and Sherlock won't be worried about scaring me. It will be wonderful. Can we do that? Can you promise me you'll do that with me?"

At this point, it was the only thing John was sure would make Greg happy, and thus he clung to it. "I can drink tea. Why not beer? I laid down with Sherlock before. I'm sure I can sit next to him at a pub. And I walked with Gladstone outside. Someday I'll be alright with people. You and I can do fun things like that. Maybe we can go see a movie. Maybe we could go to a big park with Gladstone and get him something to fetch. I bet he's fast. He'd love it."

_Hopeless_. It was hopeless. John was lying there, telling Greg that he didn't want to die, with a goddamn ligature line around his throat. Greg had forced air back into his lungs, had carried on breathing for him for minutes, begging the ashen, grey man to come back. What the hell for? John was too damaged. His mind had shattered and it was a matter of time before he woke up again, sure that Greg was there to flay him alive, and attempt to kill himself again. 

He'd been _watching_. He'd been watching. 

This was to say nothing of Sherlock, whom John clearly didn't want to see any longer. Sherlock would never be able to stomach being the occasional pub friend. Never. Greg wasn't doing enough on that avenue either. 

_I'm allowed to sleep, right?_

How the fuck could he promise John they'd make it to a pub, when he couldn't even manage to keep him safe within the walls of his flat? "Y-yeah, John," he whispered, carrying on petting his head, hope lost. "Yeah."

John could feel a combination of panic, guilt and self hatred rising in him as he took in the state of his friend. His love. Greg was broken down and depressed, open to suicide, and easy to bring to tears. 

He knew that it was only a matter of time before he broke down again, which would sorely hurt Greg, and John tried to focus on his surroundings as Paul had said.

He had food, and tea, and a dog who obeyed him. He had blankets and nice touching and music. 

Yes, he knew exactly where he was, and what was happening. He was killing Greg. He was emotionally damaging him. That was real, and there was no escaping it. 

John's breathing kicked up a few notches and he began to panic. If he broke down now, Greg would be injured. He couldn't let that happen. He needed to do something, anything at all, to keep himself calm. 

_Happy thoughts. Pub with Greg. Gladstone. Cuddling. Tea. Eggs in the morning. Greg smiling. Greg laughing. Greg hugging me. Greg telling me he's proud of me. Greg saying he loves me._

_Greg being happy._

_Greg being alright._

_Greg not being sad._

_Greg not crying._

_Greg not trying to kill himself._

John held his breath and tried for something else. _I need to SHUT UP! Just be still! Just stop talking and don't panic! I've had worse than this! I've been stabbed and slashed and burned and drowned and I should not be panicking while being held by someone I love!_

Knowing that he couldn't simply will himself to be calm, he tried for something else. Doing it for Greg caused more trouble, because the panic of failing only grew stronger. No, he needed something that worked. That he knew would work. 

_If I don't calm down in one minute, I don't get to sleep tonight. If I don't calm down in two minutes, I don't get to use the bed or couch. If I don't calm down in three minutes, I have to hurt myself. If I don't calm down in four minutes, I have to hurt myself with water. If I don't calm down in five, all apply._

John nodded to himself despite the fact that he sounded frighteningly like Moriarty. He needed to be punished. That was simply what worked. It was a horrific way to motivate himself, but it was familiar, and familiar worked. 

John slowly forced himself to calm and settled his head against Greg's chest. "Okay. I love you. Can we flip the telly on and just relax for a bit? I'm tired and I like watching with you."

Greg carried on scratching at the back of John's head, lifting a heavy arm to the back of the sofa and grabbing the remote. He clicked on the telly and sluggishly turned his eyes to the screen, flipping through each channel slowly, until he caught sight of The Lord of the Rings, putting the volume where it could be heard if paying attention, or ignored if trying to sleep. He set the remote back on the arm of the sofa and carried on rubbing John's back, occasionally hearing another pill hit the floor as he shifted. 

He shut his mind off as the medication began to take effect, floating in the haze of it, keeping John close to him as he gratefully fell into the arms of numbness. 

John breathed a sigh of relief when Greg fell asleep, and sice he had not taken a full minute to calm, he would be allowed to sleep that night. The success cemented the process into his mind, and John decided he would remember it for next time. 

Greg's behavior had rattled John to his core and shaken apart the belief in stability that he had come to depend on. Carefully, John crept his hand down to Greg's pocket to check for his phone, and when he found nothing, thought it must be in the bedroom. 

It took him a full fifteen minutes to stand up. Each place he removed the heat of his body from, he moved the blanket to and let it warm before moving again. When he finally stood free, he walked silently into the bedroom, fetched the phone, tucked it into his waistband and laid back down with Greg. It hardly mattered if he woke then, as John hadn't changed positions much. 

Greg cracked his eyes open when John settled again, figuring him just shifting his position. He wrapped his arms around John again and settled against him, whispering "I love you," before falling back asleep.

John kissed Greg's arm where it was closest to his head and waited another five minutes before pulling the phone out and texting both Mycroft and Paul.

_Greg is in distress._  
He's medicated noe and asleep, but very open to suicide.   
I am trying to help him but I'm not very good at it.  
Someone might need to come tomorrow.  
Don't respond.  
-John 

John's left thumb was giving him trouble as he typed, and he ended up pecking at the phone with his pointer finger. When he had pressed send, he deleted the message and put the phone into his waistband. It had been on the floor, and surely he could just pretend to find it kicked under the bed when Greg looked. 

Paul read the text and dragged his hand over his face. This was getting into a legal territory that was less gray and more solid black. In all senses, these men needed to be separated and put into a proper facility.

He texted Mycroft.

_This is getting into less and less hazy legal territory. They are a danger to themselves and each other, John was nearly successful taking his life during a flashback today. Putting them in hospital will be extremely destructive. I may have to stop advising on this case, Mycroft. I am sorry. This is risking my license._

Mycroft closed his eyes and placed his phone face down on the bed in front of him. This was not going as planned. Greg was not supposed to break. Greg was supposed to fix John, not shatter himself. 

_I don't see how that would benefit either of them, but I agree that we can't let them be a danger to each other. I am sorry to hear that John attempted suicide. Is he medically sound?_

_Perhaps instead of facilities, they could come live with me. I can handle it, if I'm only needed to supervise. If things get bad, I can be there to step in._

He thought of how Sherlock would handle having John in the house but not with him, and his stomach churned. The house was big enough that if John panicked on the far end it wouldn't be heard if the doors were all closed, but the distance might hurt Sherlock. 

_The current system is what is best for Sherlock, I believe. If you are willing to supervise them, that would be ideal._

_If Greg is open to suicide, and John is suicidal, we might end up losing both of them if we aren't careful. I will help in any way that I can, but Sherlock is bedridden, and therefore so am I._

We're it but all so powerfully tragic, that text would be endearing. As it was, Paul was facing walking this case and likely leaving men to die, or giving up his practice without pay for at least a month.

He was still close, at a coffee shop in the area in case he was needed. John likely didn't want Greg to know he'd called for help, but it was too late now.

When he was back in the car park near Greg's home, he replied anyhow.

_John- it's Paul, I'm coming to the door._

John hissed and deleted the message after sending him a response. 

_Come in. If you tell him I texted you I'll do something bad._

After he sent it, he was a little ashamed, as he sounded much like a child threatening to break a vase if he wasn't allowed to go outside and play. 

John woke Greg as gently as he could by turning the telly up a few notches and gently brushing his hair back off his face. "Love? I think someone is at the door."

Greg opened his eyes sluggishly and looked up at John, before looking over to the door. Gladstone was not barking, and he'd heard nothing. 

"I'll...I'll check," he said roughly, easing John back off of him and sitting up, dropping his face in his hands and then raking his fingers through his hair. With a heavy sigh he pushed to his feet, walking over through the kitchen and opening the door, finding Paul standing there. Paul said nothing, reaching out and taking Greg by the shoulder, walking him back into the sitting room with him. 

The trail of pills on the floor said everything he needed to know. "How many did you take?" He asked as he spun Greg around to look at him, ducking low and thumbing down an eyelid, "John, how many did he take?"

John sat on the couch with his hands folded and between his knees. He didn't look up, but answered dutifully. "Two. I made sure he took two. But he tried at the whole bottle. Had them in his hand. That's why they're on the floor." 

John made a gesture with his hands without looking up to indicate he'd snatched Greg's hands away, and he could hear the clattering and bouncing of the pills in his head as he mimed. 

Greg stepped back from Paul and then looked to John, his gut twisting. "If...if you...want to l-leave...but you...you don't want to leave...do you? You were begging me to st-stay....You...I..." Paul frowned at Greg's disjointed speech, taking him by the shoulder and walking him back to the sofa. 

He spent the next few minutes gathering up the pills that could be salvaged. and binning those that could not be, leaving Greg with his arm around John, speaking softly. 

"I thought...I thought that was wh-what you wanted. He's...I thought you wanted...and now...do you w-want to leave, John?" 

His voice cracked and he held tight to John's hand, his own fingers shaking again. Surely he was about to be hauled off to hospital now, John had told them he'd tried to kill himself. He'd only done so to stay with John, and now he'd be taken away. 

John held Greg as tightly as his shaking, tired muscles could and he spoke softly. "No, dear, I am not leaving you. I'm never going to leave you, alright? I love you. I'm staying here with you. I love you. I love you so much." 

John looked up to Paul and his expression clouded. "He was stressed, and I thought he should have something for anxiety, and I brought them, and I never meant for... And I handed them to him and he poured out the whole bottle and-" John choked and stopped. The whole ordeal had been incredibly unsettling for him, and he hummed in a high pitched, stressed voice. 

Paul walked over to the pair of them and reached down behind Greg without a word, picking up the blanket behind them and pulling it up over their shoulders, wrapping them in it together. 

"John, you've done nothing wrong. It sounds as though you were trying to help him. Greg, can you tell me what happened?" 

Greg just pulled John into his arms and buried his face in John's hair, sure he was soon to be torn away from him. 

Paul sat down right on the table in front of them. "Greg?" 

Greg was putting his focus to wrapping John up tighter in his arms, keeping his face from Paul. He held John tight, as though he could push all the affection he had into him then and there, so that when he was taken away John might remember that Greg had loved him. 

John appreciated the affection, as he always did, but Greg felt just wrong. There was something wrong with his stable, dependable Greg. 

"Love, you need to answer him. Answer Paul. He needs to know what happened." John nuzzled into him for a moment then looked up. 

"Please? Just tell him what happened."

Greg began to rock John slowly. 

_It hurts when John traps me._

Oh, how he knew better than to talk to Paul. He was _not_ going to talk to Paul. "Misunderstanding," he mumbled, sweeping his fingers through John's hair, studying his face carefully. He forced himself to look up after a moment, his vision blurring as he watched his old friend. "How l-long?" 

Paul's brows knit in confusion for a moment before it dawned on him that Greg was a cop, and well knew the suicide clauses. John was a unique situation, but Greg clearly did not consider himself part of that. 

"We'll need to talk about that, all three of us."

John tightened his grip on Greg, though his face remained unnaturally blank. "Paul, do you remember what I said would happen if you tried to take me away from Greg?" 

His tone held no trace of the threat he was implying, and he sounded oddly civil. 

John didn't hate Paul anymore. He didn't like some of the things he made him think about, but recognized that it wasn't his fault, that it was his own trauma, not Paul's words, that made things uncomfortable. All things said, John believed he would cause bodily harm to anyone who tried to separate him from his Greg. 

Paul kept his eyes on John and spoke softly. "I very much want to carry on helping the pair of you. You've both crossed into a dangerous place, and this cannot carry on. I have no desire to separate you. John, please hear me, I've no intention of separating you. However, the situation is, as I said, very dangerous for you both. Technically, I have to take Greg to hospital, and you as well, John. I am willing to take a leave of absence and remain here with you both. You cannot be left unattended. Mycroft has also offered use of his home, where you would not be forced to interact with Sherlock. Those are the options we have to work with." 

Greg kept his eyes on John, though some of the thundering panic eased off. He was breathing tight and overly controlled as he continued rocking him, trying to get his thoughts in order, still extremely tired and simply wanting to sleep. 

John heard the word 'hospital' as someone else might hear 'hell'. His tone changed and raised, abruptly giving him a childish sound. 

"No hospitals. No technically. I'm not going to a hospital. Surely it would do more damage than good. I've been mildly suicidal for two years now, attempted it... God, I don't know. Hospitals make things much worse. Doctors... How the hell would I concentrate on anything else? I can't go to the hospital. You can stay, or we'll go to Mycroft's. I refuse to go to the hospital. If you take me there, it will be against my will." 

John knew his reaction was a bit severe, but he had intended it to be.

Paul drew in a slow, deep breath and spoke calmly. "I am willing, John, to give up my personal life for the pair of you for a while, as offered. I do not want you in hospital to that degree. I understand that you are having a very hard day, John, but would appreciate if you would bring the hostility down a bit. You've been very threatening. Greg, is it acceptable to you if I remain here?" 

Greg had shifted when John sounded so afraid, drawing him tighter against his chest and pulling the blanket around him. "You- that- yeah that's...John, no one is taking...t-taking you anywhere against your will. L-Look at me, John," he breathed, slurring his speech slightly, tracing his fingers over the ligature mark again.

John was ashamed of both his actions and the mark on his neck, so he burrowed into Greg and turned his back on Paul. "Sorry," he muttered with a childish hitch in his voice. 

He felt hypersensitive, raw and nervous, but Greg was speaking now, and that was enough. "I can't do it anymore. Not today. Greg, can you do this? Can you talk? I'm tired and confused and s-scared and I don't want to anymore!" He'd begun to cry half way through and told himself it was alright to cry, as long as he responded when asked and did not scream. 

Greg looked to Paul and nodded that yes, he could stay, making a note to thank him later. He then bundled his arms around John and stood up, carrying him, with Gladstone at their heels, to the bedroom. "We're...j-just going to sleep, and tomorrow is going to be better. It is going to be better. It is. we are just going to sleep." 

He crawled up on the bed, setting John down near the wall, getting under the blankets and wrapping up around John, putting John under him as he lay nearly half on top of him, shielding him with his body. 

John turned on his back and opened his arms to hold Greg against him. "I love you so much." 

He told himself to stop weeping, to stop being hungry and thirsty, to stop being sore and shaken, and stop being depressed. The hunger he could ignore, but it did set him back mentally. The thirst he was more than used to, and hardly bothered him. The aches were just a part of his body, and depression was just a state of mind for him. 

He set up a few mental punishments for himself if he broke down, and while physically relaxed, he remained mentally frozen for nearly an hour before dropping off. 

Paul texted Mycroft soon after the men went to sleep. 

_Looks as though I'll be staying here. It was a mess, things are not going well. Hopefully with some outside help, they will improve._

He decided to familiarize himself with the house for the time being, allowing himself to find a room to stay in and then putting to mind the task of getting his things. 

Greg slept hard for the next several hours, and then jerked awake with John's name on his lips, eyes wide as he looked down and found him under him, giving him a shake in his sleep-induced panic. "John!" 

John let out a clipped scream as he was shaken awake, and the look on Greg's face frightened him. "What? What? What is it?" John grabbed hold of Greg's arms and struggle to both sit up and hold Greg to him. 

Greg pulled John to his chest, his shoulders shaking, exhaling in relief. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I had...dream it- I'm- you're okay though...you're...I'm sorry." 

He pressed his hand over John's thundering heart and held him tight. "I'm sorry. I- I thought-I'm- it's okay, John, I'm sorry."

John looked warily around the room and gave Greg a concerned look. "I'm not dead. I'm very much alive and here and not being taken from you by anything. Go back to sleep. I won't leave you. I'll be right here."

Greg held on to John and pulled him in closer, sliding his fingers through John's hair. "I am sorry, that...isn't normal for me I- are you okay? Jesus, what a way to wake you up. I thought- I was just- I'm sorry, I...all of it. Today, and the pills, and...I didn't handle anything well and I'm...I'm sorry John, I really am sorry."

John closed his eyes and stretched his arms over his head. One of them wouldn't go quite as high as the other, which didn't bother John much and he hadn't quite noticed it until now. He wrapped his arms sleepily around Greg's neck now that he had recovered from his shock and kissed his cheek. "Today was hell, but it wasn't your fault. It was Moriarty's fault, remember? We're blaming him." John still found that very difficult, and blamed himself for the most part.

Greg relaxed immediately, sinking down into the bed with John, lazily rubbing John's belly as he stretched his hands up. "That's right. It is his fault, not ours. Thank you for helping me. I'm...going to be better, okay? And we have help, and it's going to be-" 

He clipped off and looked at the clock. "Oh! My god, I haven't given you your medications yet! Are you hurting? Let me...do you want a cuppa or something to eat? I can get you something to eat! I'm-" he took a deep breath and nuzzled back down against John, "I'm not going to get angry with myself, it was a hell of a day. I'm sorry I forgot. Can I get you something now?" 

John smiled at Greg and relief flooded him. "I'm hungry and sore and thirsty. Can I have things for that?" John avoided directly asking for food and water, as he was already stressed and saw no need to tax himself when Greg always understood him perfectly about those things anyway. 

"Can we be happy? If we're going to be happy, I don't need as much stress stuff. We could show Paul the starling, or have some eggs and tea and watch telly. Oh, well, I think I should have the medicine either way, just in case. I'm tired, and it's easier to get scared when I'm tired in my brain." 

John's voice was even, as the hours of sleep had done him good. 

Greg nodded and brushed a fond hand over John's forehead, sweeping his hair back before kissing his forehead. "Come on then, up with you," he said gently, pulling at John's hand and sitting them both up. He turned to get the medicine from the dresser, only to find it all removed. "Oh...right. I suppose that's...wise. Let's go out and you can rest on the sofa, I'll make you food and tea." 

He wrapped his arm around John's waist, wanting to take the strain off John's muscles. John had gone for too long without his pain medication. Paul was in the kitchen already when they made it to the sitting room, sticking his head out. 

"You're up, good. John, I've got your meds. Greg said you will eat scrambled eggs, that true?" 

John walked with small, shuffling steps and held tightly to Greg. "I think I get the most sore after I panic because I stay too tense for too long." He knew just why his adductors would be sore after such an episode, or why his back and shoulders would ache. "Even my hands get sore. And my stomach hurts and my legs too." 

John sat down in front of the telly on the couch and made room for Greg. "Yeah, I eat eggs. Greg, will you tell him how you make them? You do it the best." 

Greg handed John the remote with a whispered, "Find us something," and a kiss to his temple before walking into the kitchen, starting to make John's tea the way he liked it. He was quiet for a few minutes before finally forcing himself to look at Paul. 

"Can you afford to take the leave?" He whispered, setting the tea steeping. 

"I would not have offered if I couldn't, Greg. How are you feeling?" Paul replied easily, setting out things for the eggs. 

Greg bit his lip and looked over his shoulder. "Better. Less scattered. Thank you, Paul, for this. I know it's...I know this isn't how it was supposed to work. I don't know what's wrong with me I-" 

Paul cut him off with a gentle touch to his shoulder. "It's more than alright. This is...you've handled a lot this year, and so has John. You're both okay. Now, let me help you, he's got an appetite, that's fantastic." 

Greg smiled at that, open and honest. It was true, and that was brilliant. He was in better spirits when he came back out to John with a plate of eggs and a mug of tea, John's pills on the side. "You know, I've not had to give you anything in that nasal tube in what? Four days?" 

John responded instantly to Greg's cheerfulness and pride showed on his features. "Four days? That's longer than I thought! I'm getting better at this!" He put the spoon in the tea to begin his little ritual, then started on the eggs. There was no point in waiting for it when he could be eating. 

"Let's keep talking. It helps when I'm talking." John started on his eggs, which were familiar by now, and much easier to eat than anything else had ever been since his captivity. "I think we should take Gladstone out soon. He needs to be let out. Last time I didn't do so well, so maybe the three of us can go, and when I think I'm too nervous, you and I can go back." 

Fueled on by the hope of happiness for Greg, John was taking bigger bites and had stopped hesitating entirely. 

Greg hummed as he tucked into his food, openly pleased with John's efforts. Paul listened to the pair talk about taking the dog out and the plans for various issues that may arise, watching them react to one another like the tide, each moving the other into extreme highs or deep lows. They were so reactive with the other, it would be shocking were it not for his personal line of work. Trauma did interesting things to people, and this was not unheard of. 

"You're doing so well with the food," Greg noted of John's efforts with the eggs after having agreed with John that the dog needed to go out, and how Paul could stay with Gladstone if they had to go in. 

John glowed from the praise and his eyes squinted nearly shut with his smile. "It's getting easier with eggs. Maybe that's the trick! Maybe I don't need to work on food in general, but each thing individually! That way, if I have a bad day, I'm still able to eat eggs. And we can start adding things that go with eggs, and I'll be eating normally and I can get rid of the tube!" 

John was clearly excited and scooted a bit closer so he could sit with his hip against Greg's. 

Greg smiled brightly at him and polished off his food while Paul watched on. The shift in mood was welcome, but unstable, a bit manic in its quality. Gladstone draped himself over John and Greg's feet and thumped his tail lazily on the ground. The dog was a good fit. 

He sipped at his own tea and spoke quietly to Greg and John. 

"John, if you'd like to go out with the dog, of course you can, but the both of you are a bit raw from a very difficult day. I'd recommend that you both just stay here and let me take him?"

John had been looking forward to it, but trusted that other people knew better about what he should do than he did. 

"Okay, but I'm going to go feed the birds. That doesn't scare me, because-" The reasons were a bit dark, actually. If someone were to attack him, they would have to enter either through the house, which was just as much of a danger as it was on the couch, or by climbing, which would be clumsy and easy to escape. He could be shot by a sniper, but then he'd be dead, and the thought didn't bother him much. "It just doesn't. It's got birds and nice things." 

John noticed his tea again and tested the temperature of the spoon. It wasn't hot, but he couldn't do it just once, and this he began again. 

Paul noted that Greg paid no mind to John's efforts at the tea. It was normal then, for him to try so many times. He quietly watched the pair of them, noting the faint tremor in Greg's hands and the pained way that John was sitting, though it was clear that pain on a musculature level did not much upset him. That was a positive thing, and he was glad to see it. Sherlock was...exceedingly hyper-sensitive to pain where John was a bit more stoic. It would serve him well, that. 

"Out with your birds is a wonderful idea. Will you show me? I can take Gladstone right now, and when you are done with your meal we can go outside. I'd love to see."

John nodded and touched the spoon with the tip of one finger as if he expected it to be hot. When it wasn't, he slowly pressed it against his palm, then tried it on his tongue, as things feel very different to the scarred, calloused hands and the soft tongue. "I'll show you, but it takes a while to get him over. I don't want to rush it and scare him."

John started on his tea with the straw and found it incredibly soothing against his throat which was raw from shouting and screaming. 

Paul stood up and whistled for Gladstone, who stayed just as he was over John's feet, looking to his owner first with a slow wagging tail. "I wouldn't expect you to rush it, not at all. May I take Gladstone with me?" 

Greg looked down at the dog as a true, honest smile spread across his face. "Good boy," he whispered, reaching down and scratching the dog's ears, incredibly pleased that Gladstone had cemented himself to John. 

John might have been smug about the dog staying with him and ignoring Paul, but he was in too pleasant a mood. He got up, Gladstone mirroring his actions perfectly, and walked to Paul. "Gladstone, go with him," John commanded and pointed to Paul. "You're a good boy, Gladstone." 

 

Paul smiled and thanked John, walking to the door with Gladstone and latching his collar on. Greg waited until Paul and the dog were gone to speak to John. 

"Is this okay? I'm sorry this happened, I'll get it together and we and just be us again, I didn't mean to do this. Paul is a good man. I know you don't like him, but he has actual training and knows how to help. I...I wish I knew what to do better than...than I've been doing. I- he's doing this on his own time, for us, and I-" he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked at the floor. 

"I just hope this is okay."

John laid down on the couch with his head in Greg's lap and his legs dangling over the armrest. It was casual, comfortable, and let him watch Greg's expressions.

"I'm alright with Paul being here. He's your friend, and he helps. I get now that I just don't like the things he makes me think about. All things considered, he's a wonderful man." John sighed and closed his eyes. 

"I don't blame you for breaking down. Emotions are incredibly difficult to deal with, especially negative ones." 

Greg very carefully schooled his features, refusing to tank John's mood. He should have handled it all better. Seeing John blue and in respiratory arrest was devastating, and he'd not been able to deal with it. He smiled at John, fingers trialing through his hair instead of touching his throat, nodding at John. 

"I don't think you or Sherlock can heal from what happened if you never think about it. I'm sorry that's the way it is. I'm...frankly glad that someone else gets to be the bad guy in that. I...I'll do better, I will. I was doing better I just-" he forced himself to keep smiling, shaking his head and abandoning the explanation. 

"I will do better." 

John nodded to himself and absently trailed his fingers over Greg's arm. 

"I've promised the same thing. To do better. That..." A rushing sigh seemed to deflate him and he felt very small. 

"That was very, very bad. It hurts to know that even though he is dead, I can go back."

Greg shook his head and splayed a hand over John's heart. "No, you can't. You can't go back. You're mind scares you, but your body is unharmed, and you're surrounded by care. It was...really bad, but you came out of it in hours, not days. We will figure out how to get you back without you thinking it's a trick. It doesn't happen often. I'm...I'll figure it out with you, but regardless, it may feel very frightening, but you're _not_ back." 

John crossed his arms over Greg's hand to keep it in place and hummed slowly. 

"I suppose we could make some sort of thing... A word or something that might draw me back from it. It was the worst when I remembered that I love you, that you care for me, and I still thought you were going to beat me. Betrayal and all that. But that's the point where a plan would draw me back."

Greg chewed at the inside of his lip where he'd split it the day before, thinking. 

"You...always say that repetition...maybe we pick a word and I can...randomly say it to you, and you...respond with another word. Password and check sort of thing, and you can associate that with this feeling here. The feeling you have, knowing how deeply you believed I was going to hurt you, and how deeply wrong that was? I don't know, you...you know what I'm saying...focus on your feeling of knowing what you thought you knew as truth when you were lost, and what you know actually happened...I'm not explaining it well. I don't know. I...we have to have a plan, something to try so I can actually _do something_. The way you looked at me..." he shuddered, stomach twisting.

"I don't ever want you to be scared of me again, that...I can't imagine how that was for you...I...do you think the word might help?"

"It hurts more than anything to be scared of someone you love," John muttered into his crossed arms, which had slowly inched higher to cover his face. 

"I need a plan. I really, really need a plan. I like the idea of a password check. But it would need to be something that I knew before, something Moriarty didn't, so it would work even if I didn't remember having this conversation. Then the repetition comes in...and I should be alright. In theory."

Greg opened his mouth before he realized what he was doing. 

"Vatican Cameos," he blurted, nearly smacked in his own head with a staggering rush of imagery from Sherlock and John's glory days. John had already conditioned himself to react to that, to focus sharply and pay attention in hyper detail. Surely that...surely that would work? He held his breath and watched John's face, unsure what the words would do. 

John was silent for quite some time as he processed it. The word sparked a flutter in his stomach, which had always been a beautiful thing for him. It was a promise of adventure as well as a warning that something wasn't right. It didn't just mean danger, it meant that something was out of place, and things were not as they seemed. He'd ducked out of line from a safe with a gun in it when he was just seconds away from being shot. He'd responded to it at his wedding, blindly following Sherlock off on another adventure. A deep, empty ache settled in him, much like hunger or lack of breath, but without the twisting, burning sensation. It was very empty. 

"Yeah, alright. That works."

John's numb, monotone response worried him. "I'm sorry, that..might not have been...I wasn't thinking it just..." 

The door opened and Paul and Gladstone returned, cutting Greg off for a moment. He kept his hand over John's heart and looked up, watching Paul walk into the kitchen, hearing a water bowl filling and then the enthusiastic lapping. Paul walked in, sweeping his eyes over the men, curious but steady. 

"John, how are you doing?"

John stretched his legs out, which were just a bit less sore for having taken his medication. He still had tea left, but didn't want to get off Greg's lap, and made a half-hearted attempt at reaching for it before letting one arm flop and dangle off the edge near Greg's knees. 

"I'm alright. Greg's doing better. We're making a word that will call me back."

Paul sat down and reached forward, scooting John's cup within his easy reach. "A word to call you back, that's an interesting idea. Have you chosen something?" 

John sat up just enough that he could drink from a straw without spilling, and found that the relaxed position made him easily forget that he was drinking. 

"Vatican Cameos. It was a thing from a while ago." John did not clarify.

Paul nodded, finding the combination of words odd but not pressing John any further. "You know better than any of us what it's like in your mind when an episode of that severity occurs. Do you have hope that it will reach you? I think this is a very positive step in taking control of a frightening situation. Good for the both of you, honestly."

John finished his tea and stretched off the couch to put it on the table. He was in an odd position now, strewn across Greg's lap with one leg on the armrest and one arm hanging off the edge, but he was comfortable, and didn't give a damn if he looked odd. 

"It's good to have a plan. If that doesn't work, you can just sedate me. Let's go see the bird."

Paul stood up without any hesitation and waited for John, not saying anything further about it. 

Greg leaned back, allowing John up at his own pace, lending him a hand up to ease his stiff muscles. He'd seen how guarded John had been. 

"Do you want me to come with you? I'd like to go shower and clean up our room a bit, but if you'd like me with you, I'll go out there too." 

John didn't wish to do anything without Greg, but he knew that he needed time on his own, and showers always seemed therapeutic for him. 

"Yeah, you go clean up. I'll stay with my bird. Love you." 

He pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to the door, found the key, fumbled with the key, and finally unlocked it. The birds were pecking around the feeder, but John didn't see his starling. He waited a few minutes, rolled his eyes at himself, and stood back up. 

"Forgot the bread. I'll be back in a second."

Paul waited for John out on the bench, though at the far end to give him space. He knew John was not particularly fond of him, and so would respect his need for distance. 

Greg moved slowly down the hall, making his way back to their room. He spent the next few minutes taking down the old fluid bag, determined not to have that as John's source of hydration anymore, and then took down the feeding supplies, so that they would have to be gotten out if John needed them. He changed the sheets and made the bed nicely, laying John's blanket out on top of John's side. 

A few minutes later, he stepped back, nodding at the room. It looked far less like something from a hospital now. He was already feeling a bit better when he crouched down to his drawers to get a change of clothes for the night. 

A long, grey string stopped him. He stared at the cotton rope for a moment before reaching out with a trembling hand and plucking the discarded drawstring up off the floor, holding it in his hand and staring. Several minutes later he shoved the damned thing in the drawer and pulled out a change of clothes, heading to the washroom with his heart in his throat. 

John got the bread and sat down outside on the bench where he always sat with Greg. The starling eventually saw the two people outside and, knowing it was a precedent for food, landed lightly on the wooden deck. 

John singled it out and began to slowly draw it in, working past any small lines it was determined not to cross, and moving slowly when he needed to reach down. It was just a few inches from his hand now, hopping curiously around. 

Paul remained quiet as he watched John with the bird. Clearly the man did not yet feel like speaking, and he wasn't going to push him. They could sit in silence, if that's what John wanted. 

Greg took his time in the coveted shower, missing the way the hot water soothed as it ran over his face. He leaned into the spray, one hand splayed on the wall, and hung his head as he allowed himself to quietly cry without an audience, catharsis in the way his grief was hidden and therefore without consequence. 

John had the bird on his hand within twenty minutes, which was very slow, considering it hadn't come from very far away, but John was nonetheless happy with his progress. He began the slow climb back to the upright position, which taxed his sore muscles. John did not complain. 

The tiny bird waited for him to drop crumbs onto his hand, and John had to keep from twitching when it's tiny little talons tickled his skin. 

"Isn't he beautiful?" 

Paul hummed and spoke very softly, "He is, yes. That's quite a thing you've done with him, John." 

This was clearly therapeutic for John, who was working quietly through a myriad of issues in the act of bonding with the bird. He again went quiet, allowing John to lead the nature of their interaction. 

John had the bird about level with his knees when he stopped and dropped a crumb onto his knee. The bird hesitated, and John realized that in leaning over, he'd made himself look a bit threatening. Slowly, moving just an inch every ten seconds, he leaned back and put more bread on his knee. The bird stretched out it's neck and drew the bread in, which was what John had expected, and he let it carry on doing so until it was used to the action. 

"If you go slow, he doesn't mind much."

 

Paul watched him with interest. John was an intelligent, empathetic, _dangerous_ man which was a unique set of characteristics to work with at any given time. That he'd chosen a little bird to work with was interesting. Back at the compound, Greg had informed Paul that John had fixated on the notion of flying, of watching the birds and fantasizing of dragons. 

"That's very true. He could just fly away, but he chooses to stay with you."

"He won't fly away if I don't cross his line. I can make his lines relax by giving him food, or being really still. In return for his cooperation he gets food." 

John stopped suddenly and his brow knit together. Abruptly he tossed a piece of bread down on the ground, which the bird went happily after. 

John stood, wordless, and went inside. 

Paul watched as John crossed his own lines, touching on a parallel he did not care for, or so it would seem. Paul gave John three minutes on his own before standing up and following after him. The shower was still running, so he would have a few minutes at least to find John and see what he would be willing to say. 

As soon as Paul walked in, John had questions. What he was doing with the bird was very similar to what Moriarty had done to him, but instead of helping him overcome a fear in return for food, he beat him into having fears. 

"I'm not a bad person, am I?"

Paul gave his full attention to John, interested in that opening question. He kept his posture friendly and non-threatening, making gentle eye-contact and speaking to him in a low, soothing voice.

"What sort of person do you define as 'bad,' John?"

"I threatened to kill you. I hurt Greg. I shouted at him and at you even though I shouldn't have. I'm selfish. Am I a bad person?" 

He raised sad, guilt filled eyes to Paul.

"You can be honest if I am. I won't panic or anything."

Paul gestured to the sofa, careful not to touch John without his permission. "Let's sit down, John, please," he said as he moved to the chair near the sofa, sitting down himself. This was a positive line of discussion, and one he very much wanted to move with. 

"The threat you made was out of a protective instinct for your hurting friend. The shouting is understandable, and no one faults you for it. That aside, you are always very apologetic afterwards, which you in no way have to be, and yet you still are. I'm not sure how you can define yourself as 'selfish,' would you explain that for me?"

John sat cross-legged on the couch and held a pillow in his lap. 

"I don't do anything for anyone. I used to have a purpose. What I did was save and protect people. I came home from the war and had nothing. Then, I had Sherlock, and I was saving people again, or at least helping. I got a job and worked at the clinic. I was useful. Now, I am less than useful. I don't even break even. I am a burden. Can you honestly tell me that this hasn't had a negative effect on Greg? That he wouldn't be more mentally sound if I had died before they found me?"

Paul was very pleased that John was talking about this, interested to see how easily John could say Sherlock's name without shaking of hesitation. He still had to test his tea, but he could get that name out as though it was nothing. It was a massive victory. 

"This has had many effects on Greg. I cannot speak for his reaction if you'd been killed before your rescue, John. What was done to you has had the ripple effect of hurting many people, all of the individuals who love or care about you. That's nothing you've done, it's an effect of the crime, and the criminal's fault. Not yours. Your concern for Greg demonstrates how selfless you are.”

John shrugged, though it did make sense. "I have to care about Greg. I love him. He is the most important person in the entire world to me. If I weren't concerned about him, I'd be heartless. I love him so much." John dropped his head and found to his comfort that the pillow smelt like Greg. 

"And that makes it harder because when I fail it hurts more. And when I think he's going to hurt me, it's worse. God, it is so much worse. Moriarty...Fuck, I expected it of Moriarty. When I thought Moran was a cop, it was bad, and then Sherlock... But that didn't happen. That last part didn't happen. Did not happen. Still hurts though. Stupid."

Paul shook his head. "I have to stop you there, John. You've said something very unfair to yourself. The last part _did happen_. What you felt; the betrayal, the confusion, the anger, the heartbreak, everything else, all of that _did happen_. It is decidedly not stupid to struggle with that pain. No, in the end, it was not Sherlock who did those things to you, but you suffered the agony of a friend's betrayal, of broken trust, of mental anguish pared with incredible physical pain. You are allowed to _feel that_. It was real to you, John. You deserve to validate what happened to you, it's not fair to deny yourself that." 

He kept his voice calm and spoke very softly, countering how heavy the words were. 

John dawned on something, and his entire body rebelled against it. Surely, he was wrong. He was just traumatized. But as he thought, it began to creep hold of him like a habit that one denies having at first. He stared ahead for another few moments, then looked over to Paul. 

"The closer I get to Sherlock, the more I remember about being his friend, about maybe loving him, the more it hurts." 

Paul's expression was very calm, but he allowed a bit of empathy to touch on his features. 

"You're grieving him. That is a normal, albeit painful, part of the process here, John. Believe it or not, it's a sign that you are mentally healing. When he was little more than a monster to you, it was easy to shut him in a box in your mind and not address the feelings that come along with the man you know to be Sherlock, and the man you associate with so much pain."

John crossed his arms over the pillow and held it tight in the absence of Greg to cling to. "It makes everything worse. The more I figure out that I actually cared about him...It's stupid! It didn't happen! I can't feel betrayed when he is innocent but..." John shook his head. 

"The more I think about him and read the blog and remember stuff, the more I feel awful because someone I cared about did that to me."

Paul hummed as the bathroom door opened, Greg appearing with damp hair and bare feet, moving down the hallway looking much restored. 

Greg took one look at John and moved over to sit beside him on the sofa, wrapping an arm around him and pressing a kiss to his temple, curling John flush to his side. 

Paul spoke very softly to John. "What if we change that language a bit, John? 'The more I feel awful that I was made to believe someone I cared about did that to me.' You can allow yourself to look at what happened to you and the very real pain you suffered, _in addition to_ what was done to Sherlock himself as a result of that deception. You were both severely hurt by Moriarty doing what he did. You have a common suffering. It takes away none of the reality of what you experienced, and gives you a way to mentally put you and Sherlock back on the same side of things, as you actually are." 

John listened to the things Paul said while leaning heavily on Greg. He never failed to make things better, and John was very pleased to have his source of calm back. 

"Okay. I like that. I'll say that. But that doesn't change the thing...The thing is that it makes me feel just...just awful to try and think about what he meant before, but I know that's the only way I'm to help him right now. The more I put it into my head that he is my friend, the more I am hurt by a friend's betrayal. Staged betrayal. Perceived. Whatever. It just hurts."

Paul nodded as he listened to John, watching a shadow pass over Greg's face as a little more of his hope flagged. "You are allowed to feel that hurt, John. So long as you can keep in your mind that ultimately, the man in Mycroft's house is not guilty, you can mourn in a healthy way. Your mind is attempting to work out what it would have been like, had Sherlock actually done these things to you, and it's not a sign of being a bad person, or being weak, nor is it selfish to allow that to happen. You will hear Greg and I remind you that Sherlock is not guilty from time to time, but that is not to discredit or scold you; it's to help you hold on to reality." 

"I know it was not Sherlock. Sherlock is the victim. He was at home sulking the whole time I'm sure. Probably relapsed. I know he wasn't hurting me. But... What if Moran were to go to Sherlock and sit in his room and try to explain that it was never him? How do you think that would go over? Or, what if, Moran had been Sherlock's best friend before it all happened? How would that effect him?" 

John had a fistful of Greg's shirt and he played with it absently. 

Greg turned his face and pressed a soft, swift kiss to the side of John's head, starting to rock him slightly in an effort to soothe him. Paul sensed John's need for them to understand and latched on to that. 

"John, the way you've coped with this is...unbelievable, really. That you can even _verbalize_ that he's a victim as well is astounding. It wouldn't go well at all, were the tables flipped. What you feel and what you are struggling with, John, those are all valid things. Greg and I are not suggesting that you can simply _reason_ your way out of those terrible feelings. You have endured and endured and endured and endured, John. You endured when he taught you the tapping. You endured after you realized he'd been sitting in your room. You endured watching him on a screen. You've endured, and you've endured. Of course you are left effected." 

John was hit with a flood of emotion when Paul validated the pain he had labeled stupid and irrational, and he broke down in fresh tears. 

"And I want to help him," he began, continuing a thought in his mind out loud. "But it hurts me to remember what he was. It _hurts_. I feel bad! I feel like shit and worthless and and and like an idiot and so fucking awful that I just want to avoid it but then I feel bad because I am not helping and he went and got tortured for me even though he knows I am of no use to him anymore!"

Greg drew John in closer, carrying on with the gentle rocking. Paul listened to John, doing his best to keep up with John's frame of mind. 

"John, what the real, actual Sherlock did is irrelevant to the pain inflicted on you by his doppelganger, it's not a failure on your part that it causes you this sort of pain. They are not the same person, which is why you are so conflicted right now. It's alright to let yourself feel pain and rage at the man you believed was hurting you without forcing yourself to feel the guilt, to mentally counter your hurt with 'Well, I shouldn't be hurt _because_." 

He paused, taking a slow breath, glad that Greg had returned for John, "You are allowed to feel the hurt without justifying it, John. You can give yourself permission to experience that pain without apology."

"I am allowed to feel pain." John repeated the phrase with a hollow laugh and bit back a few comments he could have made. 

"Right. That's a new one. I thought that was some sort of inalienable human right. The main problem is that when I hurt, I hide from it. I know full well that Sherlock is my friend, but even apart from being nervous around him, which is stupid but I guess it makes sense, I want to avoid even thinking about him because it makes it all hurt more. And then I get guilty, and then I get depressed...more depressed..."

Paul nodded, "I apologize. Pain was not the correct word there. I only meant to say that you are allowed to feel what you do without guilt. Tell me what happens in your mind as you feel depressed. You said before that it hurts. Now you are describing it as depression. All of that is understandable. Help me understand what you experience when you allow yourself to think of him."

John curled closer to Greg and tucked his knees up to his chest. "It's like this. If someone sent you a mean letter, but you had no idea who it was from, it might hurt, but not that much. Then, if you found out it was from someone you loved, or a best friend, it would suddenly hurt so much more. That is exactly what it is like. Figuring out that Sherlock is my friend and not my enemy hurts like hell."

They were brushing on something that was still being missed. "It sounds as though you are still equating the real Sherlock Holmes with the man who did this to you. Until you can mentally separate the two, John, it's going to hurt like that.”

"No, I'm not! I know it wasn't him! I KNOW that! I just...Look, if I remember what happened, just because I know it was Moriarty or Moran doesn't mean that at the time it wasn't him. Not in real life, but to me! I have a memory in my head of Sherlock raping me! How the fuck am I supposed to get on well with him after that?" 

John had backed as far into Greg and the couch as he could and, much like a trapped animal, had begun to tense.   
Paul showed John his palms. "Yes, John, I understand. That is what I was attempting to express to you earlier. That it is perfectly acceptable to feel the pain of what you experienced while believing Sherlock was hurting you. John, I need you to hear that it is not an obligation of yours to ever have any sort of relationship with Sherlock again. You need to get past this for yourself, and that will take time and energy, but you do _not_ have to get past this for him. You do not owe any debt here, you do not have to get on with him at all, ever again."

"It is an obligation, and I will not be persuaded against it. I saw him. I know exactly what I owe him. I owe him the ability to sleep at night, to go out in public without shame or crushing fear, I owe him the ability to not be afraid of normal things, I owe him his peace, his hands, his legs, his arms, Jesus, I owe him his sanity! I know better than anyone just _exactly_ what I owe him because he walked to them so I would not have to go back." 

John was clearly defensive at this point, and had all his mental shields up against what Paul was saying.

Paul simply sat back and watched John, listening to him speak. There was no way that they could live in Mycroft's home. John still carried a stunning amount of rage focused at Sherlock. 

Greg closed his eyes, holding tight to John, conflicted deeply. John sounded almost defensive of Sherlock, while simultaneously furious with him. He had memory of Sherlock...of Sherlock _raping him_. He wasn't going to get past that. How could he? Greg allowed his mind to wander to the tea and books that Sherlock had sent over with the heart wrenching plea that John not be told it was from him. Sherlock wouldn't survive it if John never found it in him to accept that it wasn't him, if John never healed enough to even be his friend again. 

He had no idea what the effect would be on John if he never spoke with Sherlock again, never forgave him and tried to move on. He clutched John tighter to him, feeling completely useless, wishing there was more he could do. 

John abruptly stood, felt the terrible cold where he lost contact with Greg, and sat back down. 

"I feel bad because I want to help him, then when I try to become his friend, it makes the ...the _perceived_ betrayal so much worse. It's much easier to just pretend we were never really that good of friends and live with that. But I can't have the easy way out, can I? My conciseness won't allow it. So I've got to somehow _get over this_ and I've got to do it quickly." 

John focused his next words very intently on Paul. "I need you to tell me how to get over this. I can retrain my brain. Apparently, that is an easy thing to do. Tell me how."

Paul spoke calmly while Greg floundered, wanting to pull John back to him, not sure how John would take that. 

"I've already told you how, John. Instead of allowing your brain to battle with the feeling of being betrayed by a friend, you focus on the pain of being deceived so terribly, the pain of being made to believe Sherlock did those things to you, that caused you both such agony it led you both to an attempt to take your lives. That's how you do it, John."

John let out a pained whine and gathered his thoughts carefully before he spoke. 

"And that's the problem. I know I should, but I'm not feeling deceived. I'm feeling betrayed. I spent months feeling betrayed and only recently feel deceived but it's at someone who's dead. I'll try though. I'll do that. I'll do that. Maybe if I just keep trying to remember what a friend he was, I'll just hurt a lot and eventually get used to it." 

It would be painful, depressing, and damaging, but would be quick, and while he couldn't help but show panic, sinking depression and self hatred was something he could hide from Sherlock quite easily.

Paul listened to John's resistance quietly, watching his body language. "John, that's not what any of us want for either of you. How about you focus on the deception, instead of the betrayal? That will pull everything else into the correct light. You are not feeling deceived, because you are only _logically_ registering it. It will take a bit of time and energy to let it properly sink in. Once the betrayal fades, and the anger shifts to the deception, you won't have to struggle to remember him as he is." 

John nodded and turned away from Paul to burrow into Greg. His mind was exhausted from thinking clearly, even if he hadn't needed to keep composure the entire time. "Thank you. Can I rest? I'll do that. I'll do those things. I'll try and work on that. Just give me some time, alright?" He hid his face on Greg's shoulder and exhaled shakily. 

Paul stood up and moved toward the kitchen. "Of course you can rest, you've done an enormous amount of work today, John. Very impressive, honestly. You and Greg take the time you need, I'm actually going to run home and gather some of my things. I'll be gone for an hour or so. You've done very well today, thank you for speaking with me." 

Greg cuddled John to his chest, wrapping him up tight as he could. 

John waved goodbye like a child and kept silent for another few moments until he was sure Greg and him were alone. 

"I'm sorry about those things. I know they make you sad because Sherlock is your friend, and he needs me. I'm trying. Knowing those things is really hard. It would be so much easier to ignore it all."

Greg pulled John fully into his lap and nuzzled his face against the top of John's head. "I know you are trying. You take your time. Sherlock...isn't expecting to see you again, John. Paul was right when he said you don't have to...to see him again. I know you think you do, I'm not trying to argue. I just...you need to heal for you. Ignoring it would just make it fester. You...I am sad for him, very, very sad for him, but I'm so very, very sad for you as well. I know you are trying. I know."

John loved being in Greg's lap, and had long since come to terms that his nonexistent pride was perfectly alright with him being treated like a child. He leaned his head back and closed his red rimmed eyes. 

"I don't see an end to this any other way. I need to get to a place where I can help him, and you, and myself. Then we can put this behind us and live. No more goals. Just living."

Greg rest his lips on the crown of John's head as he rocked him, eyes closed, savoring those words and hoping to his core that they came to be. 

"Let's lay down and watch telly," he whispered, not waiting for John to respond, simply picking him up and taking him into the freshly cleaned room. He settled John on his side of the bed, clicked on the telly with a movie, and lay on his back, pulling John to rest on his chest under John's favored blanket. He lay there, watching a little yellow house float away on balloons, gently stroking his fingertips down John's back. 

"I love you," he whispered at one point, when his fingers were in John's hair and his own eyes were burning, hoping to hell that Sherlock had some form of comfort as well, "thank you for trying so hard."

John still had tears in his eyes from the emotional stress of the day, and he cried silently as he watched. He didn't need to be comforted, of for anything to change, he just needed to let some of the sorrow of things done to him be released. 

"I love you too," John whispered and his body felt heavy like his mind. "I tried really hard today. I have so many things to fix. I need to work on them but I don't want to."

Greg carried on gently with John's back, trailing his fingers down the backs of John's bicep and up his sides, through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear with his thumb. 

"You worked incredibly hard today. I know it feels like a lot, so let's just stay in the here and now. All you have to do now is relax and breathe, that's it, no more work right now." 

John watched both the telly and Greg's hands in mild interest. "This helps," he remarked and turned his face towards Greg's hand. 

"It helps to have someone touch me nicely. You were the first person to touch me who I didn't honestly believe was going to hurt me. It feels so good to be loved. It helps so much. You," he looked up to Greg and pointed at him. "You help more than you know."

A smile ghosted across Greg's lips and he brought John's hand up, brushing a kiss to his knuckles before tucking it back in close so John would feel secure. "I'm glad it helps."

He was quiet again for a time, watching the screen without paying attention, allowing his mind to go back over the terror of the day. When he spoke again, his tone was only a whisper, open and honest. 

"I cannot begin to imagine...seeing you like that today was...I'm...I understand a bit better now. It's one thing to know what it had been like for you, but to see it...to see it was..." He wrapped his arms tight around John and suddenly was speaking in pure, protective ferocity. 

"That will _never happen_ to you, _ever again_." He swiftly gentled his tone, pressing a soft kiss to John's hairline at his forehead, carding both hands through John's hair. 

John didn't like Greg's pain, but he couldn't help but appreciate the understanding. "It was like that, yeah. Just... Imagine that fear with cold, pain, hunger and thirst, and instead of someone comforting, I get the opposite. It was hell, simply put. But now things are so much better. I've got you now, and I love you, so things are alright. I've got something I know. It's not a fickle rule or a mind game. You love me, and that never goes away, so things are easier." 

John had a peaceful tone in his voice despite the pain and heartbreak of the day. At least at the end of it, he was able to return to his Greg.

Greg had imagined all of that, in real time, as he watched John suffer. He could not help but turn them, his back to the telly so John could still watch it if he wanted. He curled John tight and protected in his arms, drawing up his legs to tangle with John's. "It will keep getting better. I will make sure it keeps getting better. You are safe with me, and Gladstone, and Paul." 

Talk of the dog reminded him to pat the bed, allowing him to come up, smiling as Gladstone stepped over him and whined as he lay draping over John. "Is he too heavy?"

John glowed when Gladstone laid down on him and he pet his massive head. "No, I like it. This is good." 

Between Gladstone and Greg, John felt very safe and very loved. His nerves and guilt slowly began to fade away, leaving him calm, happy, unconcerned about the future. 

"Greg, you said I can live with you forever a while ago, and I was wondering if that's still allowed. I don't want to be a burden, even if I do learn to function."

Greg nuzzled down against John, squeezing him and scratching the dog's head. "That's what forever means, John. Yes, you can stay, not only can you stay, I deeply want you to stay. You are not a burden to me, John. I know you do not believe that, and that's okay. I'd likely feel the same way were I in your shoes, but you're not." 

John very much wanted to stay, and could not see a future for himself that did not involve living with Greg, but he was somewhat worried that someday Greg might get it into his head that he was a bachelor, which technically, he was, and want John out. He was irritated with his own insecurities and tried to move on. "Right. Thank you. You've said that before, I just have a hard time getting it to stick."

Greg hummed and pulled John in closer. "I'll say it as often as you need, John, it's okay. Can you sleep? You could likely use a bit of sleep."

John relaxed completely against his Greg and closed his eyes. "Yeah. I'll sleep. I love you. You're good to me." 

It only took a few minutes for John to drop off hard, as his mind was looking for a repose.

Greg watched him drop off, Gladstone laying his head down on John's side, tail lazily thumping. 

Greg closed his eyes without trying to sleep, carefully walking through the morning again, now that he was much calmer and able to apply logic to such an emotionally charged event.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft put his phone down after reading through his messages for the hundredth time to keep his mind on the subject. 

Everything was going wrong. Greg was not supposed to be breaking. John was supposed to be helping Sherlock by now. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock and kissed the top of his head. Hopefully, he would be enough. 

Sherlock's voice was muffled and raw from where he was tucked against his brother's chest, waking without otherwise moving, a well-practiced skill by then. 

"Something h-has happened," he said quietly, sensing his brother's distress, "What's happened, My?"

Mycroft shook his head and tried to sound casual. "Nothing's happened. Just a few updates from Paul. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock was quiet as he considered the question. How was he feeling? Not finding the words, he quietly shrugged, hissing as the motion pulled too hard at muscles tensed from attempting to sleep. 

Mycroft gently stroked his hair with all the tenderness and love he showed to him as a child. "Theres medicine for pain, if you need it. Are you thirsty? There's water and food too."

Sherlock shook his head, fingers curled back to his lips. He didn't want anything, deserved nothing. His dreams had been filled with John's suffering, John's tearful face screaming for mercy as he stared at what he believed was Sherlock, cowering in a bloody mess on freezing stone floors. 

No. He didn't want pain medication. He didn't want food. He would not have water. Thirst and hunger were comforting in his guilt, the pain twisting around his spine and squeezing his lungs welcome as penance. 

He could not keep himself from leaning into his brother's fingers, though, always greedy for comfort he should not have. 

Mycroft noted that physical comfort was likely the only thing Sherlock would consent to at the moment, and gently massaged his scalp with just the tips of his fingers. 

"I was hoping that we could eat a bit together today. That could be nice, right? That smoothie you had looked delightful. Perhaps I'll have them make one for me as well."

Sherlock's mouth watered at the notion, nearly making him whimper with want of it. He'd still been in the desperation phase of hunger when he'd been rescued, nearly panicking at the thought of losing offered food. It had been hell to turn down the bread, to fight so hard against something he'd wanted nearly as much as air. 

Instead of replying, he bit at the tips of his fingers and kept his eyes closed, forcing himself to remember the way John's voice cracked when he was near blacking out with pain.

Mycroft continued with his light touches and refused to back down. "You can have food, or water, or a bath or shower, or telly, or smoothies or anything you want." 

He got out his phone and sent in the order for two of the smoothies on the off chance that Sherlock would have one. 

It was not until a tone chimed on his brother's phone, nearly twenty minutes later, that Sherlock spoke. "I can have...n-none of those th-things." 

He spoke deadpan around his fingers, angry with himself, the tension swiftly returned to his back and shoulders. 

Mycroft slowly got up out of bed, with many reassuring words to Sherlock as he went, and returned with a tray. The brightly colored smoothies smelled of fresh fruit and yogurt, and Mycroft was absolutely ready to eat something sweet. 

"Would you mind explaining why you can't?"

Sherlock caught the scent of the food and refused to open his eyes, gnawing on his fingertips, shoulders shaking as the level of pain in his body rose slow and steady. His mouth was like sandpaper, tongue heavy and raw, throat dry. 

"I..." he began, shaking his head a moment later. He understood why. He could not say the words aloud though, not again. He went silent, battling with hunger so sharp it hurt. 

Mycroft needed to give Sherlock a feed, as even if he did manage to drink, it would hardly be enough calories. 

"You can have all the food you want. I say you deserve it for being so brave."

"I am not _brave_ ," he whispered in self-disgust, keeping his eyes tightly pinched shut, so bitter with himself he could hardly stand it. 

Mycroft set his tray on his lap and started on his own smoothie, which was sweet, cold, and incredibly refreshing. 

"Are you sure? Because I think what you did was very brave. But if you don't want to eat, I won't push you. I just want you to know that I believe you deserve it."

Sherlock slid one hand up into his hair, pulling harshly at the strands and savoring the way it burned when he did so, starting to rock himself as the pain began to slide from uncomfortable to biting. 

"D-Don't deserve an-any of it," he said quietly, his throat grating with thirst. 

Despite resistance on Sherlock’s part, Mycroft eased his hand out of his curls, frowning at the few strands Sherlock had managed to break free. 

"Yes, you do,” Mycroft countered gently, “You deserve to eat and sleep and drink and watch telly. You deserve chocolate and good music and comfortable blankets. You went to Moran out of love for John, and you deserve to have a nice time now that you're free."

Sherlock’s focus was somewhere near his feet, and he spoke in a detached, distant sort of way.   
"It's n-not enough," he breathed, shivering on his side, John's screams echoing in his head, "it w-wasn't-t enough...I still h-have to m-make it be...m-make it be en-enough." 

While upsetting to hear, Sherlock’s self-loathing frame of mind was not entirely unexpected. Mycroft swept his fingers over Sherlock’s knuckles as he brought his brother’s hand to his chest, speaking softly to him. 

"Hurting yourself will not redeem you in John's eyes, Sherlock. He doesn't know what goes on here, and he doesn't care if you eat. Remember that he wants you to get better. John wants you to get better. Eating is part of that. Therefore, John wants you to eat."

An image of John at some point after his rescue surfaced in Sherlock’s mind, all anger and rage, betrayal dripping from his tone as he walked away from Sherlock. His breathing caught and he shook his head, oblivious to the tear that was working its way down his cheek. 

"S-Something...someth-thing h-has to w-work. Th-there m-must be something. D-Don't t-tell me I-" his voice cracked as his chin dipped, aching and soaked in blistering guilt, "s-something h-has to work ...h-he...he'll...he'll c-come b-back if I...if-f I..." he bit at his fingertips in acute agitation, desperate to make it right.

"I c-can...can h-hurt until it's...it's en-enough." 

Mycroft shook his head and set his drink down to properly address Sherlock. 

"John won't come back to you because you're hurting yourself, Sherlock. That isn't how it work. He isn't staying away because he is angry with you, or because he doesn't think you had it bad enough. He's just damaged and needs to heal. Do you know what happened when he found out you had been taken? He wept. He cried and screamed because he didn't want you to be hurt. You being in pain causes John distress. He feels the best when the people around him are happy, and he worries about you. Do you understand? He does not want your pain as penance." 

Sherlock looked up at his brother before his eyes darted away again, pinching them shut. That did not make sense. John screamed and wept when he had to be near Sherlock. It would have been relief, if not glee, that Sherlock had been taken in hand and served his own medicine. 

"Th...that's...I- I h-have nothing....n-nothing else to offer. I can h-hurt for him, I can’t...there is n-nothing else I-" The words dragged with them a rush of pain he'd not expected, a dry sob tearing its way up from his chest. He couldn’t play for him, couldn’t soothe him with music or distract him with a case. He couldn’t read to him or write for him or even pester him about the value of tobacco ash. He couldn’t watch crap telly with him or play games with him. All Sherlock had in the world was the blood in his veins and the tattered body housing his mind. 

"Th-there has to be some way...h-has to be s-something I- pl-please don't t-tell me I...I c-can't do...th-there has to be...he's a g-good man, s-surely he'll t-take what I-" he bit at his fingers as tears pooled slow and steady in the dip of his nose, his breathing hitching, "he's...he'll u-understand, surely? I h-have nothing...n-nothing e-else to offer!" 

Mycroft wrapped both arms around Sherlock's shoulders and rocked him gently. 

"You can be a calming presence for him and Greg once you're healed."   
God, that was unlikely, but there were many things that Sherlock could potentially do. 

"You could help him with his therapy. It would only take you a day or two to master psychology. You could be a benefit for them. Or you could help him learn that he doesn't need to fear going outside by going out with him and Greg or being another person in the house to make him feel safe. There are so many things you can do for John, and none of them involve hurting yourself."

Sherlock leaned into his brother, physically in pain and mentally anguished, knowing the words for what they were. "H-He's...he's n-never going to...to c-come back. He h-hates the s-sight of me. I- I j-just want...I want him to f-f-forgive m-me! I c-can't! I- I've d-done e-e-everything I-" 

He broke apart then, the same cycle of images in his mind, John's horrified eyes staring at him in terrible betrayal. 

"M-Maybe it....it _w-was me_ \- I...I c-could have b-been high, p-perhaps I _did_ hurt him and I d-don’t...don’t remember properly.." 

John so bitterly despised him, that perhaps it was time to consider that he'd been guilty all along, that _he_ was the one with the broken mind and that John had been sane and correct all this time. 

"I...I n-need him to forgiv-ve m-me!" 

Mycroft’s response was quick and urgent. 

"No, Sherlock! It wasn't you! Please, don't say that. He doesn't despise you at all. He loved you, he's just dealing with some things right now. You can eat. You not eating will not help him forgive you." 

Mycroft scrambled for something to tell Sherlock that he could do for John. 

"You could help him by talking to him about it. He needs to talk to you about this so he can move on. But Sherlock, he can't do that if you're unstable. For you to help John, you need to get better." 

He placed the tray on Sherlock's lap. "And this is how you can start."

Sherlock's legs burned under the tray, the weight and the change in temperature that registered so fast without body fat making him nearly fold in half. He forced himself to be still, staring down at the glass, wanting desperately to eat. 

"I-" his voice was a mess, hands trembling and gut twisting. To him, it was a choice between John's forgiveness and food, and oh _god_ how he wanted the food. He sobbed as he stared at his plate, arms wrapped tight around himself. 

"I d-don't know wh-what to do." 

Mycroft spoke gently and put one arm around his brother. 

"You want very desperately for John to come back, and you believe that starving yourself as penance will help. I know the truth, however, that it will not help him for you to carry on like this. It will help him for you to get better, so that you, in turn, can offer him emotional support." 

Mycroft took a sip of his own drink. "He won't know that you starved yourself, and it would probably just upset him. Focus on your mental wellbeing so you can help him with his." 

Sherlock leaned into his brother, shivering and raw, feeling the itch of slow tears tracking along the underside of his jaw before dripping to his chest. His eyes slowly closed and he thought on his brother's words for a few quiet minutes, the pain in his body going from a low thrum to something sharper, deeper, cutting through his mental process. 

_He doesn't know what goes on here._

Sherlock went very still as he focused on those words which said so much. Greg and John were not asking after him. There was no surprise in it, but the confirmation wrapped fingers around his heart and twisted brutally. If John was not asking, not curious of him, and Greg was silent as well, that spoke of several options. 

They had forgotten him - _unlikely_

John was incapable of communication. - _disproven_

Greg was withholding information - _Decidedly unlikely, John is stubborn to a fault_

They were doing their best to move on without him. - _The most probable_

His filters were down, which exposed his thoughts plainly on his face as the hope bled out of him, his lips quivered and his chin slowly dropped nearly to his chest, halted only by overly tight scar tissue. His strength bled out of him and his arms lowered in fluid increments, ultimately resting on his lap, fingers loosely curled like dying spiders. 

His weight listed to the side, until Mycroft was the only reason he was still upright. How beautiful it would be if his heart decided to show him mercy, the organ slowly ending its pointless work. Panic slid down to quiet heartbreak, slowing his breathing and taking all of the fight out of him. 

"It d-doesn't matter," he slurred, utterly defeated. 

Mycroft hated when Sherlock fell silent. "I'm sorry, but that simply isn't true. Please, 'Lock, just eat. I'm asking you too because I love you. I love you so much. You're my little 'Lock. I want what is best for you. I understand that you don't trust me, but I wish you would, if only on just this issue."

After several silent minutes, Sherlock reached with one hand to pick up the glass. His fingers wrapped around the sweating surface of it, and he put his focus to lifting it. It could have weighed ten stone for all the strength he had, and with no small measure of humiliated defeat, he brought his bad arm over to help lift it. He brought the straw to his mouth and sipped slowly, registering the relief of the painfully dry tissues in his throat.He swallowed twice and set the thing back down, his appetite and early ache for food gone away from him. 

_You promised never to ask Mycroft kill you. You promised._

"I am n-not h-hungry," he whispered in flat monotone, staring down at his hands, absently wondering if they’d ever picked up a whip while under the influence of some drug? What if Moran had given him something, could he have possibly driven the lash across John's back? He wasn't a good man, he'd always known that, always been told. He did not possess a proper heart, and thank god for that, as the one beating in his chest already hurt so brilliantly he could not imagine the feel of it escalated. 

His fingers twitched, going for muscle memory that he could not find. How was the lash weighted? He'd held it in his hand, the very one that had torn John apart, stained with John's blood. The handle was wooden, wrapped in calve's hide, soft and supple in his hand despite what the object was created for. He'd dragged a blade across John's arm. That he could remember. It had not taken much to get him to do it, either. He'd scarred him, picked an area of skin that had not yet been marred and flayed it open. If he'd done that, what was to say he had not done the rest? John was _so terrified of him_. 

His John...whom he’d cured a limp for and tamed London with, who possessed steady hands and quiet words… _John_ would never leave him like this. Not ever. He'd have to commit some unspeakable act to keep John away; he knew, he'd tried many times to test the limits of what John would tolerate. 

_What did you do to John Watson?_

"H-How can...c-can you be s-sure..." his tears had stopped, a numb, brutal sort of acceptance stealing them away, locking him down into his mind and leaving the husk he'd become, "y-you were not...n-not with m-me constantly...h-hardly saw you in-n the time he w-was gone...I w-was using..." A slow tremor picked up along his muscles and he was staring down at his lap, sinking into a dejected sort of acceptance as the idea grew. John wouldn’t leave him like this unless he deserved it. 

"What? Sherlock, what- No! You never hurt him! Not ever!" 

Mycroft removed the tray and put it on the table where he could easily get it back. 

"You _never_ hurt John! Never! Not once! You love him. You hurt _for_ him, you don't hurt him. You thought he was in Africa. Focus on that. You thought he was in Africa. Remember how sad you were when he left?" 

Mycroft didn't want to bring up harsh memories, but he needed to kill this dangerous mental process immediately. 

"If you had hurt him, you wouldn't have known he wasn't leaving. You wouldn't have known that he was not in Africa. You wouldn't have been so surprised when you realized he wasn't." Mycroft took Sherlock's hands and held his eyes. "You would never hurt John. You love him."

Sherlock pulled one hand from his brother's grip without looking up from his lap, reaching out with a shaking hand and absently dragging a finger across Mycroft's arm, right where he'd left the scar on John. 

"M-Moran...c-could h-h-have come for me...d-drugged me at the s-start. Maybe I w-was mad l-like a spoiled child...wh-what if I w-was hurting him in return..." his stomach twisted and he nearly gagged, disgusted with the notion as it became clearer in his mind. 

Mycroft grabbed him by both shoulders and panic suddenly bloomed in him. 

"No, no, Sherlock, you did not hurt him! You didn't! He's not angry with you anymore! John Watson knows that it was not you who hurt him! You can't say this! This is what Moran wanted you to think! You know the effects of drugs. You would have woken up and known."

Sherlock still did not look up from his lap, eyes unfocused as his broken mind attempted to make sense of this. John was a good, honest man who lived as fairly as he could. He would not punish Sherlock for something he was not guilty of. That was not the sort of man John was, and that truth was tried and tested with a 0% failure rate to-date. 

"I m-made John loose...d-days at a t-time...d-drugged him..." he whispered, referencing several stolen Wednesdays that had been pleasant for John, though he'd lost the memory of them without notice. 

"J-John...n-never left m-me sick or...or in-injured...e-even if he was angry w-with me. I h-have to...be g-guilty of s-something...he...h-he w-would have f-flown from Af-Africa f-for this...n-now he...they don't e-even ask after me....I m-must be g-guilty..."

Mycroft swore under his breath and closed his eyes. 

"No. No. All of that is wrong. John isn't the same anymore, I hate to say it. Just as you're stressed by his voice over a speaker, he stresses when he hears yours. It's not through some wrongdoing of your own. You are innocent. I know my baby brother. No drug would make you hurt John, and you'd know if you were drugged." 

This was falling out of control too quickly, and Mycroft grabbed his phone. 

_Sherlock is starting to convince himself he is guilty of hurting John. Assistance of any kind needed._

Sherlock blinked slowly, the assurances rolling off him as water on oil. "I w-would also kn-know if...J-John wasn't in A-Africa. That is s-something...s-something I would know." He flexed his fingers, body soaked in burning-red pain, shivering without paying mind to it. 

"I...h-he w-wouldn't just...l-leave me...th-the h-h-hospital-" here Sherlock whimpered as his own fear broke through the numb acceptance. The hospital had been hell, and he no longer used that descriptor lightly, "J-John would kn-know...he'd...he'd kn-know wh-what it w-was going to be l-like f-for me there a-alone..." his eyes slipped closed as he recalled the pure, brilliant terror of facing doctors he did not know, in a room he did not trust, with a camera focused on him. 

"H-He's abandoned m-me...I...I'm g-guilty...I must be guilty of th-this." 

It was better to consider himself responsible for a crime, even one so heinous, than to believe he'd just been left behind because in the end he wasn’t worth it to John Watson. His mind could not even consider the possibility. 

Mycroft took a deep breath. "The reason you are drawing that conclusion is, if one was to look at this as a singular incident, rational. But you are failing to include the other factors. You have assumed that because John has not come for you, he finds you guilty. But you have used the mental processes of John before trauma, which are much different from the current John.”

He paused, considering his next words before carrying on. 

"Also, John finds things such as phones, cars, and new places very stressful, so leaving a place that he has established as safe is very difficult for him. You clearly did not factor that in. In short, because you assume that because John has not come, he finds you guilty, it is clear that you are not taking all factors into consideration. John would never have left you in a hospital on your own before, but now, he can't leave his house. He has changed, and you need to provide for that variable in your logic."

Greg's reply came as Mycroft was speaking. 

_Jesus. I'm not sure what to offer here? Tell me how I can help?_

Sherlock listened to his brother, not taking comfort in the words. "H-he's st-still John. He's...he is s-still..." Sherlock's stomach turned and he began to sweat. What if John was no longer the same? That would mean that no amount of effort would do any good, that he'd broken him irrevocably? The thought was horrifying.

"No. N-No he's s-still...he's...no, _no_ , he's..." 

No, John could not have changed to that degree. Sherlock refused entirely to consider it. "H-he'd ask...if he th-thought I was innocent...h-he'd..." his words trailed off, confusion slowly arranging itself on his features. 

_I need letters. Pictures. Videos. Happy things. Get him saying that he doesn't blame Sherlock. Get information from John as to what he likes or needs. I need a flood of contact from John. He thinks he's been abandoned, and he thinks that 'logically' it means he must be guilty. He trusts John's sense of justice. Get me everything you can. We need to kill this now before it takes hold._

Mycroft smoothed Sherlock's hair and leaned in to hold him. "You told him that calling was too difficult for you. You didn't want me to send a letter. Please, just let yourself contact him and you'll see that he doesn't blame you. I'll text him. Let's start there. Is that alright?"

Sherlock's mind instantly supplied the screaming, sobbing man that he'd left at Mycroft’s old compound, the anguish on John's face, the pain that Sherlock caused just by speaking. He flinched hard, as though being asked to cut into John's body again. 

"No! I've h-h-hurt him en-enough! He- n-no he is t-terrified of m-me. He'd...h-he'd ask if-f...if he w-wanted...no, _no_ , I h-h-hurt him, I _hurt him._ " 

Greg looked down at John, watching him sleep comfortably, reading through Mycroft's message several times before setting the phone down. He couldn't. Not when John was just starting to face all things Sherlock, not after telling John that he never had to see the man again. With a heavy heart, he picked the phone back up and forwarded several pictures of John with the bird, and several more with John and Gladstone. 

_I will do my best to get a video to you soon. John knows he is innocent._

Mycroft’s reply was swift and cutting. 

_Do better. It is clear you have chosen John to protect above Sherlock, but this is a pivotal point for him. Get me something._

Mycroft turned to Sherlock with fear in his eyes. "'Lock, I texted Greg. He said that John knows you're innocent. John knows it. John knows you're innocent. Trust him. Trust me. Trust Greg. Trust-" Mycroft stopped on something he had seen months ago. 

_The evidence file. The one you made for John in the early stages. Do you still know where it is?_

Anger flared through Greg and he replied swiftly. 

_I have the file. It is not a matter of choice. I can do nothing for Sherlock, I cannot save them both. Send a courier or when Paul gets here, I can have him bring it over._

Sherlock's gaze had returned to his lap, staring at his hands. Even if John had changed, he was still capable of loyalty, of ferocity on behalf of Greg. He had it in him to care for his friends, even when it hurt. He had left Sherlock to the doctors, to isolation and grief. 

A second text came through to Mycroft's phone. 

_Sherlock, it's Greg. John absolutely knows it was not you that hurt him. He does not blame you for any of this, and it causes him guilt to know that he's unable to better help you. He's working very hard with Paul to overcome this. I was with you most of the time John was in captivity, and you could not have done this. You are not guilty of this, Sherlock. I am sorry that he cannot be with you where he belongs._

_For what it's worth, I miss you terribly._

Mycroft was extremely grateful for the message and he responded a bit more gently. 

_Forgive my harshness. I am under stress. A courier is on the way._

Mycroft held the phone up, though didn't expect Sherlock to read it. "Sherlock, I have a letter from Greg. Just listen, and I think it will explain everything." He relayed the letter once through, gave a pause, then read it aloud again. 

Sherlock listened quietly. For several minutes he did not respond, staring at his hands. Greg would not lie to him about harming John, surely. 

He exhaled a shivering breath, sliding the pad of his thumb over his other fingers, tears brimming and slowly spilling over his lashes in a tangled mix of relief and defeat. "I've...I'm j-just...how c-can he s-say..." a deep line formed between his brows as a sharp pain twisted in his chest, "if-f he...says...s-says I'm...th-that I didn't..." 

John claimed that it wasn't Sherlock, that he knew Sherlock was innocent, and still he pressed forward without him, leaving him behind. It was easier. It was easier to get on a plane and go to Africa. It was easier to leave. Of course it was easier. He'd driven John away a long time ago, why on earth would John turn back for him now? 

"S-stupid… _stupid_ ," he breathed on a harsh whisper, bitter with himself, "too m-much effort. I'm… either I am...g-guilty or n-not worth..." his throat closed off, silencing him, tears steadily dripping off his chin. 

Greg's response came a few minutes later. 

_I understand, believe me. We are trying with John, but Mycroft, this may be a block he can't shift, much as that pains me to say._

Mycroft drew Sherlock into his arms and held him very close. 

"I just need you to understand that things are very complicated right now, and both you and John are very traumatized. Neither of you are thinking clearly. It is clear to me that you need him, but Sherlock, I don't think you should be so sure of defeat. It hasn't been very long, and John is improving daily. I am confident he will be a part of your life again someday.” 

Mycroft's response showed how truly desperate he was.

“Then what end is there for him? He can't live without John, not really. Should I just prop him up in a chair and have him watch telly by himself all day? Without John in the picture, it would be more humane to overdose him! 

Work on John. Tell him Sherlock is in great distress and that he needs to have some form of regular, expected contact with him.”

Greg read the text and lost a clipped sound of pain. 

_I know, god I know, Mycroft. I've pushed John too hard several times panicking about that very outcome. I know. Pushing too hard shuts him down and sets us back, I will get with Paul about this and I'm optimistic Paul will be far better at driving this than I've been. Today, Sherlock is all they talked about. As you can understand, it's akin to teaching Sherlock that Moran is no enemy._

Sherlock sank into his brother's embrace and calmly rest his forehead against Mycroft's shoulder, shivering in pain, tears quietly sliding down his face, hands limp at his sides. It did not make sense to him, it simply did not. There could be no other answer outside of those two possibilities. In either case, there was no point. 

"E-Either w-way, I'm...I h-have n-no use to h-him. I'm...h-how could I...b-be a s-support in...in e-ether scenario? Pl-please t-tell Greg..." his voice cracked on Greg's name, "t-tell him...I'm s-sorry and...I'm g-grateful f-for h-his friendship and..." it would be better for Greg this way. He was going to stay with John, _should_ stay with John, and therefor would not be coming to see Sherlock either. 

"I n-never said goodbye to Greg. I...I w-was focused on...t-trying to give John a good m-memory of me and..." talk of formally parting from Greg as well made his lips tremble and his breathing hitch, a quiet sob bubbling up from his chest. Then it would just be Molly and Mrs. Hudson, though both seemed to have moved on as well. 

_Five months left, you've got five months, Sherlock, and then you're alone._

_Oh, hell_. Mycroft shook his head and held Sherlock against his shoulder to shield him from the awful world. 

"You don't have to say goodbye to Greg. Can I call him? Just for a moment? I won't make you talk, or have him talk to John, but I'd like to see if he thinks he'll never see you again. Please?" Mycroft used his most gentle, calm voice to ensure that what he was asking came off as something docile. 

_Yes, he shuts down rather easily. I wouldn't want that. But Sherlock is in great distress. He needs something. Could I call you? He has asked me to tell you goodbye on his behalf._

There was a pause as Greg wavered between taking the call there with John in his arms, or stepping out. Whether or not to even take it was never an issue. Ultimately, he decided to take it there. It would perhaps remind John that Sherlock was more than an idea or a memory, but an actively suffering man, not to induce guilt but perhaps help with empathy. 

_Yes, of course._

Sherlock whined against his brother's shoulder, his own body temperature rising as it began to struggle with the physical pain he was in. "I...he'll l-lie to me. He...th-that will m-make him lie...he's...L-Lestrade is n-not..." he dragged in a wet breath through his tears and simply gave up, nodding twice before going still. 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I will tell Greg not to lie, and he will listen. I offer him support, and I am sure he will be honest. He's a good man. He wouldn't lie to you." Mycroft prayed he would, if the truth would hurt his 'Lock. 

After a moment he pressed call and held the phone to his ear at a high volume, but without activating the speaker.

Sherlock, in an intense bout of nerves, reached up and wrapped his quaking fingers in Mycroft's shirt, holding on for dear life. When he heard Greg's voice though the line, he openly whimpered, a rush of emotion crashing over him like a tidal wave, hard enough to trip his pacemaker. He'd literally died several times since hearing that voice, had endured isolation and cardiac arrest, pins, and doctors, surgery and tubes and-

He could not help but actively cry, doing his best to keep himself silent so that his brother could speak.

Mycroft held the phone to his chest and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here. You're alright." 

Mycroft spoke into the phone in a gentle voice, which was mainly to keep Sherlock calm. "Hey, Greg. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a bit, and you could be honest. Sherlock is worried he won't see you again. Is that true?"

Greg covered his mouth as he heard the terrible sound of Sherlock's muffled distress over the line, pinching his eyes closed and forcing himself to remain calm. When Mycroft spoke, his heart twisted hard for his friend and he answered in a slightly wavering, though matched gentle, calm tone, tightening his grip on John. 

"I'd be very sad if that happened. I miss him very much and am looking forward to visiting him as soon as I can," all truths, if rather omitted. He would see Sherlock again though, regardless of John, it would likely take quite a while before he could leave the flat with John still home, but eventually he'd be able to. 

Mycroft leaned towards Sherlock and kept the volume high enough that he could hear, but could ignore it if he wanted too. "Well, Greg, it's sad because he started to think that he had hurt John. But you and I know that's not true, and John knows it as well."

Greg closed his eyes and spoke as calmly as he could. 

"I hope he knows he didn't do this. Sherlock would never, ever hurt John, not ever. John knows that. It's just difficult to separate the lie from the truth in his mind, but he knows it wasn't Sherlock who hurt him. We saw tapes, we know the truth, though there was never any question of Sherlock's innocence. He was with me most of that time, anyhow." 

Sherlock tucked his fingers between his teeth as he wept, listening to Greg, wondering if John was close to him or if Greg had hidden himself away to have this conversation. 

_SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK!_

He snapped to the memory of the psychiatrist whom he's suspected of duplicity, mercilessly ripping John's stitching out and terrifying him with his name, which meant nothing more to John than suffering. He cried out suddenly, pulling back from Mycroft and nearly blacking out from the pain of it. He grabbed his brother's shoulder to steady himself and sobbed as he spoke. 

"D-Don't sc-scare John! He- m-my name it- t-tell him not...n-not to fr-frighten John!" 

Greg heard the wrenching sound of Sherlock's distress, shaking his head before speaking quickly, "John's not afraid of Sherlock's name anymore, that doesn't frighten him!" 

Mycroft set the phone on his lap and wrapped both arms around Sherlock. 

"I've got you. You're safe. Nobody is hurting John. Nobody is scaring John. John used to associate your name with fear and pain, but now he associates it with _you_." 

Mycroft gently tapped Sherlock's chest. "I promise you, I swear to you, that Greg would _never_ do something that hurts John. He knows John. If Greg says that John isn't afraid of your name, then you can very well believe he is telling the truth."

Sherlock shivered violently in Mycroft's arms, tucking his fingers back to his lips and closing his eyes, forehead damp with sweat. His heart was hammering against his ribs, breathing overly fast as the space between he and John closed, albeit through a small conversation between Greg and Mycroft. 

"B-But I...I'm wh-what h-h-hurts him!" 

Greg's stomach twisted and he nearly whined at the stress of it. He couldn't deny that at all. How could he talk around that in a way that Sherlock fucking Holmes wouldn't see through? He wasn't clever enough for this. 

"That's not- that's not true, Sherlock!" 

Apparently, John wasn't really the problem. John did better in their meetings than Sherlock did! Mycroft picked up the phone again and willed himself to sound calm. He did not. 

"Greg, isn't it true that John was grateful for the things sent by Sherlock? Didn't he say it meant a lot coming from him?"

Dread enveloped Sherlock like a wet blanket as his brother became angry. He held his breath, going very still outside of slowly opening his aching hand, releasing the material of Mycroft's shirt very slowly as his blanched knuckles refused to cooperate any faster. 

_Move slow, be silent._

Greg was taken aback at Mycroft's shift in tone, clearly hearing his irritation and cringing. 

"Yes...he did say that," he answered in as gentle of a voice as he could. "Sherlock sounds like he's in a great deal of pain. John often has...a harder time handling new situations if he's hurting. It's understandable to be confused," he said for Sherlock's benefit, startled by how quickly Mycroft had lost his temper and doing his best to calm the situation. 

Sherlock's focus, however, had been in the careful, steady retreat. He'd made a mistake, angered his only protection. He could hear Greg speaking though he blocked it out, focused on protecting himself as much as he could, fully feverish by then. He drew his arms as tight against his chest as possible, leaving his forehead on Mycroft's shoulder, unsure of how to draw back without his notice. 

Mycroft saw Sherlock's physical retreat and could feel his mental one. 

"'Lock," he breathed and his expression shattered apart like he was some sort of automaton made entirely of spun sugar. "I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you. I just... I am frightened. I am very worried about you, and I do not know how to handle helping you through this. I don't know how, and I am irritated with myself, and no one else." 

The last bit he said louder, to let Greg know as well that he was not angry at him. 

"Sherlock, please, my little 'Lock, I didn't mean to frighten you." He opened his arms and gestured for Sherlock to come back to him with a piteous look of remorse. 

Sherlock openly whined in relief as he instantly put himself back into Mycroft's arms, pressing his damp face to Mycroft's neck and clinging to his shirt again. He went nearly lax as his strength began to fail him. His lips parted to speak, only to doubt the effect his words would have. Instead he tucked his free hand to his lips and nervously bit on his fingertips, the ends of which were rapidly becoming raw with how frequently he was repeating this new habit. 

Greg again covered his mouth, eyes closed and breath hitching as Mycroft spoke softly to his baby brother, hearing and recognizing intimately that level of broken desperation. Regardless of how this went, he would be in more frequent contact with Mycroft. He held quiet for the moment, allowing Mycroft to get the situation better controlled, sliding his fingers gently through John's hair.

Mycroft regained his composure and kept his voice very calm. He thought out each and every word he was going to say three seconds in advance, a tool he hadn't needed in decades. 

"I love you, 'Lock. I think this is enough for today. We can be done talking, but we will call Greg tomorrow at the same time. Is that alright, Greg? We can make it a scheduled, controlled thing."

Greg spoke softly and calmly as well, "Yes, that is more than alright Mycroft, I look forward to it." He waited, allowing Mycroft to ring off when he was ready. 

Sherlock held as still as he could manage, obviously allowing his brother full control of the situation while he tried to trace back to his error. What had he said before… _oh_. His heart twisted as he realized, with deep-seated horror, that he'd not immediately agreed with his brother, and worse, had challenged and argued. 

Oh, how that had made Moran angry. 

_I look forward to it._

John's quiet voice slid across his mind like a cool breeze on a blistering day and he shuddered with the feel of it, recalling the how John had implied that he had a want to see him again. The words didn't hold water, but it was a beautiful thing to remember anyhow. There had been a time, however brief, that John had wanted to see him in the future. Sherlock watched stars dance along the edges of his vision, hands trembling and body on fire as he kept himself still and as well behaved as he could manage.

"Yes, thank you." Mycroft hung up his phone and burrowed his face down into Sherlock's hair. 

"Its okay. I'm here. I'm not angry. I'm so, so sorry. I got angry with myself, not with you, with myself. I was angry that I could not do better. I was upset at me. Not at you." How many times could he say it? Would it take effect? 

"Please, little 'Lock, just look at me and tell me you understand I wasn't angry at you."

Sherlock forced himself to comply as swiftly as he could manage. He drew away enough to look up at his brother, eyes red-rimmed and face pale. 

"I..." his voice cracked with fear and he closed his eyes, sternly forcing himself to try again, "I u-under...unders-s-stand," he breathed, shaking hard, which in turn elevated how severely he was feeling his body, "you're...n-n-not angry w-with m-m-me. I'm...s-s-sorry I d-didn't...l-listen...I n-never l-listen r-r-right," he added, hoping to acknowledge his culpability in what happened to settle his brother's irritation with him. 

"No, no," Mycroft was losing hold of the situation, but knew better than to ask Sherlock for something more, or make it seem like he was unhappy with what he had already given. 

"Alright. Thank you. I'm not angry with you. Would you like some water, or food, or a bath? You can have any of those things. I can read to you. I will put on the telly. I will get a chessboard. Anything you want."

_Medicine, oh god please, medicine._

He whimpered with the need of it, petrified to ask. 

_Mycroft would never do that to you. This is your brother. Mycroft would never do that to you._

After a few minutes, with his body screaming, he caved. He could not help but sob as he pulled at Mycroft's shirt, "You...y-you once t-t-told m-me..." his voice stuttered out in terror and he again reminded himself that this was Mycroft, just Mycroft, who would never- "pl-please," he wept, pulling again at the hem of his brother's shirt, "I- y-you s-said I'd n-never h-have to...h-have to p-pay-" 

He lost his bravery, the brilliant pain encompassing his entire body heightening his fear and clouding his mind so terribly he could not think beyond what it would take to silence the pain. 

"Pay for wh- Oh, oh, right. Yes, Sherlock, you can have something for pain. Would you like to sleep too? I can give you something for pain, and something for sleep, if that is what you want." 

Mycroft sat up a bit, prepared to fetch the things off the little table if Sherlock confirmed. 

Oh, how Sherlock wanted to simply go to sleep, to trip over into oblivion and suspend his thoughts, draining time without pain. 

Asking for sleep aid had upset Mycroft the last time he'd made the request. He needed to repair the damage he'd done today before he allowed himself rest. He shook his head, huddled in a tight ball with his pain, "N-No s-" _don't call him sir!_

His ears snapped to a shrill ring as he nearly made the mistake, fumbling to correct it, "M-My...no I...h-hurts...I'm in p-pain...I...I just...th-there is...it h-hurts." 

Mycroft hated everything about this. He pulled away from Sherlock very slowly and got a heavy painkiller from the drawer. 

"This will help," he spoke gently and put one hip on the bed near Sherlock. "Shouldn't take but a moment to start working. You're alright. I love you. You're my little brother. I love you so much.”

Sherlock sobbed with relief as the medication hit, soothing the horrible burn of it, allowing him to relax his muscles where they'd been locked up horribly tense. He reached out and caught Mycroft's trouser leg, pulling at him. 

"I'm...I sh-shouldn't have argued," he slurred, surprised at how tired he was already, "you- I kn-know what it's l-l-like to w-want to help and...and n-not know..h-how," he tried to show his brother that he could think, if only a little, that he could be reasonable, not constantly trouble. 

"I- I m-made that...h-hard...it w-w-was a smart m-move to...w-with Greg and-" he watched his fingers as they tangled in the material of Mycroft's clothes. 

"I'll do b-better,” he promised, voice changing slightly as he looked up at Mycroft and added a quiet, pathetic plea. 

“Please d-don't leave m-me." 

Mycroft almost choked, so much was his relief to have Sherlock, pained, frightened Sherlock, validating his efforts. "Thank you, 'Lock." 

He put one hand on Sherlock's chest and crawled up onto the bed and over Sherlock's legs in favor of walking around the bed, which would involve going towards the door. 

Acidic fear dripped over him as Mycroft put pressure on his chest and in the next moment was over him, moments after giving Sherlock medicine. Mycroft has promised that he wouldn’t have to pay, but perhaps he’d changed his mind. Sherlock locked up tight, holding his breath, feeling the sharp stab of adrenalin spike through his heart. Mycroft had only hovered over him for a moment, but it felt as though eternities had passed. 

He felt Mycroft pull him into his arms in the next moment, trying to speak though fear that sat in his throat like tar. "Pl-please I-" 

The rush of darkness barreled towards him like a freight train and in the next moment he succumbed, overwhelmed with the fear of it, going limply unconscious in his brother's arms. 

Mycroft did not know what he had done, or if it was something he had said, but Sherlock's small moment of fear unsettled him. He burrowed his face into Sherlock's hair and wept quietly as waves of guilt and self hatred broke down his defenses. 

It had only been a few days at his home, and already he had Sherlock deathly afraid of him. 

Sherlock was down for the better part of half an hour before he came up screaming, forehead slick with sweat and immediately starting to shake. His eyes shot open, one hand reaching out above him to shove his attacker away, batting uselessly in the empty air. He wailed in fear as his mind struggled to catch up to his reality, screaming for his brother for help.

Mycroft jolted into alertness when Sherlock came violently awake, and as the protective brother he was, answered Sherlock's call. 

"I'm here! I'm here!" He shouted to be heard over the screaming and gently brushed Sherlock's hair back. "Right here. I'll protect you. I've got you. I'll protect you. You're safe. You're safe."

Sherlock turned in Mycroft's arms, only registering that he'd heard his brother, and desperately burrowed down against Mycroft's chest. 

"N-No m-m-more! No- I- _please!_ " he screamed, the sound muffled by Mycroft's shirt as Sherlock lay in his arms, shaking apart in fear, "I d-don't need m-m-med-medicine! I-" he gagged, one hand tangled in Mycroft's shirt and the other pulling at his own hair, choking on his fear. 

Mycroft shook his head and began to rock him slowly. "It is free! You don't have to pay for it! You never have to pay for medicine. Not anymore. You will never have to pay for anything ever again! I love you. Medicine is free. All you have to do is ask and it is free."

Sherlock was swiftly soothed to some measure by the rocking, allowing himself to be still in his brother's arms, the ache he woke with ultimately a phantom pain. It took him a long while to calm down, panicked sobs slowly becoming muffled weeping, before he was finally quiet, awake and still, saved for his uneven breathing, resting in his brother's embrace. 

Nearly an hour later, he spoke very quietly, wanting to explain himself. "I...please d-don't c-crawl over me, My...it...m-makes me forget...I'm s-sorry, it's s-so stupid...you w-wouldn't h-hurt me I...c-can't h-help it..."

"Oh, _Jesus_." 

Mycroft's expression was horrified and he thought he was going to be sick for the way his stomach seemed to twist and collapse in on itself. 

"Okay. Okay. I just didn't...Last time, I saw John move around to the other side of the bed by walking, and you shouted and got upset, and I didn't...The door's right there, and I didn't want you to think I was leaving." 

Mycroft was babbling by the end of it and his voice wavered. "I would n-never stand over you like that, I would never do...I wouldn't, I love you, I wouldn't-" He couldn't even _say it_ , let alone explain why it wasn't an option. 

"Never. I will never crawl over you again. I was just being stupid."

Sherlock pulled at his brother's shirt, reaching up and touching his face gently with tremoring fingers. "Y-You are my _b-brother_ , you should n-not...not h-h-ave to consider...it's...m-my failing I-" he shivered and pulled closer to Mycroft, hating what he'd done in his fear. 

"I kn-know you would _never_...I...p-pain makes...I c-can't st-stand pain any l-longer...c-can't think and...h-he liked to...h-hand on my ch-chest and-" his voice cracked and he shook his head, "I w-wasn't s-seeing _you_ anymore. I'm s-so sorry, I'm s-sorry, My...pl-please don't b-be upset I-" he choked off, taking a few moments to breathe as his ears rang. 

"J-John left m-me all the time...he al-always leaves. He-" there was a slow flood of copper in his mouth before he shook his head, "you d-don't leave m-me anymore. I'm- I w-wasn't seeing...w-wasn't seeing y-you properly. P-Pain makes it too h-hard to think."

Mycroft shook his head desperately and tried to keep himself calm. "Okay. Okay. Thank you for clearing that up. I was worried you thought I would... Which I won't. I will never put my hand on your chest again, or crawl over you. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything else I shouldn't do? I'll note them all very carefully and never do them again. I promise."

Sherlock whimpered and reached out, tracing his hand down Mycroft's arm until he found his brother's hand. "N-Nno! Sometimes...it's...it's..." he pressed Mycroft's palm over his heart, holding it tight to the near center of his chest, "it w-was...m-medicine and..p-pain and then...then..." he shivered as tears slid down his cheeks, "please sometimes...s-sometimes it h-helps when...you c-can do th-this it..." he stopped talking for a moment, his breathing hitching, shame flooding over him terribly. 

"I- I'm s-sorry I- 's n-not your f-fault, My pl-please don't b-be angry..."

Mycroft loved and adored the semblance of logic Sherlock was employing. Very slowly he moved just a bit closer to properly hold his baby brother in a cradling, gentile way that was in no way overbearing. 

"I just want to help you. Please, tell me how I can help you."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips as he closed his eyes, ribs catching on uneven breaths. "I...I d-don't know," he whispered, honestly trying to think. 

"It.....w-when you...with Greg...was in-n pain. I g-get confused...h-hurts...g-get lost..."

He whimpered and began to bite at his fingertips, tears burning the backs of his eyes. "I'm s-sorry," he breathed, rocking himself very slightly, "I k-know I...know I...disappointed you." 

His expression crumbled and he pulled at Mycroft's shirt.

"I listened t-to...only person...who e-ever gave m-me f-friendship..." He grit his teeth as terrible sadness settled over him, "wail in a-agony...b-begging me...f-for m-mercy and-" his sentence broke on a raw sob, "and n-now...I....c-can't get him to st-stop..." it was akin to John listening to Moriarty all day even in the safety of Greg's arms. 

"I...I...c-can't handle...I g-get lost and...please, please I'm t-trying...I'm trying."

Mycroft eased Sherlock's fingers from his mouth and took in their raw state without a word. He rocked Sherlock gently and spoke just above a whisper.   
"I'm not disappointed with you. I'm disappointed with myself. I am unused to being bad at something, if you can understand that. I'm just frustrated at myself. I love you more than you can imagine. I am never going to hurt you. I will always be here to protect you, my little 'Lock. You will never have to pay for anything or go without something you want. Would you like to put the headphones back on with some music?"

Sherlock shook his head, needing very much to hear what was happening in the room. He trusted his brother, though was deeply spooked and unclear on what occurred through the course of the day. He'd made, to his mind, very valid points to how he could ultimately be responsible for all of this. That was a seed Mycroft was trying to kill. Mycroft was not in the business of lying to him. 

_You're safe, you're safe._

His spine crawled as gooseflesh bloomed across his back and he attempted to curl his fingers to his lips, nerves raw and mind exhausted. 

_Oh, poppet, you didn't think I'd forgotten you? I'm right-_

"NO! N-No, I-" he pulled away, pushing up inadvertently on his bad arm, wide eyes scanning the room for the source of the voice before realizing that it originated from his own head. 

Mycroft jumped and kept a steady hold on Sherlock, as he was afraid both to strengthen it and let go in equal measure. 

"I am the only one in this room," Mycroft said loudly. He could easily recognize the scanning that meant Sherlock had heard something. 

"You are in a room, a very safe room, with your brother, My. I am protecting you. My house has a very advanced security system. There is nobody in here. Listen to my voice, not his."

Sherlock slowly lay back down, shivering with his skin crawling. 

"Y-You're not...n-not angry...t-t-tell m-me you are n-not angry...you w-wouldn't...wouldn't let...y-you're not..." he dissolved into frightened tears as he attempted to steady himself, trying to tuck back as close to his brother as possible. 

"P-Please My… _please_!"

Mycroft held Sherlock tighter now, and closer, and with a voice as gentle and loving as he could, spoke softly to his little 'Lock. 

"I'm not angry. I'm not angry with you at all. I am so glad that you are here with me. It makes me feel much better. I like having you here with me and I am so proud of you for everything you have done."

While he could not see him, he could feel Moran in the room, laughing from the corner. The scent of gunmetal and stale smoke slithered over Mycroft, drenching Sherlock in ice-cold adrenalin. A tight band around his chest made breathing difficult, forcing him to take in swift, clipped breaths. 

"Y-Your house...your h-house...we..." he whimpered as Moran clicked his tongue in irritation, the heavy metal door slamming shut, making Sherlock jump and go very still. 

"My," he breathed as though terrified someone would hear them, "I'm n-not armed, c-c-call h-help." 

Had they not been so close to one another, it would have simply sounded as though Sherlock was breathing roughly. 

_Call help? Oh, that's fantastic, yes Sherlock, call help. Should I take brother first? He's terribly distracting._

Sherlock's grip on Mycroft became bruising, suddenly beginning to shove him back, his only focus to get him to safety without regard to how he was holding him. 

Mycroft let Sherlock shove him back but refused to stay very far away. 

"I love you. I've got you. I will keep you safe. Tell me where he is, and I'll go kill him. He can not hurt me. I am stronger than your nightmare. I promise you he is not real. He died. I had Moran killed. Do you remember that? You were in the room when I had it ordered."

Sherlock's grip tightened on Mycroft as he literally crawled over his brother, a mirror opposite of what he'd just asked Mycroft not to do, rounding his back and taking up a clearly protective posture, leaving a space between them where impact would not reach Mycroft. His eyes pinched shut as his body shook so hard it was difficult to keep himself upright. 

_How long until you break, Sherlock? He's a posh office bloke, how many hours do you think he has until I drive him to madness? I can turn him like John, wouldn't that be fun? Get you to cut him, teach him that you mean nothing but pain?_

Sherlock draped his forearm over Mycroft's head, shielding him as he himself began to cry, terrified with the threat. 

"I-I'd n-never...n-n-never hurt you, My! P-Please know! I'd n-never...n-n-never..." 

Mycroft was horrified. 

"Sherlock, thank you for protecting me, but we are safe!" He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and splayed his hands over his back. 

"You are safe. I know you would never hurt me. You would never hurt me. You never have hurt me. I love you. You are safe. You are in Mycroft's house, where it is safe, and Moran is dead. Dead. Dead."

_Make it slow._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as the rush of memory swept over him, the call, the confirmation, the knowledge that he'd be separated from John forever. Mycroft's arms, makeshift monitors, aching neck and white-walled room with the green sheet. 

He kept his arm protectively across Mycroft's face, keeping his more fragile cheekbones and nose from the threat of a blow, daring to look over his shoulder. All that was behind him were the familiar walls of his brother's room, piled extra blankets and the chair where Miller sometimes sat. The door was closed, the light dim, the sound of conditioned air quietly humming through the vents. 

He eased his hold on Mycroft, legs screaming at him where he'd put weight to his damaged patella, the pain breaking through the painkiller he'd been given hours before. 

"Oh g-god," he breathed as relief as brilliant as the sun poured over him, taking him down to his side, collapsing. 

"I'm- y-you're s-s-safe, you're...he's n-not...you k-killed h-h-him it's-" his stomach rolled as his legs throbbed down to the bone, nearly making him black out, "'m s-sorry, sorry," he panted while the color drained from his face. 

Mycroft stayed beside Sherlock and gently hugged him. "It's okay. It's alright. You didn't do anything wrong. You're alright. I've got you. You and I are both very, very safe. I had him killed. It was a messy hit. He died in pain, and he will never hurt you again."

Gently he petted Sherlock's hair, and was worried about each touch he gave now that Sherlock had forgotten who he was and seen rape as a possibility. He kept his legs and hips far away, did not lean over Sherlock, and while he had one arm draped over him, he did not hold on for fear of startling him and driving his little 'Lock back into his mind. 

Sherlock slowly reached down, tears now from relief instead of fear, curling his body so that he could grip his knee, attempting to block out the pain. 

"I...my m-mind is...I h-have to f-f-fix it," he grit out as his fingers sank into the tissue around his knee, squeezing as hard as he could at the sides to ease the pain. 

"He...g-going to m-m-make you...l-like John and-" his lip quivered and he shook his head, "I would die. I w-would _die_ if- oh god if he m-made you hate me t-too..." he clipped off, shaking his head, refusing to say anything more. 

"I will never leave you and I will never fear you." Mycroft's tone was decisive, set in stone, and left no room for debate. 

"And I will always be here for you," he added more gently. "Always. You're my little brother, and I will never leave you or fear you." 

He noticed the pain Sherlock was in and shifted just a bit. "Would you like something for that? You won't have to pay for it."

Sherlock did not speak, simply nodding as he held tight to his leg, which was doing a fantastic job of swelling up on him. "I- y-yes please I...sh-shouldn't h-have put weight..." 

He looked up at his brother, tears sliding down his cheeks, apologetic. "I j-just get lost."

Mycroft slowly crawled out of bed and walked around the outside to the little table with Sherlock's painkillers. 

"It's perfectly alright," he said gently, "I understand. You can have painkillers whenever you need them. It's okay for you to get lost. I'm here to bring you back, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, trying to breathe through it. "C-can...can we w-watch something...or s-sleep? I want to s-s-sleep but not...not until w-we watch something I-" he needed to get the imagery out of his mind, allow the fear to fade away and experience a bit of calm before he fell alseep. 

"Do I h-have anything for n-nerves?" 

Mycroft handed Sherlock the appropriate pills and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

"I'll put something on, then. Do you want water with those? Anything you want, anything at all? I believe I offered you the moon, or a rearranging of the stars at one point."

Sherlock could not help but smile as tears slowly slid down his cheeks. He held the pills in his fist and struggled to sit up, nodding at the offer of water. "Y-You are m-more than I deserve," he whispered quietly, sweating from being overwhelmed with everything. 

"G-Greg...s-sounded upset."

Mycroft helped Sherlock sit up and put a soft pillow behind his back. 

"Just one moment. I'll bring a cup." 

He offered the plastic cup from his bathroom to Sherlock and put one hand on his back. "Greg was upset because he loves you and doesn't like it when you're sad."

Sherlock leaned against his brother and took the cup, swiftly swallowing the pills and drinking the water as fast as he could, nearly choking, sputtering and shaking his head before drinking the rest. He held the empty cup in a shaking hand, his knee swelling so fast he could feel it, breathing as slow as he could while leaned against Mycroft. 

"I th-think Miller might...n-need to look at...I think I damaged it. I...I'm s-scared talking to Greg is going...to hurt J-John...st-stress him."

"I'll notify Miller," Mycroft said gently and his tone showed great care. "If you need more water, I'll get it for you. You've done so well. Talking to Greg will not hurt John. Not ever. I'll make sure. Besides, would Greg ever do anything that would make John uncomfortable?"

Sherlock glanced over at his brother, for a moment his face arranged as it always had ever been when calling a bluff from his sibling. "He would if-f there were...p-pressure applied in the right...areas. Greg isn't w-working any longer." 

He let it stand that he was at least aware of that much. If Mycroft wasn't working, Greg wasn't either. John, in the times Sherlock had seen him, was always with Greg and inseparable from him, had been for some time. Greg was not independently wealthy. 

Mycroft looked a bit impressed, though he tried to play it off, making a poor effort of it to keep Sherlock involved. "I have no idea what you are talking about. I would never hold my financial help over Greg's head." 

Which, of course, he would, if he thought it would help Sherlock in any way, shape or form. 

Sherlock kept eye-contact, humming with his lips pressed in a thin line. "No," he said with obvious sarcasm, "I'm s-sure you never...considered it until j-just now. What w-was I thinking?" 

Oh, and how _this_ was helping. Fear drained away as he began to put his focus to his brother, solving what little puzzles he could. 

"Not once," Mycroft responded easily, with a light smile and no tremor in his voice. He was, after all, an excellent liar.

"If I had, I'm sure he'd not be so willing to help me. And isn't John's good what the main goal is here? I could never use the fact that I pay his rent to get what I want."

Anger burned through Sherlock as he stared at his brother. "G-Greg...are you im-implying Greg is...o-only helping m-me for _money_?" 

He looked away then as the anger edged off and he considered that thought: If Mycroft had threatened to cut off Greg financially, then Greg in turn would be less willing to help. Meaning Greg's assistance was based on cashflow, not any sort of sentiment to Sherlock. If that was the case, then John truly wanted nothing to do with Sherlock again, and this was a means to get John well and nothing to do with Sherlock outside of what Mycroft wanted. 

His stomach dropped and his heart twisted, the calm just starting to settle over him ripped away in a vacuum of doubt. 

"He's...h-helping you f-for money...you wouldn't cut off the m-money...b-because the...r-reaction would be that...G-Greg...w-wouldn't help anymore," he repeated, watching it all come together. He'd done this to John, which was why John would not see him. Greg could not help John heal without money. Sherlock wasn't healing without John, so in swoops Mycroft with cash and threats. Greg would lie about Sherlock's innocence and John's feelings toward him, the money kept flowing, until Greg could find a way to get John the care he needed without ties to Sherlock. 

"Oh...g-god...how did I n-not _see?_ " 

Mycroft kept himself calm despite the mistake and panicked internally while keeping externally tranquil. "You've got your lines crossed again, Sherlock. Greg is helping because he loves you and John. Hell, he quit long before I offered financial service. He stayed with John as much as he could before he even quit." 

Mycroft calmly ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and spoke in the same manner he had when Sherlock was afraid Moran was in the room. He would be gentle, but by no means validate the outlandish claims. 

"No, Greg's not in this for the money, because he keeps the same quality of life as before. Logically, it wouldn't make any sense for him to use me for money when he could get his old job back, a job he loved and was good at. I'm keeping him afloat and getting him whatever he needs, but he's not spending half as much on himself as he used to. He works with John perfectly, and I'd never step in."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, hardly breathing. "Y-you s-s-said to me...th-that you w-were _sure_ he'd...he'd n-not be s-so willing to h-help. This… _this_ m-makes m-much better sense. This f-fits. He c-can't work, J-John..." he shook his head, eyes slowly falling closed as tears slid down his face. 

"Th-that's...oh g-god...he...I m-made him t-talk to m-me near John and-" he covered his face with trembling hands, dizzy with the revelation. 

Mycroft made a small sound of sympathy and drew Sherlock closer into his arms. "Oh, little 'Lock, you're so confused. Greg loves you, and I can prove it if you wish. I'll call him, without texting him before, and bid him to speak honestly. I'll ask him if I'm bribing him, if I'm making him speak falsely, and I'll tell him that you are asleep. Would that convince you?"

Sherlock kept his hands over his face. Greg would just deny them all. There was no way he would be honest with Mycroft holding the pocket book. He remained quiet, just sitting in his brother's arms as the truth sunk in, thick as tar, stealing his fight away. It was absurd to him that he'd never considered it. 

"Sherlock, if the things you're saying are true, then I've been lying to you this entire time. I think it is not very kind of you to accuse me of lying." His tone was as gentle and pleasant as he could make it, with only a touch of sorrow. 

"I would never lie to you about this. Greg loves you. Why wouldn't he?"

Sherlock could tell he was being manipulated. To what end, he had no clue.

"H-how could...He love me...w-when I've...d-done such horrible...y-you said...you were s-sure. If...why would m-money factor...in-n if..." his pained voice was muffled behind his hands, tears pooling against his palms. 

"You'd l-lie to...to s-save me...why would y-you say...say that were it n-not true?"

"Sherlock, I support Greg. I do not pay him. At the moment, he had no leisure money. What Greg has is everything he needs to take care of John. I pay for John's pain medication. I pay for his food and their hot water and electricity." 

He kissed the top of Sherlock's head and lingered for a moment. 

"I'd never hurt you, or lie to you." 

Sherlock could not think, could not put it together. He whimpered pathetically and held still, quietly crying into his hands. 

"W-Why did...why did you s-say..." He curled his fingers tight in his hair and shook his head. 

"He...I don't u-understand- I- it m-makes s-sense...he'd b-be less likely to h-help if-" Sherlock whimpered and stopped talking, trying to get all the information to work together. 

Mycroft made a face that said _oh, dear child_ , and closed his eyes briefly as if to seek repose. 

"You're wonderful, brother. I'm awful. I thought we were playing the game, like we used to, where we'd try to catch each other's bluffs. I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted to play. I thought it might be good for you to have a puzzle. Do you trust me? I am going to tell you the honest to god truth and I need to know if you trust me."

Sherlock rocked himself slowly in his efforts to calm down. He wanted to believe Mycroft, so terribly _needed_ to believe him...they had played games like that before but he was so sensitive to the idea that he'd actually been guilty that he could not tolerate the suggestion. He'd been picking at Mycroft, but he'd not expected the game to make him question himself. 

"I...I w-want to," he breathed, struggling to keep himself calm, feeling completely flayed alive.

 

"No more games for today, then. I will always specify when we are playing a game. The truth is this; you are loved by many people. You are loved by me, by Greg, and by John. Those are all true things." 

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's arm and tried to comfort him with light displays of affection. 

Mycroft's quiet removal of the option of games was surprisingly painful. He felt failure slide down over him, leaving him feeling foolish and confused. 

"O-Okay," he whispered, shifting to lie on his side, back to Mycroft and fingers in his mouth. He needed to leave, needed to stop. He upset everyone at every turn, was incapable of playing games with his brother, wasn't sure of his innocence or culpability. 

What he knew was that he was permanently separated from John, that he'd upset Greg, and that Mycroft was disappointed. 

His brows came together as his heart sank heavy and low, leaving him paralyzed and wanting to run. He made for the only retreat he had, following the overgrown path to the little house, now caved in at its sides, a single file laid out in the front lawn. He did not hesitate as he pushed the door open and walked inside. He knew what was there, knew none of it made sense. Here, it wasn't supposed to make sense any longer. 

_'"Molly?" he called out, feet squelching along the rotting floor boards. He'd not tried for her yet. Maybe he could find her. "Molly!"_

_Nothing happened, save for the distant sound of water dripping, old boards groaning in on themselves. He picked up a torch and clicked it on, watching the light flicker in front of him, the beam of light falling on an old photo from a newspaper clipping of he and John. Slowly he walked over, crouching to pick it up, running his thumb over the grime covering John's face._

_The damned ear hat. Oh, how John had gotten a laugh from that. It had goaded him to no end at the time, but now he'd give just about anything to hear John laugh again. He stared at the image in the moldy damp of his mind, slowly turning it over and wishing there was more attached to it. He walked to the wall and grabbed a pushpin from the peeling paper, carefully pinning it to the wall._

_It was good that he was alone there, that Redbeard and Molly were nowhere to be found, that John was not answering. The house was miserable. Better for them to be free, even in this context, than stuck with him in his mess. He didn't have the energy to fight any longer, and so plodded over to the musty sofa from Baker Street with a throw and the Union Jack- and slowly lay down on his side, clutching the torch, staring out into the darkness._

Mycroft felt Sherlock slowly slide away from him and tried to convince him to stay. With Sherlock's back to him, he felt incresingly anxious of what Sherlock might think if he woke in fear that Mycroft was- 

_Nevermind that_. Mycroft kept his hips far away from Sherlock and held him gently. "We can do anything you want. If you want to play the game, we can play it. Let's just play it on less sensitive topics, alright? It's just, you smiled, and I thought you were enjoying yourself."

Mycroft had screwed up so many times that day, and logged each one carefully. His list of things that frightened Sherlock was massive. The word relax, putting a hand on his chest, and crawling over him all frightened him. Hurting John terrified him. Calling Greg stressed him. 

Mycroft began to talk absently in a flowing, airy way that let him go from topic to topic without monitoring of what he spoke. 

Sherlock spent the next four hours exactly as he was, eyes half-lidded, unresponsive to external stimulus, laid on the sofa in his mind and simply staring into the dark, occasionally shining the light on the picture of John. 

_The whistling started so faint, at first he wasn't sure if he was truly hearing anything at all. It slithered up the stairwell until the tune was easy to recognize. Sherlock grabbed the throw off the back of the sofa and wrapped it over his head, balling himself tight and protected on the cushions. He did not want to damn well talk to Moran. He was going to lay there until he died, and that was going to be the end of it._

_"Oh, don't be rude. We're in your little 'palace,' or whatever the hell this shit hole is. Let's have a little chat." Moran and his cigarette were soon in the armchair beside the sofa, happily puffing away, outside the light from the torch Moran was little more than a glowing red cherry._

_"So...drugs then? That how you're shoring it up? Makes sense, you're a hopeless junkie. You got off when he would scream, you know? I thought I was depraved but you? Oh you take the cake, Sherlock. Masterful. You even got him to climb into bed with you later, I've got to tip my hat. That's fucking beautiful. Think of what you could do with him if only Greg were out of the way."_

_Sherlock chewed at his fingers, heart racing as he lay as still as he could, listening to Moran in the dank quiet of his mind. "I j-just want to go h-home," he breathed, finding the air choked with cigarette smoke and the stench of blood and sick. Moran laughed at him then and flicked the butt across the room, burning a hole in the picture of John Sherlock so carefully salvaged and hung on the wall._

_"I shouldn't have broken you so fast, you're no fun like this...all snively and scared. I'm going to go poke around, come find me when you get sick of your own company."_

By the end of the third hour, Mycroft had begged, bargained, rationalized, pleaded, and commanded Sherlock to come back to him, all without the slightest bit of result. He played music. He held him. He tapped. Nothing was working. Sherlock just wasn't responding. 

He texted Paul to let him know, and then returned to his latest attempt, which was holding Sherlock's hand and squeezing it in different patterns to see if he caught one up and continued it. At this point, he didn't have much hope. 

Paul responded shortly after, having spoken with Greg about the conversation earlier.

_What happened after you got off the phone with Greg?_

Miller came in as well, ready to give Sherlock his medications and needing to adjust the pins. He stopped up short at the door, looking over Mycroft and Sherlock.   
"Not responding to you?" 

In his head, Sherlock had no awareness of the passage of time. 

_He finally gave up trying to ignore the horrible man. Sherlock stood up, keeping the blanket tight around his shoulders. He followed the sound of whistling, legs shaking as he took the stairs down, down, down, watching as the wood gave to utilitarian concrete, paint chipped and the temperature freezing._

_Much to his horror, he found the first room he'd ever been taken to there at the base, the table sitting center stage, one overhanging spotlight flooding the galvanized steel, illuminating the dried pools of blood and the heavy chains. Moran was sitting beside it on a stool, happily dragging a blade over a whetstone, smoking cigarette between his lips and elbows resting on his thighs. "Hiya sunshine, wondering when you were going to join me."_

_Next to his brother, Sherlock began to physically shiver, small beads of sweat breaking along his brow and a faint whimper slipping past his lips._

_Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands and held them to his chest. "He hasn't responded to me in hours. Hours. He began to think that he had hurt, _tortured_ , John. He began to think that he is hated by Greg, who I am bribing to say he likes him. He thinks that because he tortured John, he'll never see him again, and Greg secretly hates him." _

_Mycroft's chest was tight and it showed itself in his voice._

_"He covered me physically before when he thought Moran was here. He put pressure on his knee, and now it's swollen. I've given him his pain medication and something to sleep, but he's just..." The whine hurt Mycroft physically and he responded in kind._

_Miller moved to Sherlock's side and pressed a hand to his forehead, worried that perhaps he'd become feverish. Sherlock was far from it, cool and damp to the touch. Miller frowned and pulled a light from his pocket, speaking loud and clear to Sherlock as he lifted an eyelid and shined the light across his eye,_

_"Sherlock?"_

__Sherlock sat down on the second to lowest step, wrapped tight in the blanket which was doing nothing to protect him. Moran never looked up, simply carrying on with the repetitive scrape of blade on stone. "You think you're going to puzzle it out in here with me? That's interesting. You already know what I'm going to tell you, I had to beat it out of you before. So damned thick headed, I thought you were supposed to be sharp. John still have Jim's initials on his chest? You thought it was hilarious when he did that. Never seen you laugh so hard."_ _

__Sherlock whimpered pathetically, shaking his head. The carved initials were horrific. He could hardly keep his stomach when he first learned of them. No, he couldn't have laughed at that. That's not what happened. Surely._ _

__Screaming abruptly broke out in the room so loud and raw that Sherlock clapped his hands over his ears, gritting his teeth and pinching his eyes shut. It was nothing like the speakers. This was the sound of John directly next to him, begging mercy and vomiting with pain. Sherlock stood up and crashed into the cement wall, eyes flying open in the blinding light, suddenly watching Moran beat John into a bloody husk._ _

__"STOP!" he screamed, flying over to the corner, grabbing Moran's massive fist._ _

__The moment he touched the hulking man, the room trembled under his feet and when he looked back, he had hold of himself, dusty grey hoodie and baggy sweats, whip in hand, blood traced up his side from where the whip kicked up a backsplash. He was unshaven and hunched, eyes sunken and pupils pinpointed. In the pause of the beating, John collapsed to his side, the concrete floor slick with blood, looking up at Sherlock with such heartbreak that it stole his breath away._ _

__"Ah now, you see? All this time I've been punishing you for doing this to him, Sherls. Should learn to trust me, I've got no reason to lie to you. Bit of angel dust and you're a different man. It's gorgeous, made you irresistible."_ _

__Sherlock blinked in sheer terror, and when he opened his eyes, John was laid out over Sherlock's Belstaff, Moran sweating above him with a Cheshire grin across his face, "You made me do this, you see? This is your fault."_ _

__The shock of it was too much, tearing Sherlock out of his mind. He was already in hysterics before he'd come conscious, having spent the last half hour in tears, violently shaking next to his brother. With a raw, horrified scream he sat up, tearing his leg away from Miller who was trying to tend it, not at all seeing the room around him as he shoved Mycroft with all his strength, too frightened to articulate anything. He pulled his hands back and drew his legs in, fingers laced behind his neck and elbows shielding his face, clearly cowering from a perceived assailant._ _

__Mycroft jumped and was caught off guard by the violent push. He was back to Sherlock's side in a second, and much like a mother wrapped himself around Sherlock. He put his head down on his shoulder, which he doubted anyone had done in his captivity, and hugged him. "My! It's MY!" He shouted his own name in hopes it would help in some way, though he doubted any of his efforts would be rewarded._ _

__"Shit, Sherlock, it's alright!"_ _

__Mycroft wrapped himself around Sherlock and fought mentally against his screaming. He might have shouted to Miller to help, but he wasn't sure. Sherlock's horrified screaming tore every thought out of his mind and sent them scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind. It left him with basic, primitive thoughts, ones that told him to cover Sherlock, protect him, and try to speak to him._ _

__Anxiously he grasped at his rational mind, but found that since he had never been in this amount of terror, he had no idea how to handle it._ _

___Apply what you know_ , a voice of reason told him._ _

___Breathe._ _ _

__Mycroft took a deep breath in and stroked Sherlock's hair. "It's alright, little 'Lock. You're okay." His voice held a tremor, but his face was growing less wild._ _

__Miller backed off, allowing Mycroft to handle his brother while he was so panicked. He kept a very close eye, ready to step in if Sherlock became combative again._ _

__"It was _ME_ ," Sherlock screamed, tearing at his hair as he shouted the words behind his elbows, breaking down into wretched sobs, "I w-was _high_ and I- oh my g-god it was _me_!" He gagged on the words, John's face while Moran sweated over him plastered at the front of his mind, Moran's words in his head. _ _

___You made me do this. This is your fault._ _ _

__He screamed again until his vocal chords gave out, leaving him hoarse as he sobbed and struggled to breathe around his panic._ _

__Miller darted across the room, starting to draw up a sedative._ _

__"Sherlock, no! You did NOT hurt John Watson!" Mycroft folded Sherlock into his arms and dropped his head. "I miss you. Come back to me and we can talk about this."_ _

__He rocked Sherlock, which usually worked, and tried, though he had no idea why, a verse he'd memorized. Perhaps it would give him something to listen to._ _

__"I have, of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. Forgone all custom of exercise. And indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory... This most excellent canopy, the air, look this brave, o'er hanging firmament, this majestically roof, fretted with golden fire... Why it appears to me no other thing than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors."_ _

__Sherlock sobbed until he was struggling to breathe, though he turned his head more towards his brother's voice. Miller wavered, he didn't want to knock Sherlock out, nor did he want to allow this level of panic. Sherlock's heart wouldn't tolerate this, and the pacemaker could only do so much._ _

__"Mycroft, I'm going to give him something, he has to calm down."_ _

__Sherlock's muscles were failing him, shaking terribly as he struggled to breathe, suddenly grabbing at Mycroft's hand and pulling it to his chest as a child would hold a stuffed bear._ _

__Mycroft was wary about the hand on Sherlock's chest, as it had caused so much pain before, but Sherlock seemed to want it there, and he settled for gently stroking his skin with his thumb._ _

__Since it had been the only thing that worked, Mycroft continued._ _

__"What a piece of work is a man? How noble in reason? In form in movement how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals and yet...to me... What is this, quintessence of dust?" Mycroft felt the weight of those words heavier than he ever had in his life._ _

__Miller took Sherlock's distraction with his brother's voice and slowly pushed the sedative without Sherlock's notice, just enough to settle him. Five hours of him being non-responsive was enough._ _

__Over the next few minutes, Sherlock slowly went limp on the bed, though his breathing remained overly deep and fast. Miller kept an eye on his pulse, backing off when Sherlock finally opened bloodshot eyes at him._ _

__Sherlock ignored him, behaving as though he'd not even seen Miller, rolling slowly to his back and staying blankly at Mycroft, tears rolling down the sides of his face even as he remained unblinking._ _

__"I remember n-now," he croaked, deadpan, "it was m-me."  
That was unsettling. Sherlock had 'admitted' things in the past, but had always been in a pleasing, complying sort of way to get himself out of pain. It had never appeared that he actually believed it. _ _

__"You remember no such thing," Mycroft said gently._ _

__"You love John Watson. You were not high. You-" Mycroft got his phone and checked it for the first time in five hours._ _

__"Sherlock, I have evidence, drawn together by Greg, that says you were not torturing John."_ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes then, waiting for his brother to understand that he did not hold a man, but a monster in his bed._ _

__"B-Bought and p-paid for," he whispered back, his throat raw and painful. Sluggishly he brought his hand to his head, forming a pointing finger and tapping his temple, right over a pink scar._ _

__"H-here, it's here. I f-found it. Th-There's...that g-gray hoodie and...b-blue cotton t-trousers...m-my trainers...e-evidence..."_ _

__He dropped his hand back down, tears constantly sliding down the sides of his face, "D-Don't go t-to the police. J-John...you l-let John..."_ _

__Mycroft ran his fingers back through his hair. Hopelessness, frustration and his own inability to solve it almost brought him to tears right there, but Sherlock needed him. Now simply wasn't the time._ _

__"You fabricated a memory because you wish to rationalize things and escape pain. It is understandable. For your mind, it is easier to make up another memory that fixes the rest than to make sense of circumstances and memories you don't understand."_ _

__Mycroft petted his hair gently, lovingly, in such a way that his affection and almost parental care for Sherlock was clear._ _

__Sherlock lay there, limp in his brother's arms, slowly opening his swollen eyes and staring at the ceiling._ _

__"H-He...he f-found what I did...he...it m-made him...he did th-that to John because I… _excited him_ ," he spat the words out through his blistering throat. _ _

__"You sh-should have me shot."_ _

__This was getting too far out of hand. Mycroft texted Paul that Sherlock was rapidly cementing in the belief that he hurt John, and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands._ _

__"I love you. You did not hurt John Watson. Do you believe me?"_ _

__Sherlock sluggishly blinked at Mycroft as Mycroft's phone went off with a text from Greg._ _

___Would he listen to John?_ _ _

__Sherlock's eyes moved erratically, trying to focus on one portion of his brother's face, failing, and then moving on to another.  
"I kn-know you love me," he breathed, another tear trailing down his face, "I w-wouldn't...want to b-believe my b-brother a monster, either."_ _

__Mycroft kissed Sherlock's forehead and lingered there. He could feel Sherlock's cold, damp skin and knew that it was just a matter of tightened synapses and his poor battered brain trying to make sense of everything that was causing this confusion. He drew away and shook his head._ _

__"Greg and I kept close watch on you. I had surveillance. I wanted to be sure you didn't fall apart."_ _

___Calling upsets him, due to the speakers, but maybe._ _ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes as his brother gave him a comforting, familial kiss, focusing on the feel of warm breath that did not intend to harm against his forehead._ _

__"I- I d-don't deserve k-kindness," he whispered, still holding Mycroft's hand in a weak grip on his brother's wrist._ _

__"I l-love him...I...h-how...someth-thing is deeply wr-wrong...w-with me, My. I..." he shivered, slowly shifting and raising his hands up in front of his face, staring at them. They had belonged to him his entire life, and he could hardly recognize them now. Crooked bones that once stood elegant and skilled, pale skin twisted in pits and ridges, mangled and repellent._ _

___Chemist no more_ , his mind supplied, flexing his dominant hand and struggling to understand how he could have used it to wield a whip. "I b-beat him until...u-until he vomited and th-then I b-beat him again when h-he lost the strength to hold h-himself on his h-hands and knees." _ _

__Paul responded shortly after._ _

___Talking to John would be a Hail Mary. Otherwise we can send over the file and hope that it is enough to persuade him. It would not be wise to allow this to take hold._ _ _

__I've got the file. I'll call John._ _

__Mycroft continued with his gestures of familial affection, as one would show a crying or sick child. He wanted Sherlock to know just how loved he was. "The only thing that is wrong is your memory. You did not hurt John. You never beat him. That is false and fabricated."_ _

__He sent a quick text to Greg._ _

___This phone call could determine Sherlock's mental state for months, if not years. Get John ready. Sherlock is beginning to believe he hurt him._ _ _

__Greg responded rapidly._ _

___I need fifteen minutes._ _ _

__He cleared his throat and spoke gently to John, "Love...I need your help."_ _

__John groaned, not out of pain, but sleepiness. He threw one arm over Greg's shoulder and one leg over his hip, which he found was far more comfortable and swiftly fell back asleep._ _

__Greg shook his head and rubbed John's back, trying to wake him._ _

__"John, I'm sorry to wake you, truly, but _please_ I need your help." God how he did not want to wake John for this. _ _

__"John, please."_ _

__John drew Greg closer to him with his leg and his arm before yawning and opening his eyes._ _

__"Help?"_ _

__His voice was hopeful and his sleepy eyes brightened at the possibility of doing good for someone he loved so dearly. "What is it?"_ _

__Greg had not slept at all, so rattled with the conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock. He sat up slowly and reached over to the night side table where Paul had left only two pills, handing them both to John._ _

__"John...I've...okay, please take those. I need your help with Sherlock. He's...here just wake up a bit and take these, there's a situation."_ _

__Before John even thought about what a 'situation' might entail, he took the pills and tucked into Greg's shoulder. Briefly he looked around the room, which always helped him wake up properly, and by counting the items and checking what he saw, he found he was quite calm, which was a blessed thing to wake up to._ _

__"I'll help. I'm feeling good in my mind, a bit raw, bit tired, but not confused or anything. What's wrong?"_ _

__Greg hugged John to him and hummed as he tucked his face down against the side of John's head._ _

__"First, he's not here, okay? And he's not coming here. No one is angry at you, and you've done nothing wrong. Sherlock is at home with his brother, but he's very lost. I spoke with him on the phone while you were sleeping and...and it's bad, it's really bad. He's..."_ _

__Greg cleared his throat as he became audibly emotional._ _

__"He's so lost. We can't get him back, Mycroft can't, I couldn't." He pulled back just enough to look at John, "I've got to ask you to be brave today, he needs to talk to you. He's not asked to, and I don't think he knows that we are going to call. He was very upset that I was even saying his name near you earlier."_ _

__John stayed very still. "He listens to me better than he listens to anyone. I remember how you needed me to call him out of his mind when he wouldn't listen to Mycroft. I know him. I know what he went through, sort of. I can help."_ _

__John balled up all his courage and began to set up punishments for himself if he failed, as he had done the day before, but stopped and shook his head. Greg wouldn't like that._ _

__"I've got pills...I need this..This is going to be taxing for me, I'm sure. Lets get everything in here, the blanket, his music, Gladstone, and you. Then I should be alright. I've got this. I can do this. You'll tell me if I'm saying something wrong, right? Just nod if it's right, and shake your head if it's wrong."_ _

__Greg dragged over John's blanket and rubbed Gladstone's head before stretching over and hitting 'repeat,' on the speakers, keeping the soft music low and gentle._ _

__"John, I've got to tell you where his head is, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry to ask this of you but he cannot be allowed to think like this. He...he's having a hard time understanding that ah, that you're away because it's just hard for you to be near him, and in new places, and to travel. Please remember, he's not thinking clearly, he's scared and in pain, I know you understand that.” He took a deep breath and tried to slow down._ _

__“So his mind, you know how he has to sort it, he's put in his mind that you would only be away from him because he's guilty. He's convinced himself he got high and somehow _forgot_ that he did this to you. Can you look me in the eye and tell me right now that you know well enough at this point that it was not him, that it was, without a doubt, not Sherlock who did that to you?"_ _

__John's expression clouded and he scowled at the opposite wall._ _

__"That's...I mean, yeah, I understand that he did not hurt me, but fuck, if he is going to say that he did, I might...I don't know. I'm probably fine. I'll be fine. Let's call. I've got this. I know, for sure, it wasn't him. I know it. Yeah. I've got that. I know those things. You've got evidence, and you wouldn't lie to me. You'd _never_ lie to me. He couldn't have fooled Mycroft too. Besides, he's...Yeah, I know. I can say that. I know it wasn't him." _ _

__John offered a small smile, and while he was incredibly nervous, he was beyond ready to help Sherlock._ _

__Greg reached down and took one of John's hands, shifting so that he was sitting half at John's side, one leg outstretched so that John was seated in the crook of one knee, the other under John's legs, Greg's back against the wall for support. This way he could watch John's face, but he could lean into the encompassing shelter of Greg's arms any time he needed to. He leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to John's temple._ _

__"Thank you for this, thank you," he breathed, picking up his phone and calling Mycroft. As it rang, he spoke again._ _

__"It was absolutely not him, he nearly died when he found you, he loves you just as much as I do, John, and that's...saying something for him. I was with him when you were gone, I was with Sherlock most of that time. If you start to doubt, you look at me. I know without doubt that it was not him."_ _

__John grabbed a handful of Greg's shirt when the phone started ringing as one would hold the bar before a big drop on a roller coaster. He waited just a few moments breathless, and was relieved it was Mycroft's voice he heard first._ _

__"Just one moment, please. Thank you for calling." Mycroft spoke into the phone in a hushed tone, then set it to mute so they could not hear him._ _

__"Sherlock, it's John. I was wondering if you would speak to him about this."_ _

__Sherlock opened his eyes and looked slowly to his brother, keeping his focus on Mycroft for a moment before letting his eyes slide back to the ceiling._ _

__"Alr-right," he whispered, already beginning to tear up again. He curled his fist in the blanket and his breathing picked up slightly, but he was going to do this. John deserved to say whatever he wanted to.  
Mycroft unmuted the phone and spoke softly again. "John?"_ _

__John nodded, made an almost exasperated face, then responded. "Yeah, I'm here. Can I talk to Sherlock?"_ _

__Encouraged by his enthusiasm, Mycroft turned up the volume on the phone as he had for the last call with Greg._ _

__John began slowly, as gently as possible while still trying to speak to Sherlock as he had before all this began._ _

__"Sherlock? I heard you were having a rough go at things. I get it. I really do. Could you maybe tell me what's going on?"_ _

__Greg was so relieved to hear John speaking so gently, so sweetly to Sherlock that he leaned in again and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple, gently sliding his free hand through John's hair._ _

__Sherlock's lower lip trembled and his expression immediately crumbled, his chest hitching as he pinched his eyes closed and covered his mouth. How could he have done this? How? John's kindness instantly reached in and wrapped around the screaming, blistering place close to his heart that had been agony since he watched John walk out the front door without a second glance._ _

__His stomach visibly buckled as he tried to choke back a sob, barely managing to get any words out at all._ _

__"I _miss y-you_ ," he breathed, taken aback. That wasn't what he'd meant to say. _ _

__That wasn't why John was calling him. He tucked his fingers to his lips, biting down until pain howled through his hands, and tried again in his raspy, hoarse voice._ _

__"I...I u-underst-tand now...I'm s-s-sorry I- I don't kn-know how...h-how I could have...I unders-s-stand now and-" he shook his head, tears flowing in steady lines down his temple, dripping into his hair._ _

__John held the phone slightly away from his ear and kept his breathing deep. Greg was pleased with him, and that knowledge alone warmed him to his core. He turned to Greg, gave him an honest smile and mouthed; _thank you_. With just as soft a voice he began again. _ _

__"It's okay. It's alright. I miss you too. I miss our cases and the way we used to bicker. I hope we can go to a pub someday like we used to. We could get the whole group together. I thought that might be nice."_ _

__Mycroft was anxious and ready to throw the phone across the room if John started to say negative things, but as it was, he sounded incredibly calm and collected and _hopeful_. It was a far cry from the panicked message he had sent from before, or the suicide attempt in the very recent past. _ _

__John was at it again, as he realized he hadn't actually given Sherlock something to respond to in the direction of what was wrong. "So, I heard you were sad today. Is it just because you miss me? What is it that you understand now?"_ _

__Sherlock turned his face away from Mycroft and the phone for a moment, biting at his fingers and making them bleed._ _

___Say it. Tell me what you did to John Watson._ _ _

__"W-Why...why y-you don't...don't c-care f-for me anymore...wh-why you're g-gone. You'd...you'd o-only l-leave m-me if-f...if-f...I'd d-done s-something...h-horrible. I-" his voice cracked and his chest caved again, doing his best not to dissolve into panicked tears. Hearing John over the speaker was difficult, but he wasn't screaming, so there was that._ _

__"I...m-must h-h-have been h-high. It's n-no excuse I...I d-didn't rem-m-member and-" He had one finger actively bleeding by the time he managed an, "I...I'm s-s-so sorry, J-John I- I w-won't eat, I won't...n-no more pain m-medicine I- I w-will pay f-for it, okay? I'll...wh-whatever you w-want."_ _

__John held the phone increasingly further away from him as Sherlock's distress tore at something deep inside him. He was sure of so very little, and the things he trusted beyond anything could be counted on one hand, but he was absolutely certain that he did not want this man to be in pain._ _

__"I want you to take care of yourself," John responded simply and with no room for bargaining. "Eat, and drink, and sleep, and have medicine when you need it. Have good things and watch telly and stay in bed in nice covers. You did not hurt me. Sherlock, you did not hurt me. It was Moriarty and Moran and the occasional person that he trained but that doesn't really matter right now. You never hurt me. Take care of yourself."_ _

__Mycroft took Sherlock's fingers away from his mouth and breathed a silent sigh of relief that John was handling it this well._ _

__Sherlock nearly screamed, his mind utterly rejecting this. John's voice had changed in quality and he suddenly wondered if John was being made to say that, if he was under threat. But Mycroft...no...Mycroft wouldn't do that to him, he wouldn't, surely._ _

__"W-Why? I- w-we were...p-please I don't un-underst-tand why...why h-have you abandoned me?" His tone was anguished, every once of crushing heartbreak clear in his voice._ _

__John clamped one hand over his mouth and dropped the phone. Tears sprang into his eyes and guilt as strong as a tidal wave knocked him senseless._ _

__"I didn't mean to," he said in a voice lacking the strength it had boasted of before._ _

__"I didn't- I'm sorry, I-" John looked to Greg, wide eyed and grief stricken._ _

__"I didn't mean to abandon you," he whispered into the phone, which he now held close to his chest. "I didn't mean to. I can't leave Greg's flat. It's...God, Sherlock, it's terrifying to be outside. Please don't be upset with me."_ _

__Greg pulled John tight to his chest, desperately wanting to end this for him. Sherlock needed help, but god this was difficult._ _

__Sherlock tried to pull his hand away from his brother, itching to comfort himself, quietly sobbing as he lay there, listening to John through the phone._ _

__"E-Everyone is gone. I'm...I...th-the hospital and...al-alone and..." his grief poured out of him, nearly a month away from John and Greg having done far more damage than even he had realized._ _

__"I'm n-not upset with y-you, John, I...I j-just...I..." he shook his head, pulling at Mycroft._ _

__"M-My st-stays with m-me now...he's...I h-have him f-for a while...and...m-maybe I'll...s-see you at a p-pub or-" oh it was hateful. _It was hateful_. _ _

__He closed his eyes and swam in his confusion, on the one hand fully believing he'd hurt John, on the other, nearly sick with the knowledge that despite his innocence, he'd still lost the love of his life._ _

__"You're...it w-wasn't m-me?"_ _

__The confusion in Sherlock's tone was making reality a very slippery thing for John, though he held on tight._ _

__"Yeah, it wasn't you. It was not you." John kept his voice steady and stared straight ahead, almost military in style, even as tears ran down his face._ _

__"Never you, Sherlock. You never hurt me. I know that now. I was just confused. And...I...Sherlock, I just want to help you. I thought I was. I thought that by getting better and trying to do things like eating and drinking and such, I could help you...I don't know why I thought that, it's stupid, it's not working, I'm sorry...I never thought I was leaving you, I-I-" John caught himself on a sob and held the phone to his chest. He wasn't to sound upset. That hurt Sherlock._ _

__"I'm just a bit sad, that's all. What can I do? What do you want me to do?"_ _

__Sherlock nearly instantly settled, the words startling him to his core. "Y-You are e-eating? That's- J-John that's so...that's very good. I'm...th-that's good to hear," it then dawned on him that John had said he wanted to help him. His brows knit and he struggled with that. John was saying things that didn't mesh with what he knew. His voice was very quiet when he whispered._ _

__"You w-want to help m-me? I...I c-couldn't even s-say a proper goodbye...I...I always h-hurt you and m-make you cry...b-but you want...w-want to help me?"_ _

__John nodded again foolishly and held the phone very close. "Of course I want to help you, Sherlock. I always want to help you. Always."_ _

__He was still in tears, curled against Greg's side, but for the most part his voice was calm._ _

__"I will help you. Tell me what it is you want and I'll do it. I'll help you. I'll help you with whatever you want."_ _

__John reached for Greg's hand and gave it a squeeze as his mind began to buzz with nerves. What if he couldn't do what Sherlock asked?_ _

__"Anything." He'd find a way._ _

__Sherlock turned his face back towards the phone, quiet for several moments before speaking again._ _

__"C-can...will I e-ever see...see y-you again? I kn-know I-" he trailed off, John's terrified face coming to the front of his mind. He whimpered and shook his head._ _

__"N-no I'm...I'm s-s-sorry that's n-not...I...y-you don't have...I-" his voice broke and he pulled his fingers back to his lips, eyes closed, hardly breathing._ _

__"I j-just...will...w-will you pl-please just g-give me your f-forgiveness? I'll...I'll l-leave you and G-Greg alone I j-just...please...I...I d-don't deserve it but...if y-you ever...e-ever forgive m-me I-" his heart twisted and he forced himself not to beg for John to come back, or to let him come there, to plead for their friendship again. He wanted to beg John not to say 'neighbor,' or 'pub,' not to cast him aside and move on without him, but he was _not_ going to do that. _ _

__John had a feeling it was going to be that, and he had already prepared what he was going to say._ _

__"I will see you again. I will come to Mycroft's. I will work on going outside and going near people. I will practice that. I promise, Sherlock. I'll practice that and I will come see you. I swear. I'll call you every day and tell you how close I am to being able to get in a car and go to Mycroft's. I will do that. I will. And I forgive you."_ _

__John searched the phone for a mute button and clicked it just in time to let out a clipped sound of distress. He pressed his hands over his face and turned to Greg for just a moment to allow himself to shake with a combination of intense sadness, guilt, and anxiety. How the fuck was he going to get in a car?_ _

__Sherlock had been leaning towards the phone when the line cut off, nearly dizzy with what he was hearing. It was overwhelming, the promises John was handing him, and then he offered forgiveness, and then he was gone. He curled to his side, wrapping around himself as much as he could, biting hard at his fingertips as he tried to settle his mind, his ribs catching on nearly hysterical tears._ _

___John forgives you._ _ _

__Greg took John's face between his hands and leaned in, very gently kissing him. "I've got you, you're doing brilliantly, I've got you. This is all 'someday,' John, some day. A month, a year, 'someday,' alright?"_ _

__John took deep gasping breaths that slowed a bit when Greg showed him affection. He leaned in for a moment, then tucked his face down against Greg's chest. He pressed the mute button again and spoke gently, as his voice had no strength to give._ _

__"Sherlock, I'll call you tomorrow. I promise. I'm going to work on going outside. I can already drink tea, and eat eggs. That's enough for now. I'm going to work on going outside because I want to come see you. Okay?"_ _

__Sherlock startled when John's voice was back on the line, and he could hear how exhausted he was very clearly. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at his brother, shaking his head._ _

__"Y-You...John you don't h-have to talk to m-me again...I...th-thank you for f-forgiving me. I'm s-sorry my...my voice does this...I...you j-just...you and Greg...I'm...th-thank you for this c-call. I...I'll..." he drew in a nearly panicked breath and forced himself to speak again._ _

__"I l-love you. I should h-have said it a long t-time ago. Pl-please just...be h-happy, John, just...you don't h-have to do anything else."_ _

__John couldn't do this anymore. He was holding back sobs with his hand, keeping his eyes closed, and the phone was on the other side of Greg now to create a physical barrier. "I love you too," he said in a voice just on the verge of breaking down. It hurt. It all hurt. Everything hurt._ _

__"Okay, I'll c-call you tomorrow...at...noon? Noon. I'll call you at noon. I promise. I will do that. Goodbye." He did not hang up, in case Sherlock wanted to say something, but his attention was largely on Greg now. John's face was that of intense pain and his shoulders shook with sobs he kept silent._ _

__Greg took the phone when Sherlock's brittle 'Goodbye,' came over the line, ringing off and wrapping John tight in his arms, rocking him and holding one hand at the back of John's neck._ _

__"You were brilliant, that was incredible, John, you're wonderful, that...you were so calm, I'm so proud of you."_ _

__John broke down hard. There were so many devastating things about the conversation, he was simply overwhelmed. He couldn't begin to process them all._ _

__"H-H-He s-said h-he w-w-w-was a-ab-band-doned!" John grabbed two fistfuls of Greg's shirt and pulled them up to cover his face._ _

__"I-I-I tho-ought I-I w-was h-help-ping!" How had he gotten that idea? How could he have possibly thought that he was helping just by eating?_ _

__Greg grabbed up John's blanket and wrapped it around him, holding him tight and rocking him. He simply made gentle shushing sounds for a few minutes, carding his fingers through John's hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple as he let John break down. He had too much in his head at the moment for words, and Greg had no intention of overwhelming him further._ _

__Finally he spoke, just loud enough to be heard, "John, you just helped him. You couldn't have done that if you'd not healed a bit more from the last time you saw him. You were helping, and you are helping now. Try to breathe, he's confused, he's just very confused."_ _

__John didn't speak for several more minutes. He wept until his throat was raw and his eyes burned terribly, and still he continued._ _

__It was a solid twenty minutes before he was able to speak, and when he did, he kept to a whisper. "I thought I was helping him by working on things. I was working on the wrong thing. I'm going outside on a walk today. And tomorrow I'm calling him and going outside. I need to help him more. I'm being stupid and pathetic. He gave up everything for me. I need to do this. I need to."_ _

__It was a raw combination of guilt, sadness, and heartbreak that prompted John to curl up on Greg, nearly on top of him, and press his face into his shoulder. "He thinks I abandoned him. He thinks that. He does. It's my fault. Help me get to him."_ _

__Greg gathered John close and quietly whistled for the dog, patting the side of John's leg so that Gladstone would come rest with him. He closed his eyes as he rest his head against John's, smiling despite the tears on his own face, put there from his intense empathy for John._ _

__"I am so indescribably proud of you. That was incredibly difficult and you could not have said anything better to him. You have been helping, John, you've been doing what you could do. If you'd not been drinking and eating, you'd not have been healthy enough to work through any of this and get to where you are now. If you'd not done the other things, he'd not have had you to help him through his breakdown today. You are _not_ stupid and pathetic. You are incredibly brave." _ _

__Hope soared through him, dangerous as that was, and Greg spoke once again. "He's confused, John, he's just confused. If he were able to think properly, he'd know it wasn't as simple as you abandoning him."_ _

__John sniffled and met Greg's eyes. "You think so? Are you sure? What... I could have been helping him but... I did good, I think. I did good. I didn't mess up."_ _

__Relief suddenly stole his breath away and he seemed to settle easier on Greg._ _

__"Okay. Okay. I did good. I did good. He said- oh, he said it wasn't him at the end, didn't he? That means I did it right. I did something right!" John reached one arm down to pet Gladstone and a tiny smile shone through his grief, even it was just a tiny match in a vast, dark cave._ _

__"You're good to me," John remarked somewhat sleepily and turned his head to the side to listen to Greg's heart. "And that was very..." He couldn't say bad, because he'd helped Sherlock, but he could not say good by any stretch of the imagination._ _

__"Painful and productive. Like most things are."_ _

__Greg carried on rocking John, agreeing with what he was saying. "Yes, it was, you did amazing, John. And some day he'll see you again and it will be nice, and you'll both be much better. It's very kind of you to call him, it really is, that was so much more than I expected. You quite possibly just saved his sanity, it would break him irrevocably to honestly believe he'd done that to you."_ _

__Having been listening at the door, Paul decide to send a message to Mycroft, curious to see how that went for him._ _

___When you've a chance, please update me in regards to your brother's mental condition._ _ _

__John nodded and found himself drained from the ordeal. He'd been asleep before it began, and Greg's rocking swiftly lulled him back down._ _

__Mycroft was rocking Sherlock as well, and he gently prompted him to speak. "'Lock? Could you tell me what you're thinking?"_ _

__In his opinion, that had gone as good as he could have ever hoped. John had been calm, reassuring, and even promised future contact. But Mycroft could never be sure how Sherlock would take things, even if, to him, they appeared wonderful._ _

__Sherlock had stopped biting at his fingertips, simply resting them on his lips as Mycroft held onto him. His thoughts crashed into one another, making it impossible to grasp hold of any one thing._ _

___John forgives you- hurt him he was scared- call tomorrow at noon- voice went deadpan Mycroft threatened- Mycroft wouldn't do that, not that low, too much risk- John forgives you- see you at a pub- shut up he wants to see you again, take what you can get- if you really loved him you wouldn't take anything more- he's eating, that's so brilliant he's eating- what was he forgiving you for if you're innocent- you asked him for it- only because I thought I was guilty- what if My bribed him to- been over this already he wouldn't do that- goodbye, Sherlock-_ _ _

__He whimpered quietly, still crying, though not with the buckling force from earlier. "I- h-he...it's...he-" Sherlock choked down a rough sound of distress, starting to bite at his fingertips again.  
Mycroft pulled Sherlock'a hands away from his mouth and look him in the eyes. "That was all very brave. You did so well. I know you did. You were so kind to him. And he's calling tomorrow at noon! He's going to work on going outside so he can come see you! Sherlock, that me wonderful news!" _ _

__He sounded cheerful, and in a small way he was. This had been a big step for John, and he was finally taking a role in Sherlock's recovery._ _

__Sherlock watched his brother talking, looking for signs of duplicity or misstep. "J-John forgives m-me...but I am...I'm c-confused," he admitted, utterly despising all of this, "He s-said he l-loves m-me but...but he d-doesn't...what...what if-f he's..I don't understand."_ _

__Mycroft was practically holding his breath, so much so did he want this all to go over smoothly. "He meant it. He knows you didn't do it. Do you believe me now?"_ _

__Sherlock turned openly confused eyes to his brother, no fight in them. "Wh-what is-s...He f-forgiving m-me for? I d-don't understand..." He pulled gently at Mycroft, trying to sort what happened._ _

__Mycroft was incredibly gentle in his wording and prayed this smoothed over. "You asked him to forgive you. He said he did. He also expressed multiple times that he knew it was not you. He said it was Moriarty and Moran."_ _

__Sherlock brought his fingers back to his mouth and chewed lightly on them, closing his eyes and again trying to sort it. John had said he loved him. What did that mean? On the one hand, he spoke of someday seeing Sherlock at a pub, and then he was talking of coming to Mycroft's and-_ _

__"I'm...I want..." his voice caught and he shook his head, pulling on Mycroft. Hope was dangerous. "He's frightened of m-me...He...I sc-scare h-him...but...he....I d-don't understand!"_ _

__"He is more afraid of the outdoors, if in hearing him correctly. He said he will call you tomorrow. He wants to take care of you. He said he is going to work on helping you."_ _

__Mycroft was pleased with that turn of events and hoped John would keep to his word._ _

__Sherlock pulled at Mycroft's shirt, whimpering pathetically. "No! All th-this time he's...he's f-forgotten me! He did n-not suddenly...ch-change his m-mind! Please do n-not lie to me! I c-can't, M-My! What g-game..."_ _

__He choked on his confusion, breathing overly fast, tears on his face, desperately trying to make sense of it all._ _

__"This is not a game. Not a game. I wouldn't do that. He thought that he was doing good for you by working on eating and drinking. He said so. He said those things."_ _

__Mycroft pushed back an overly long curl from Sherlock's face and gave him a light hug._ _

__Sherlock held tight to his brother, sobbing as his head pounded. "I don't understand...I...He w-was scared...I...He loves m-me? I don't understand!" Fear and hope warred hard in his mind._ _

__"Both! Both, Sherlock! He loves you despite what was done to him, but that doesn't mean it's gone. He's still healing. He promised to work on it. He's going to call tomorrow. Are you happy about that?"_ _

__Mycroft knew that if anyone deserved to be happy about something, it was Sherlock.  
Sherlock was more terrified than happy. John had sounded so...gentle and calm when he called. "I...I hurt him...He w-was...sounded...I hurt him he was ok! H-he...He was so upset and- I just h-hurt him! He was ok and I took that away f-from him!"_ _

__"Lets call it as it was. You made him sad, but you did not hurt him. I'm willing to bet that he was only sad because you sounded so devastated. It was likely that which upset him, not anything he had done. He was just feeling empathy for you."_ _

__Mycroft had the evidence file and was alerted it was outside the door, but apparently John's word was above any evidence._ _

__Sherlock bit at his fingers, quietly crying. "D-Don't....don't t-take the call t-tomorrow. He's...f-felt enough s-sadness I- I n-never intended...I n-never intended f-for him...he doesn't n-need me I will only d-drain him. Don't t-take the call. T-Tell Greg to do better, he's- he sh-should not h-have allowed- It is _Greg's j-job_ to p-protect John! H-How is h-he allowing-" _ _

__His heart squeezed and he whimpered as he bit down, caught between the intense desire to reunite with John, and the overwhelming need to keep John safe and happy at any and all costs, including removing himself._ _

__"I'm- I c-caused th-this why is he...it's been...I've _died_ s-since I saw...he d-doesn't call and-" Sherlock shouted and pulled one hand from his mouth, fisting it in his hair and ruthlessly tearing at the locks in an attempt to soothe the panic. _ _

__Mycroft pulled Sherlock's fingers away and held them in his hands. "You're okay. It's okay. I promise you that you didn't hurt John. You did so well. You were so kind and so gentle. I'm proud of you."_ _

__Sherlock tried to pull his hands back, breathing fast and agitated, "He f-forgot...he forgot and n-now...what d-did you do? Tell m-me you didn't m-make him do that! He s-said he _loves me_ , wh-what did you do! He...h-he let...he _knew_ and h-he left m-me he _left me_!" Swiftly spiraling, Sherlock's mind struggled to put the information together in a way that made sense. _ _

__John had only narrowly refrained from putting a bullet through Sherlock's head. He could not stand the sight or sound of him, the _scent_ of him, the mention of his name. Even when Sherlock had walked into Moran's arms, calm and resigned, laying his life down John quietly allowed it. _Penance_ _ _

__When he'd come back, within minutes of John coming to see him, when Sherlock was so certain that he'd shot John down, John had stared at him with such terror and loathing, openly told Sherlock that it was his fault, that Sherlock had been left begging John to kill him. _Proof of guilt_. _ _

__They wore John down, and Mycroft… _Mycroft_ insisted- "It w-was _you_. Y-you always f-f-forced him to c-come to my bed! He a-always l-looked like a m-m-man being led to execution wh-when he came in! He did not w-want any p-part of that it w-was _you_!" _ _

__That had to be it. There was none of this insane middle ground he was being made to believe was at play. Sherlock was either guilt or he was _not_. There were endless films of him beating John nearly to his death. He'd said it again and again and again, screaming his guilt to the ceiling. _I hurt John! It was me, I hurt him!__ _

__"H-H-He knew...he _knew_ I w-was going...to b-be taken to hospital and _left_. He _knew!_ And h-he s-screamed and he _LEFT ME_! He does n-not love me! He's f-f-finding justice wh-where he can, he _knew_ wh-what that would do to m-m-me and-" gold lights burst along his vision as he breathed too fast, falling into panic, tears constantly sliding down his face, shaking and pulling at his brother. _ _

__"He l-l-left me dying and he n-n-never e-even asked a-after me. He does n-not love me, he does n-not miss me. He's b-being m-m-made to say..." his stomach twisted and he grit his teeth as pain more visceral than knives and whips made a plaything of his heart, leaving him sweating and shaking as his broken mind came to its conclusions._ _

__Mycroft looked more vulnerable than he had in years as Sherlock accused him of somehow manipulating John. Even from Mycroft's point of view, which was no longer aerial but still higher than most, it appeared that John had, indeed, left Sherlock behind. If one didn't factor in the severe damage that John had gone through, it would seem that he hated Sherlock. Even with it, hints of resentment were clear._ _

__Mycroft was openly crying now without any attempt at stopping. He clutched Sherlock to his chest and pressed his nose to his hair._ _

__"I a sorry you're dealing with this. I am so so sorry. You did not hurt John Watson, and he does not hate you. I am so sorry. I'll do better. He isn't being forced. He is doing what he wants! I never forced any of them to do anything. I wouldn't force that. I wouldn't. Sherlock, please."_ _

__Hot tears rolled down his face and he closed his eyes tight in an attempt to block out _everything._ _ _

__It took half an hour for Sherlock's body to decide that he'd had exactly enough, dragging him down to sleep after so much stress and pain. He lay in his brother's arms, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, breathing hitching like a child's as he came down from such forceful crying. Believing John had said those things, which he so pinned to hear, out of some sort of manipulation or threat was more than he could handle. John had been so gentle and understanding that he'd torn words of grief from Sherlock's lips without Sherlock's consent, he so deeply, with every firing electron of his being, wanted to be with John again. It was unspeakably cruel that he was shown that reality and not allowed in._ _

__A starving man peering in at the breadshop, halted only by the glass. Look but don't touch._ _

__He sank down into the bedding, strength bleeding out of his muscles, feeling more betrayed than he had in his entire existence._ _

__Mycroft honestly could not decide if that had been constructive or crippling. Sherlock had seemed so devastated by it, but instead of saying he remembered beating John, he was grieving the loss. Perhaps that was a slight step in the right direction._ _

__Mycroft wept into Sherlock's hair for quite some time. He wept until he felt raw and empty, and for the first time in his life, utterly directionless. He was no longer charging ahead towards a definite goal, he was wandering aimlessly in the dark, where each step he took hurt his baby brother dearly._ _

__He sent a text to Paul._ _

___Sherlock needs help, if you have time to spare tomorrow._ _ _

__Paul returned the text swiftly._ _

___Any time you need me. Greg and John had stabilized to a more acceptable point, though I'm going to remain here primarily for a while._ _ _

__The next few hours were mostly quiet. Occasionally Sherlock would flinch or cry out in his sleep, though he never fully woke. Slowly he'd shifted in the bed until he'd nearly burrowed underneath his brother, tucking as close as was physically possible._ _

__He woke with a sudden, deep breath, grabbing Mycroft's shirt and clinging to him without a word._ _

___Thank you. He is deeply upset._ _ _

__Mycroft pulled Sherlock flush against him when he awoke and spoke kindly. "I've got you. You're safe. Everything is alright."_ _

__While it wasn't necessarily a good sign that Sherlock had awoke in such a way, at the very least it was better than him pushing Mycroft away in confusion._ _

__Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft as tight as he could, pressing his ear down over Mycroft's heart and clinging._ _

__"M-My will st-stay," he breathed in childish French, obviously speaking to himself. "My w-won't leave ag-again. N-Not alone...you're n-not alone. He's...he l-loves you. My w-will st-stay."_ _

__He shivered and buried himself closer, fingers blanching in Mycroft's shirt. "R-Right? You're...y-you're my b-brother...you're my br-brother and...y-you...you w-want me, r-right? You...you want me."_ _

__Sherlock's accent was heavy and his voice very small, his mind desperately trying to find an anchor._ _

__"Y-You...I'm...I'm t-trying..I'll be e-easier...you st-still w-want me..."_ _

__"I will always stay with you. I want you to stay with me. I want you to live here. I will always love you. I am your big brother, and I'll keep you safe."_ _

__Mycroft put one hand over Sherlock's ear and held him to his heart._ _

__"You're wonderful, little 'Lock, my Captain Bluebeard. I love you." He pressed a comforting kiss to the top of his head and started to rock. "I love you now, I'll love you tomorrow, and I'll love you forever."_ _

__Sherlock allowed the tension to bleed out of him as he rest against his brother, his mind so far shutdown that he was not capable of question or doubt._ _

__"Okay," he breathed happily, easing his grip on Mycroft to something less desperate. "Okay you'll...you'll h-help m-me and I won't..h-have to b-be alone again...you'll...m-maybe we can s-start m-meeting people who...wh-who can stay with me while you work. I'll behave. No m-more alone...I...I j-just don't w-want to be...please no m-more hospitals by...by mys-self. I'll be g-good, I s-swear I'll be good."_ _

__He stuck to French, base and childlike, his tone oddly strained and clearly not anywhere close to normal._ _

__"You don't have to be good, but I appreciate the effort. I'll stay with you. I'll always be here for you. It's alright." Mycroft hummed lightly as he rocked, a pleasant tune he couldn't quite name but remembered well._ _

__"You're safe. You're safe. My has you. I'd never let anyone hurt you. You'll never be alone. Not. Ever."_ _

__Sherlock was further soothed by the unwavering assurance in his brother's tone, exhaling in slow relief, humming in return and slowly tracing his finger over Mycroft's shirt button._ _

__"I'm hungry," he whispered absently, "can I h-have water? I want w-water too. C-Can we watch something on the telly? Or...y-yes I'd...th-that would be better."_ _

__"Yes. Yes, you can have anything. I'll get you water." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head hastily and smiled at him before disappearing into the bathroom for a moment. He brought several little cups of water and set them on the table beside Sherlock._ _

__"And for food... I know I'm having another one of those smoothies, as well as a normal meal. Anything in particular you want?" He sent the text to his staff and clicked on the telly._ _

__All things were done in such diligence it was clear that he was ready to please._ _

__Sherlock struggled to sit up, eventually managing it. He picked up a cup of water and greedily went at it._ _

__"A-anything. I'll e-eat whatever you want me to eat." He set the first cup down and went for the second, sipping it slower, staring at the water in the little plastic cup._ _

__Mycroft helped Sherlock in his efforts and texted his staff once more._ _

__It was not morning, but Mycroft had requested they make breakfast, as pancakes sounded superb to him. The tray had two plates, sausage, bacon, pancakes, and some eggs, along with their smoothies. Mycroft sat next to Sherlock and the smell of such amazing food followed._ _

__Sherlock stared at the food in front of him without moving for several minutes while his mind supplied him with random images until finally settling on one._ _

__"Sh-she would always c-call you out," he said in a voice much more his own, blinking down at the eggs, "Beans...that's all it w-wants...she..." he hummed and moved to pick up a fork, watching carefully as he closed his fingers around it, only able to bend them in such a way that he was holding it in a fist._ _

__"Always pestered m-me to eat, cooking...these m-massive breakfasts and..." he pulled the fork away from the tray and stared at it, watching the glinting metal shaking in his hand. If he brought that towards his face, he'd hurt himself. With no small amount of shame he set the fork back down, looking longingly at the eggs as he picked up the drink instead. If he was going to eat anything solid, it would have to be with his hands._ _

__With a slight tremor to his lips, he forced himself to look away from the food, trying to make himself accept that he would just drink his meal, twisting homesickness for Mrs. Hudson and Baker Street robbing some of his detached easiness._ _

__"Oh, you know I don't like beans. Why was it always beans? Now bacon, that is real breakfast." He'd already finished his and started on his pancakes, which had butter on them as he always requested._ _

__Mycroft checked his phone. "You'll have special silverware in a day, Sherlock. Just you wait. I'll help you for now, if you'll allow me." He smiled at him, as if it were perfectly normal for one brother in his middle age to feed his younger._ _

__Sherlock's appetite flagged and he shook his head, setting the drink back down and pushing his food back. He'd been so hungry that his stomach twisted and his mouth watered, but it was no good. Homesickness and humiliation robbed him of his desire to try._ _

__Look, don't touch._ _

__He pulled his eyes away from the meal. He knew how to be hungry. Moran ate in front of him regularly._ _

__He dropped his eyes to his lap, once again looking at his hands. Absently he began to trace scars, the whispers of agony each one had caused registering, though doing little else. He had to learn this lesser, mostly useless body. There was no getting around it._ _

__Mycroft rolled one of his pancakes up and took a bite. "You know, you don't need to use a fork. Mummy isn't watching. You can put the eggs inside the pancake. It's quite good. Plus, I couldn't even eat bacon with a fork if I tried."_ _

__Sherlock turned his focus to his brother, and in a deep rush of gratitude he pulled the food back towards him, snapping up a bit of bacon and taking a bite. His heart squeezed at the taste of proper food, and he could not help the way his eyes burned, vision blurring. His appetite came back with a vengeance, and he had the bacon down moments later. His pride was abandoned as he rolled eggs into a pancake and virtually inhaled it, a tear shooting down the side of his face as he fell into the relief of eating solid food._ _

__Miller knocked lightly on the door, knowing that food had been brought up, curios to see how they were doing._ _

__Mycroft was beaming at Sherlock and put one arm around him quite cheerily. "You're doing so well, Sherlock! So well! I'm glad you're taking care of yourself." He started on one of his sausages, which he rolled up in a pancake as well. Now that Sherlock was eating, Mycroft's appetite was growing as well._ _

__Miller let himself in and watched Sherlock eating for a moment before speaking softly, "Sherlock, let's slow down a bit, okay? You've not had solid food for a while, let's just slow down." He spoke quietly to Mycroft, "Just going to give him nausea medicine to help him keep that down."_ _

__He moved to the bedside, took up a vial of medicine, and walked far away from Sherlock, turning his back to draw up the dose. It would be extremely upsetting to Sherlock to lose his meal and his intention was to head off the panic before it could begin._ _

__Sherlock, however, was in a heightened state of awareness given his history with food. He had his eyes locked to Miller and managed to catch a flash of the needle. It took mere seconds for his awareness of the whole situation to fall apart, and he dropped his food as though he’d been burned. Moran had injected him with something that felt of liquid fire before, and he could already feel his veins burning._ _

__"I- I th-thought...I thought I could h-have it! PLEASE! I th-thought-" he turned his shock-white face to Mycroft, terrified, "I...I'm s-sorry I...I s-swear I thought I c-could have it! I'm s-sorry!"_ _

__Mycroft smiled at Sherlock to reassure him. "You can! You're just getting a bit of nausea medication so you don't get sick. It's to help you, it's medicine, and it's free. You're alright. You can have it."_ _

__Mycroft slowly took Sherlock's hands._ _

__"I promise you, you can have it. I just want to be sure you keep it down. Is that alright?"_ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes while his heart slammed against his ribs. He was at Mycroft's house, and that was _Miller_ , it had to be alright. It had to. He nodded and opened his eyes, hands shaking, and looked over at the doctor who was wearing an incredibly apologetic expression. _ _

__"Just in your IV, Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you. It's just to keep your stomach calm."_ _

__Sherlock looked down at his hands in his brother's and nodded again, ears ringing too loud for him to comfortably speak. Miller moved slowly and gave the medication, which slid warm through Sherlock's veins. He held his breath and waited for the blooming spread of pain, but it never came. With a shaking exhale of relief, he leaned into his brother and closed his eyes again._ _

__Mycroft closed his eyes and accepted Sherlock into his arms. "We just want to help you keep that good down. Tastes good, doesn't it? I'm thrilled my old cook came back. She was in a different household for a while. Excellent baker. In hindsight, that's probably why I never managed to lose any weight."_ _

__Sherlock nodded, whimpering pathetically as he pulled himself deeper into his brother's arms. The flash of irrational fear had been over disconcerting, overpowering and overwhelming. He rest there against his brother's chest, quietly shivering as he opened his eyes and stared at the food he'd been so enjoying. He looked at it now with suspicion, hesitant to lean away._ _

__"Th-this is...s-s-so ir-rational," he breathed, feeling the terror slowly wane._ _

__"I'm going to step out, maybe fewer people will help. I'm sorry I frightened you, Sherlock," Miller said gently, excusing himself from the room._ _

__Mycroft reached for his pancake wrapped sausage and took another bite._ _

__"It is safe for you to eat. Miller just didn't want you to throw up because it upset you when you threw up the water. It was just to help. Free medicine. It's alright for you to get stressed. It makes perfect, logical sense. We've just got to get you over it so you can be comfortable.”_ _

__Sherlock did not move again for his food. He kept his cheek to Mycroft's chest and rest against his brother as Mycroft ate. He stared out across the room, raising his fingertips to his lips without realizing what he was doing, rocking himself very lightly. His mind was mostly still, though tendrils of fear and confusing relief swept across his being without rhyme or reason._ _

__Mycroft rocked Sherlock and pulled his hands away from his mouth._ _

__"You're safe. You're safe. I'm never going to let you be alone, and you'll always have food, and you'll always have water, and a bed, and telly, and sweets, and whatever you want."_ _

__Mycroft's constant comfort quieted him enough to keep him from tears. The entire, frankly benign incident had ripped him from the calm delusion that he could simply shut down to some base, child-like state and hand his brother everything. Mycroft would undoubtedly accept the responsibility gladly, mostly had already in fact, but Sherlock's own mind would provide him with reasons to doubt and fear._ _

__He wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's hand and hummed to himself in an effort to keep calm. He'd taken to doing that in the times when John was quietly crying in his sleep, plastered on the wall from the video. Sherlock would hum to drown him out, and oh, how the guilt of doing that ate at him._ _

___I love you._ _ _

__His brows knit and he tensed, considering the conversation they'd had yesterday. A sudden pang of longing tore through him as he recalled how sympathetic and kind John had been at the start. Abruptly he broke down, going from a calm daze to grief in the span of seconds._ _

___I miss you._ _ _

___I miss you, too._ _ _

___Should have caught the lies then and there, you complete fucking idiot. All the data you have, and as soon as he says that he misses you it falls to the wayside and you drag your knuckles, running after a man who despises you._ _ _

__"W-Why is...is h-he _toying_ w-with me," he sobbed, heartbroken and deeply confused. _ _

__Mycroft petted Sherlock's hair and settled his head on the pillow behind him._ _

__"He isn't toying with you, he's just confused. From what I can see, he loves you deeply and wants to keep you safe. He is also very tormented in his own right and is frightened of leaving Greg's flat. Remember how stressful it was for you in the car? He's just unable to see you. He promised to call today. In-" Mycroft checked his phone. "Just over an hour and a half."_ _

__

__Sherlock did remember how stressful the ride was. very clearly, in fact. He shoved the memory away and shifted to take pressure off his arm._ _

__"He...h-he doesn't c-care if I'm _safe_. That's...he doesn't care about...th-that's not..." he exhaled a wavering breath and realized then something he didn't want to accept. _ _

__"I'm a-angry with him. H-How...how could I b-be angry with him? I...he d-doesn't owe m-me anything. He's r-ready...to m-move on and..." he shook his head, pulling his fingers back to his lips._ _

__Mycroft was beginning to lose the small bit of comfort a good breakfast and eating with Sherlock had provided. He moved the trays to his other side, where there was still space on the bed. He really did have an obnoxious bed._ _

__"You have every right to be angry with him. It feels like he abandoned you. That is a perfectly reasonable reason to be upset."_ _

__"Can w-we watch...s-something? I can't...c-can't...th-think," he whispered, swiftly feeling panic and aggression rising up in his chest. He put his fingers to his lips and began to rock himself, feeling time slipping away with dread. John was going to call. What if John didn't call? What if he did? It was too much, all of it too much, and he wanted to recover from the fiasco with the food._ _

__"Of course we can." Mycroft put the telly on and found a station playing a mildly interesting program on how ball bearings were made. The mechanics, while simple, were nice to watch and the narrator's voice was pleasant._ _

__Greg checked the clock and looked over to John, sweeping his fingers through his hair. "If you need to skip the call, we can," he said very gently, pressing a kiss to his temple._ _

__As always, John leaned into the affection. It was the best thing in his life at the moment, and he had no qualms with getting every bit of it that he could._ _

__There was a principle he had learned very early in life and applied much later that had been called visual line of power._ _

__When he threw a punch, he was to look at what he was hitting. When he threw someone, he looked where they were to land. He looked where he wanted to shoot, where he wanted to drive, or jump, or go. He knew full well what visual line of power was, and knew it was important._ _

__It was later in life that he learned it didn't just involve things of the physical nature. If he wanted to be at a certain point in life, he couldn't just drift aimlessly. He needed to keep his eyes on it. Only then would he be able to walk towards it._ _

__John had realized by now that he did not truly matter. He didn't realize this with sadness, bitterness or anger, but rather with a sort of strange relief. If he ignored what he wanted, he could focus on other things. Right now, he needed to keep his eyes on helping Sherlock as best he could. He would use a visual line of power to be able to leave the house, he would keep the goal of getting in the car in mind, and would acknowledge that for Sherlock to be happy, John needed to be involved more in his life._ _

__"We're not skipping the call. Thanks for the offer, though. I know you want to keep me from getting stressed." John smiled at Greg with no small amount of pensive distraction in his eyes._ _

__Greg blinked at him, worried. He did not argue though, John had taken that tone that meant he was setting things together in his mind._ _

__"Well...yeah...I do, and I want to help Sherlock too. I don't want us to do anything that sets you back, and this is much faster with him than I thought it would go. I was thinking we would keep focusing on getting the tube out and handling water before we tried overly much with Sherlock."_ _

__John gave Greg another half smile and shook his head._ _

__"I can start that after. He needs me. He said so. It's not fair for me to do nothing while he sits there in pain and in fear. I don't know why he got it into his head that he needs me, but he seems fixated on it, so I'll go to him."_ _

__John nodded as if that settled it, and stretched his arms above his head._ _

__"Let's have some tea, then I'll call. I want it to be regular, like something he can depend on. Those things help."_ _

__Greg ran a hand over the back of his neck and kept his eyes on John._ _

__"None of this is fair to either of you, John. Each time I've spoken to you, or Paul has spoken to you, about Sherlock...I know Mycroft can be very...it still stands John that it's okay if you need to move on in your life. There is a difference between assuring him he didn't do this, and that you forgive him, and putting him back into your life. Sherlock...he's not...he's overwhelming, yeah? Let me rephrase that. He's not the sort of bloke that's going to only be your occasional friend, he's going to want it back as you were. You can't spend your whole life living for a person you don't want to be around, John. If you're not sure that's what you want, I'd be very careful with the idea of making yourself part of his day. He'll never be able to let go, if you need him to."_ _

__Greg texted Paul and asked if he'd bring tea._ _

__John considered Sherlock's slightly obsessive nature and the way he latched onto things._ _

__"Yes. He will want me back the way we were. But for you to suggest that I move on means you don't understand what he and I have been through. You simply don't. I don't mean that to offend you, I just mean that in suggesting it, you don't understand what he gave up to help me. Look..."_ _

__There was only one factor that would ever turn John against living with Sherlock, and that was Greg._ _

__"If I were to make him a part of my life again, would you leave? Can I be friends with both of you? I know he's abrasive, but would you stay with me if I decided to live near or with him?"_ _

__John's eyes were wide and full of a deep seeded fear._ _

__Greg kept his focus on John and cleared his throat._ _

__"I've known him for many years, John. There is no way I'd leave you. If you want to live with him again, I'd come along and stay as long as you wanted me there. Sherlock was my friend before I met you, and he still is now, and I worry deeply over him. I just...I'm your person now, and I take care of you. You're right, I have no idea what it was like for the pair of you, but I do know that you don't like to talk about him, or watch things with him in it, and that he taxes you very fast. You've never missed him, or asked after him, and that's not said with blame or to make you feel guilt. You've no reason to feel guilt. I'm saying it to remind you that...that whatever he was for you before, that seems to be gone. I've prepared Mycroft for the idea that you two...well...and Sherlock has seemed to accept that, much as he doesn't want it. I'm...I'd love to see the pair of you being a pair again, but not if it's something that hurts you."_ _

__Paul knocked lightly on the door and Greg walked over, taking the tea and the small plate of eggs with a whispered thanks, moving back to John and sitting down beside him. He set the tea down along with the eggs on the little night table and looked back at John, taking his hands._ _

__"I don't want to lose you again. I'm afraid this will push you too hard, for something you don't want."_ _

__John reached over Greg and took his plate of eggs. He was hungry, which stressed him greatly, and since eggs were no longer an issue, he tucked in immediately._ _

__"I understand. Thank you. I like that. I like that you're my person. Thank you so much. And Sherlock... see, I don't miss him. Not him. Not the way we are. I know that with him, solving cases and arguing about inane things, was the best time of my life. I miss that. I miss having him as a friend. And while I don't miss him, I would go back to Moriarty to save him from it. And Greg, I don't say that lightly. I mean it. I'd go back to save you, and I'd go back to save him. I'd let anyone else get cut up. Not proud of that, but at least I'm aware. Maybe it's like these."  
John held the plate of eggs close to his face so he could eat quicker. _ _

__"See? No problem. I'm not afraid of eggs anymore, so long as I don't over think it. I love eating now. And tea is just wonderful. But it hurt at first. It was bad. What if I have a chance to be friends with Sherlock again, and I'm avoiding it just because it hurts? Like I avoided tea and food?"_ _

__Greg was quiet as he thought about John's words. It was true that the possibility existed for John to enjoy Sherlock's company again, but it was also possible that he wouldn't. Sherlock had been so shockingly devastated on the phone yesterday that Greg wanted nothing more than to separate these men and never allow them near one another again._ _

__"Please be careful. You told him you loved him, and you missed him yesterday. I'd really be cautious saying things you don't particularly mean. I know...I know that you being willing to go back and save him from pain is...significant. Fortunately no one is going back with Moriarty ever again, not that I'd let you anyhow, but the sentiment is...not lost on me."_ _

__He rubbed John's back lightly, trying to get a handle on the situation. "I am sorry he was like that on the phone yesterday. He's not been doing very well. Mycroft is trying, good lord is he trying, but he lost his temper before he asked that you call and- hell, that was just a short conversation. I don't know how frequently that happens. Scared the daylights out of his brother."_ _

__John didn't believe himself to be lying, and he said as much. "No, I meant it. I have no wish to be around him, yet I'm willing to go back to hell for him. Even before he was tortured I would, so it's not just me feeling like I owe him. Which I do. I think, and stop me if I'm wrong, but love doesn't necessarily mean you benefit or get something out of being with them. It can just mean you will always do what is best for them even if it hurt you. Sherlock can tell if I'm lying, I think. Why do you think he didn't call me out on it?"_ _

__John turned back to his eggs and took much larger bites now that he was distracted. "Because I wasn't lying. I'll do what's best for him, and that means being with him, even if I don't particularly want to."_ _

__Greg frowned. "We've talked about that, John. You forcing yourself to be in his company is deeply painful to him, and he's begged us and begged us not to hurt you by even _mentioning_ him. If you love him...and you always have, then you need to genuinely stop and think about this, John. He was rather panicked on the phone yesterday, I don't think he'd have called your bluff if you told him the sky was yellow." _ _

__He shifted closer and looked at his watch. "I don't want to talk you out of trying with Sherlock, John, I don't. I just know that you don't like him, and that...he's going to know if you are only about out of a sense of duty. He's hypersensitive to hurting you, and if- it's only-" he cleared his throat and looked out the window, catching sight of a little bird flying past._ _

__"He is in the best position right now to learn to let you go. It will only be harder for him later."_ _

__"Then I won't make any promises I won't keep." John finished with his eggs and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling for all the world like a scolded child without much reason to. He kept his teeth clenched together and his eyes down. John didn't lean towards Greg when he shifted, and though he wasn't angry in the slightest, he didn't like Greg bringing up points against something he was dead set on._ _

__John waited until Greg's watch showed just a minute before, then held out his hand. "Your phone, if you don't mind. I have a feeling this will be stressful. Could I have one of the blue ones? It won't kick in that hard until after the first few minutes, so I'll have time to completely muck things up before it starts to help."  
Greg handed over the pill, but instead of just dropping it in John's hand, he latched their palms together and trapped the pill there. John was agitated already and it showed in his tone. _ _

__"I think this is a bad idea right now, John. Let me text Mycroft and maybe you can call in the afternoon? I've upset you, and I'm sorry. He's going to hear that in your voice and I don't know if he can take it. I don't know if _you_ can take this. I love you, please know I'm just trying to help."_ _

__John took the pill and his anger towards Greg surged, until he saw on Greg's face that he only meant to help. John sighed, leaned over, and kissed Greg's cheek. "Sorry. But this is the only thing I've promised. I can't not do it. It'd ruin his trust in me."_ _

__John swallowed the pill, took a deep breath, and called Mycroft._ _

__Mycroft picked up his phone and looked to Sherlock. "Twelve o' clock on the mark. Would you like to talk to him?"_ _

__Sherlock looked nervously at the phone and then to his brother, already bringing his fingers to his lips, having fallen into the tranquility of the show._ _

__"M-Maybe it's...it's G-Greg," he whispered, too apprehensive to answer the line. It was his way of fishing for help, but a moment later he reached out and took the phone from his brother, knowing how to answer it without looking at the screen._ _

__In a very small, quiet voice, he spoke. "J-John?"_ _

__"Told you I'd call," John said in as cheery a voice as he could muster._ _

__"I always won our old bets, even if I didn't know I was playing. Like that guide at the Baskerville case, where you told him you'd bet me fifty quid he couldn't prove it."_ _

__John thought it was a good way to open the conversation, though really, he couldn't think of any other way. His goal was to make the conversation light and easy for both of them so Sherlock would walk away with this being a pleasant experience._ _

__Sherlock kept his eyes closed, trying to picture John then and there, completely failing to manage it._ _

__"S-So you did," he breathed, feeling his heart race and trip over itself. He looked down at his free hand in his lap, touching his fingers together and biting his lip._ _

__"Th-though...I st-still assert...l-luck instead of...skill." His lips brushed upwards in a hint of a smile, aching with renewed homesickness as he listened to John through the phone. It wasn't quite the same as seeing a video of him, and the anxiety he associated with John's voice over a speaker was not as acute in this method thus far._ _

__"H-Has Greg...l-learned to properly brew your tea? He's al-always been r-rubbish, you've my sympathy."_ _

__John kept a smile on his face to give warmth to his voice. "Luck is preparedness and opportunity, Sherlock. And Greg makes fantastic tea. I take a bit more sugar than I used to, but for the most part I like the same stuff. Thanks for reminding me about the lemony one and having Paul pick it up. I appreciate it."_ _

__John held the phone away and took a deep breath to keep himself collected.He was mostly calm, but he still squeezed Greg's hand and nestled closer to him for comfort._ _

__Sherlock went very quiet as John failed to pick up the banter. John was using a quasi-friendly, defensively pared undercurrent that he'd always brilliantly been able to manage. He closed his eyes at the muffled sound of the phone being moved on the other end and slowly nodded, understanding._ _

__"I'll n-not keep you," he said very quietly, swallowing his heart back down, "th-thank you f-for...I'll...a-around sometime or-" his hands began to shake hard enough that he nearly lost hold of the mobile, language and composure breaking apart, tripping over several ways to end the call without too much fanfare. "p-please pass...p-pass on my...t-to Greg."_ _

__John sensed he's somehow ruined it, and briefly panicked._ _

__"No, please don't hang up."_ _

__He sounded honest, desperate and pleading for just a moment before recovering._ _

__"I can't let you go before I tell you some news. Well, a few things. One, I held a wild bird. Can you believe that? I got a bird to hop around on my palm! I never guessed how much that would tickle. Two, I have a dog. Gladstone. He's a retired police dog, German, of course, and he's wonderfully obedient. Doesn't listen to Paul unless I tell him to. It's great. So...yeah. Wild bird, though! Can you imagine?"_ _

__John put the phone immediately down and his excited, happy expression fell, which he was glad Sherlock could not see. His tone had been so carefree it had pained him to know he had to mimic it. He was genuinely excited about the dog and bird, which helped._ _

__Sherlock was startled by news of the dog._ _

__"I...I've s-seen your b-bird...that's...r-remarkable work," Sherlock whispered, his voice shaking hard. John was _forcing himself_ to do this. Self-flagellation all over again. He could picture John's face then, clear as could be. _ _

___Like a man to his execution._ _ _

__It was the same then._ _

__Coercion or no, John was _enduring_ the call. _ _

__"Th-the dog's...n-n-name...f-fitting for you. I'm...it...s-sounds as th-though Greg is...is doing a fine job of...I apologize for the earlier...w-was a poor...poor attempt at humor. You...y-you always discouraged poor humor, I n-never caught on properly...I've..." _lost my blogger,_ _ _

__"I'd...if-f you h-have...pictures of the d-dog..." he slowly brought his hand up and covered his eyes, heavy tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. What the hell was he to say when he knew John didn't want this?_ _

__John could hear the tone of distress in Sherlock's voice and it tore at him on the inside like some diabolical contraption of Moriarty's._ _

__"Sherlock, I can hear that you're sad. I can hear that. I know it. It's bad for you right now. It really is. But it will get better. I'll call at twelve noon tomorrow, and it's your choice if you want to pick up. I won't be disappointed if you don't."_ _

__Lie._ _

__"You'll just chat with me for as long as you want and not worry about me. My life is good. I eat, I drink, I watch telly, I play with birds and Gladstone and talk with Greg... It's all very good. And I promise you that today I'm going to work on going outside. I'll get out of the house and practice so I can come to Mycroft's. just please tell me..."_ _

__Here John's voice dipped and he almost whispered, "are you going to be alright until I get there?"_ _

__Sherlock's shoulders rounded and he curled around the phone as John offered him a brief moment of help, telling him that he knew he was sad, that he knew it was hard. Sherlock was so greedy for comfort from the man that it was all he could do to clutch the phone in lue of an actual embrace. He didn't for a moment believe that it would be better. All he had was five months, and then he'd be back alone with some paid nurse to spoon feed him and keep him from hanging himself. Not that he possessed the dexterity for that, anyhow. But the temporary gift of comfort and concern from John was like water in the desert to him, and he was grateful for it no matter how brief it was._ _

__"H-How can...c-can I not w-worry...a-about...about y-you? I- n-nothing is m-more...important than..." he grit his teeth as tears spilled down his cheeks._ _

__"Y-You're lying to me to p-protect me...you...y-you st-still hurt terribly and I'm...I make it worse. I...I d-don't m-mean to, John, I w-would n-never...I..." he bit down hard on his fingers to keep himself from sobbing, "I...h-have My h-here with me and...I'm...I'm alright. I'm...I d-didn't ever expect to hear from you...e-ever again and you've...you've told me you forgive m-me and that I d-did not do this and..." his voice broke and he lost hold of a grieved whimper._ _

__"I l-love you and...I th-think that m-means I...I h-have to let go of you. I'm j-just doing a rubbish job of it."_ _

__John set the phone down to listen as his chest heaved. Why was everyone telling him to let Sherlock go? He did not want to! Sherlock reacted so positively to him and John couldn't stand knowing that he'd left him behind._ _

__With a heart aching and burning, John held the phone gently as if he might hurt Sherlock if he handled it too roughly._ _

__"I'm not lying to you, Sherlock. I love you.I'd do anything to keep you happy. Just tell me what to do. I'm confused and lost and-" he caught himself on a down spiral and stopped._ _

__"I just don't know how to help you and I really want to and it's confusing and I thought I was doing good by eating but that isn't helping you and I just want you to be happy! Please, Sherlock, please tell me how I can make you happy. It's terrible to know you're hurting."_ _

__He was in tears, but he prayed Sherlock couldn't hear._ _

__Greg wrapped himself around John, hating how fast they were breaking each other down. He slid his fingers to the back of John's neck and lightly pressed along the stress points, holding him tight in his arms and starting to rock him slowly._ _

__Sherlock spoke as clearly as he could make himself, pushed forward from John's distress, his own voice heavy with tears though clear enough to be easily understood._ _

__"Y-you have t-to eat and d-drink, John. That's...that's...I kn-know he...the games...I know...b-but those games are o-over now. You p-pick up the f-f-food and you put the dog at your feet and you watch G-Greg....and th-then you eat. B-Because those worthless drains on our a-air supply are dead and g-gone. B-Bacon and...I j-just ate for...f-for the first time today and...g-god in heaven bacon is g-good. F-Fuck Moriarty and h-his games, y-you eat."_ _

__John sniffed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve._ _

__"I didn't like the g-games," John whimpered and covered his mouth with his elbow to keep from crying into the phone._ _

__"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm alright it's just...that sucked. That was just... And you know, you know how bad it is. I'm sorry you had to do that. I wish I could take it from you, I really do."_ _

__John paused for just a moment to take a calming breath and lean in to Greg. "But I need to help you. I eat enough, and I'll try bacon with my eggs, but I want to help you. Please, you're hurting, and I hate it. Let me help you. Please, tell me what I can do for you."_ _

__Sherlock wanted nothing more than to crawl through the phone and wrap John in his arms as the distressed sound came through the line. But he only meant pain to John, and it would not bring John any comfort even if he could. In John’s mind, Sherlock was on the same level as Moriarty and Moran. Sherlock held the whip. Sherlock had torn into John’s body. Sherlock was the monster, and John would find no comfort from him._ _

__"You...y-you can...t-talk...to me about...I know I...that you don't l-like the sound of my voice...I'd ch-change it if-f I could...but...please know you can always...talk to me about it. Th-they try so hard, but it's...if you haven’t lived it, you c-can’t understand what happened to us. You can t-talk to me if you...if it would help."_ _

__He dragged in a deep breath, loathing himself, "I'm...I'm o-okay...I've...th-they give m-me medicine th-that I don't have to pay for and...and I...m-maybe I'll...a ch-chair or s-something to..." his voice shattered apart then, losing hold of a choked sob._ _

__"I c-can't walk, John," he breathed, facing that truth as he spoke the words to someone else, "I- m-my legs- t-too much and-" he sank a hand into his hair and pulled tight. "I'm s-sorry, I...I...d-don't know...wh-why I am telling you when y-you have so m-much to deal with already...y-you were my person and...I kn-know it's...I just...miss you and...you're who I would talk to about- s-s-something like..." he shook his head, holding the phone away from his face as he wept, sure that the admission would be enough to drive John away._ _

__He'd just told him in a roundabout way that he'd be unable to work cases again, the one thing he could offer now gone._ _

__Though he wasn't quite sure why, John knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did want to talk to Sherlock about what had happened. He felt the loss of cases acutely, and though he had always sort of known there wouldn't be any more case work, the confirmation was blisteringly painful._ _

__John's eyes stung with tears and he gave up trying to keep them open and dry in favor of closing his eyes and trying to imagine something pleasant._ _

__"I'd like to talk to you about it too. I remember having to pay for stuff. Medicine sometimes, but for me, at first, it was a blanket. I could have sworn it was the softest blanket in the world. Had to pay though, which-" John's voice cracked and he put his hand over his eyes._ _

__"I-I didn't like paying. M-Moriarty would..." No, he couldn't tell him that. He couldn't simply tell Sherlock that a method of payment had been spending fifteen minutes with 'Sherlock', which in short meant fifteen minutes of heavy torture from Moran._ _

__But oh, that blanket. "Was it c-cold? God, it was f-freezing when I-I was there."_ _

__Sherlock nodded, though of course John couldn't see._ _

__"I was in the s-same room...at the st-start," he whispered, acutely remembering the bite of cold, the stench of fear, the way Moran's voice echoed._ _

__"I'd...j-just shot M-Moriarty in the f-face. Moran w-was...not pleased."_ _

__He shivered hard and suddenly reached out blindly for his brother, clutching at the first bit of material he encountered and clinging with a bloodless grip. He took a moment to breathe while his heart slammed painfully against his ribs, making him feel weak and sick._ _

__"I g-got a...bl-blanket only...wh-when my body st-started to f-f-fail and the...the...d-doctors would..." he trailed off, unable to speak, far too fresh from hospital to be able to talk about Moran's damn medical staff._ _

__John pressed himself against Greg to pull every bit of comfort from him._ _

__"M-Moriarty w-was careful. Wouldn't let m-me get close to dying. He'd l-let me hurt myself t-to get the medicine I needed. Or blanket. There was this one b-blanket I'd... Well, you know... But I w-was cold, and on the floor, and it was just after...after..."_ _

__John closed his eyes and grit his teeth as the feeling of Sherlock's coat under his torn up back came swiftly to mind. With the sudden need to not be lying on his back, John sat up and began to rock himself._ _

__"I-I had n-no clothes, I w-was cold, and-" John thought perhaps he shouldn't tell that story. Not if he wanted to remain calm. "_ _

__I'm j-just trying to say that I understand."_ _

__Greg tightened his hold on John, rocking with him, sliding his fingers through John's hair._ _

__Sherlock was biting ruthlessly hard on his fingertips, eyes pinched shut, hardly breathing as his mind supplied him with the footage of John. He was sweating, hair damp and curls sticking to his forehead, shoulders shaking._ _

__"I..." his voice faded out and he pulled weakly at Mycroft, spots dancing across his vision, "it's...I'm...s-sorry," he breathed before the phone fell from his sweating palm. He leaned forward, nearly folding himself in half, whimpering as he picked it up, "n-no more...c-cold...G-Greg will...w-will...keep you...G-Greg..." his hearing snapped off as his vision tunneled and he went very quiet._ _

__Mycroft pulled Sherlock's blanket up around him and eased his fingers from his mouth._ _

__"It's alright, I've got you."_ _

__John was breathing heavily and his expression was pinched. "Yeah, no more cold," he muttered and rubbed the corner of his blanket with one hand._ _

__"No more cold for you either." He fell silent and looked to Greg for help._ _

__"I don't know what to do," he whispered._ _

__Greg pressed a kiss to John's temple, holding him tight as he gently took the phone from him._ _

__"Mycroft?"_ _

__Sherlock was doing his very best not to black out, breathing in shallowly and holding, before slowly exhaling, only managing to get half the breath out before repeating, whimpering pathetically. He could not get the images out of his head._ _

__Mycroft heard his name and picked up the phone in one hand while keeping the other on Sherlock. "I think they've had enough for today."_ _

__John looked up to Greg with fear and anxiety etched into the lines on his face. "Did I mess up?"_ _

__Greg shook his head and slid his fingers through John's hair._ _

__Sherlock pulled at Mycroft and shook his head, weakly managing to slide his hand along Mycroft's arm, taking the phone in shaking fingers and resting it on the side of his face, keeping his head on Mycroft's lap._ _

__"J-John-" As soon as Sherlock's voice came over the line Greg handed John the phone. "...I...'m s-sorry I...he...k-kept a v-video....of...you....th-the whole...wh-whole t-t-time...I f-f-feel...so m-much guilt...I...s-sorry I....it's-s m-me. Not y-you."_ _

__John knew that Sherlock had seen videos, but he didn't know it was the whole time._ _

__"So you saw..." Of course Moran would show that part. Of course. "I _tried_ ," John whined and pulled the corner of his blanket to his mouth. _ _

__"I didn't mean t-to break s-so easily. I swore I-I wouldn't. This is all m-my fault. I should... I was supposed t-to be strong!"_ _

__Sherlock couldn't help but break a brittle laugh through the line, the sound tangled with a sob._ _

__"J-John if-f you...kn-knew wh-what...he w-was doing t-to me when...when he m-made me...w-watch I-" he shook his head. It was too much. He was too painful for John. They could pretend that surface banter would suffice, but all this was only _just_ beneath the forced calm. _ _

__He gripped Mycroft harder as the room spun and spoke quietly._ _

__"Y-You...there....f-footage of m-m-me screaming l-like a child f-f-or my brother...if it...w-would help...y-you not feel so...e-easily broken."_ _

__His voice had dropped to grieved resignation. "I...th-this is...I'm t-too much...I m-make you...f-feel weak and- frightened and-" his voice cracked and he sobbed into the line, "I'm...I l-love you..."_ _

__John had also been aware that Sherlock had been abused, though to what extend he had no clue, but to hear that Moran had made him watch John was deeply unsettling to him. The color drained from his face and he crawled fully on top of Greg, where he curled up on his chest and hid his face on his shoulder._ _

__"You don't scare me," John asserted in a voice thick with sorrow._ _

__"I'm sorry. Y-You deserve b-better. I don't want t-to watch the tapes. I d-don't. God, no." He could not imagine anything more horrible now that Moriarty and Moran were dead._ _

__"I don't l-like it when you're in p-pain. I want to protect you. I-I'll come p-protect you soon."_ _

__Sherlock whispered a brittle goodbye into the line and handed his brother the phone, curling in on himself in Mycroft's lap and falling apart. He could hardly breathe, hearing John in the same distress he always put him in._ _

__That's what he did, every time, left John sounding like that. His hand sank into his hair, the other to his lips as he broke._ _

__Mycroft said a brisk, "Thank you for calling," into the phone before hanging up and wrapped Sherlock in his arms._ _

__"It's okay," he whispered, "It's alright. He's okay. I've got you. You did beautifully. I'm glad you spoke with him today."_ _

__Sherlock shook his head, sobbing bitterly as he lay there, shredded to the core with John's pleas to forgive how 'easily he broke.' He was deeply saddened that John felt that way still, just as before when John had known Sherlock had seen his assault, and shown Sherlock the places he'd chosen spikes over rape, desperately pointing to scars on his arm to prove that he’d tried to resist. Sherlock had known John reacted poorly to hearing he’d been watched, and Sherlock immediately regretted revealing that he’d seen everything._ _

__If John saw how terribly he'd done in the first sixty minutes of his time with Moran...if John thought himself weak, he'd be disgusted with Sherlock._ _

__Not that he already wasn't, now that Sherlock had lost his mobility, and with it his ability to find cases._ _

___You're done._ _ _

__Tears slid fast and heavy down his cheeks as he lay there, faced with the reality that there was nothing left. He was done. He couldn't have John back, he couldn't work, he couldn't even read. To not end it would be the height of cowardice. Now it simply came down to _how_ , without overly damaging his brother._ _


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft didn't know how to comfort Sherlock further, so he put some music on his phone and quoted verse along with it while holding Sherlock close to his chest. 

" _We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time._ " 

He rocked Sherlock, spoke softly, pet his hair, held his hands, and tried not to break down himself. This was supposed to be fixing it. He was _supposed_ to be better with John. Mycroft let out a shaking breath and utterly refused to believe that perhaps it might be better for Sherlock to move on.

Greg set the mobile down and wrapped his arms around John, rocking him slowly. "You did really well, John, you did well. It's okay, take a few deep breaths for me and then tell me what you're thinking," he said gently as he carded his fingers through John's hair. 

John was completely silent. His breathing was shallow and regulated, his hands pressed over his face, and his eyes open and locked on absolutely nothing. He shook his head, trembling, and decided he needed to start punishing himself if he could not help Sherlock. 

How would he do that without upsetting Greg? He could burn himself with tea, keep himself from sleeping, or eating, or drinking, but then Greg would be hurt as well. The only thing that John could think of was to start at the very beginning and throw himself back into his memories. Yes, he deserved that. 

"M' Okay," he whispered. 

Greg shifted him, turning John so that he could look at him properly. 

"Don't, please don't shut me out. _I'm_ not particularly okay, so I know you're not. Please, love, please talk to me. I can offer you a bit of insight to Sherlock's behavior, if you need help sorting it. Talk to me, please talk to me." 

He leaned in and very gently pressed their lips together, desperate to keep John with him.

"I feel useless, please let me help." 

As always, John responded well to both the request and the affection, and heraised red-rimmed eyes to Greg. 

"I hurt him and I messed up and-and I m-made him worse! I could hear it! I b-broke him down worse! And h-he _watched!_ He s-saw-" John's stomach lurched and he gagged hard. He shook his head as words escaped him in order to show how much he utterly despised this.

Greg reached down and grabbed the small bin in case John was ill, dragging it right to the side of the bed. He swept his hands through John's hair, humming as he tried to soothe him. "You did not make him worse, I _promise you_ John.I've spoken with Sherlock and Mycroft several times and Sherlock has been doing poorly all on his own, you didn't do that. You had him joking with you, and you two are the only people who understand. John he...he didn't just...he-" how could he explain what had happened to Sherlock? 

"John, when he was made to watch, I don't think he saw very much. Moran- Moran was ah, very-" he exhaled and tried again, "that became one of Moran's most...frequently used...methods, with him. Please believe me when I say you've no need to feel shame around Sherlock in that regard."

John burried his hands in his hair and took deep, chaotic breaths. "He was m-made to watch! Y-You don't...I was...I thought it w-was him! I-I screamed f-f-for _Sherlock_ to s-stop! I-I t-told him...G-God...I-I thought...N-Now h-he's s-s-seen and-" John had worked himself up, wound tight, and his stomach flipped again.He turned and threw up into the bin, which only added to his stress. 

"M-Made him w-w-worse!" He shouted then and his mouth tasted of the familiar bile that he had known so well in his time with Moriarty. The absence of blood was reassuring, but it still left him reeling. 

"I-I-I'm awful! AWFUL!"

Paul had come running when he heard the pair of them, skidding to a halt inthe hallway and entering the room to see John vomiting. He made sure Greg had seen that he was aware, holding up a finger and going into the kitchen for a moment. 

Greg was not sure what John was trying to tell him, other than he was upset that Sherlock had seen. 

"John...this isn't new, it's not new, he's...he didn't see this recently, he's always known. Breathe, John, breathe for me," he instructed, gathering him back into his arms and rocking him gently, keeping him bundled close, "You're safe, breathe John, try to slow down." 

Paul returned with a luke-warm mug of peppermint tea, setting it down by Greg's side. The aroma swiftly filled the room as he took the sick out, turning the overhead fan on low to get a bit of gentle breeze to float through the room, keeping it as comforting as possible. 

Greg spoke as soon as Paul walked back out, "John, I want you to take one little sip of this tea for me, okay? One little sip." 

John was disappointed in himself for having lost his meal, but images of Sherlock and what he had been through hammered out all other thoughts. 

"H-He knew. B-But he s-s-saw! He SAW! N-No, he h-heard m-me screaming for him to stop!" 

John could smell the tea, but he didn't want it. He hadn't done his routine, he couldn't simply sip tea, he couldn't bring something potentially hot up to his lips and let liquid potentially cover his nose and mouth. He shook his head and sat with his hands gripping his arms on either side. Nausea prevented him from rocking himself and he whimpered at the distress his weakness and his stupidity had already caused Sherlock.

Greg shook his head and kept John to his chest, lightly blowing on the back of his damp neck to help keep him from sicking up. 

"John, you did not do anything to him. Moran did this, and you were days without food, water, or sleep. No man would have been able to hold up in that environment. You did not do this to Sherlock." 

He leaned forward, wanting John to have something more pleasant in his mouth. With one hand he reached out and took the straw, putting a finger over the dry end to trap the tea, just as Paul returned. 

"John look, I have this in a straw, watch," he offered, wrapping his hand around so that John could see him allow several drops to rest on his own hand where it supported him. 

"Please trust me, it's not hot, I wouldn't hurt you. This will help, please, just a bit on your tongue?" 

John flinched hard when he saw the drops of water hit Greg's skin, and he snatched his hand away. He held it to his chest as if protecting it, and only after several moments of confusion did he realize that Greg had not been burned. 

With a short whimper, John shook his head. He did not want to be burned. It was not in any way that he did not trust Greg, but a drops of water was too familiar for him to deal with rationally. 

_You deserve it. You hurt Sherlock. You deserve this._

John covered his face and slowly nodded. He would let himself be burned, because that was what he deserved. 

With quiet resignation he opened his mouth for the water. 

Greg only moved his finger partially off the straw so that the four or five drops left would fall very slowly. The tea was room temperature now, already starting out cool, and he spoke softly to John. 

"You're safe, no pain, let's just get your mouth feeling better. It's alright, you're home, it's just me, just Greg," he carried on, keeping the straw low enough that the drops would not fall heavy. 

"I have you, you're okay, you've done nothing wrong. I'm just trying to help make you feel more comfortable." 

Paul took the straw from Greg when it was empty, setting it back in the mug of tea and taking a seat across the room, watching them closely. 

John jerked away once Greg was finished and clamped one hand over his mouth. He physically held back a scream with his hand and bowed his head to Greg. 

"Sorry," he muttered and reached up blindly with one hand to hold his shirt. 

"'M so s-sorry. N-No more. No more. P-Please. P-PLEASE. I'm...N-No, I'm okay. I'm okay. Deserve-" John stopped speaking. Greg would not like that. 

"C-Can I be done? P-Please, I understand. I'm okay."

Greg held John tight and began to rock him slowly, hoping the feel of a little moisture and peppermint would eventually reach him. "No more, we are done. You don't deserve anything but comfort right now. That's all. I do _not_ want you beating yourself up over this, you did _nothing wrong_." 

He kissed John's forehead and shifted so that he held John on his lap like a child, leaning his own back against the pillows so John could fall asleep, the open window behind them letting in a warm, pleasant breeze. 

John kept one hand over his mouth even after he realized he hadn't been burned. 

He remembered it so clearly now that it had been brought back to the surface, and John was trembling in Greg's arms. He allowed himself to weep, even though he did not deserve the comfort. 

"I-I h-hurt h-h-him! If I-I hadn't broken h-he w-wouldn't h-have listened t-to me beg him!"  
Greg trailed his fingers over John's back, heart aching for the man. The rape had been viciously traumatic, and the fact that John honestly believed it to be _Sherlock_ hurting him in such a devastating way only heightened it. Now he was mourning not what had been done to him, but that Sherlock had been _hurt_ by it. 

"Love, oh love, please hear me. I know you're heartbroken right now and devastated over what this is doing to him, but please hear me. _You_. Did. _NOT_. Do. This. You are a victim, and so is he. You are not to blame for how that trauma hurt you! Love, John, please. Please. He broke too, and not because of anything you did. Please do not hurt yourself over how you reacted during horrible trauma, John, that's so unfair, so unfair." 

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of John's head, carrying on touching him gently, well above his waist. 

After a pained exhale came a piteous whimper and John struggled to keep from losing himself to panic. He caught one of Greg's hands and pressed it against his chest where the bitter pain had lodged itself. Screaming seemed incredibly attractive to him, as he might be able to dislodge the barbed agony just from the force of his grief.

He couldn't accept Greg's words, as much as he wanted to. 

"I-I-If I w-were str-rong-ger, he w-wouldn't h-have had t-to listen to m-me scream for him to _get out of me_." John grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled hard. 

"H-He had t-to listen... God, I could s-still say his n-name then and I begged! Moriarty...that's why h-he l-let me still speak...s-so I could b-beg him to s-stop!" 

John was full of rage at this discovery and he hated himself more for having fallen for it. He'd not been trained against speaking until the end. He'd not been trained against saying Sherlock's name until he'd worn it out in pleading and begging. 

John curled into a ball and screamed with as much force as he could manage into his arms. 

Greg was just about to call out to John when Paul raised a hand, quietly keeping Greg silent. He shook his head, indicating that John be allowed to vocalize his pain. 

Greg's expression fell, though he nodded, keeping his arms tight around John while he vented his anger, his own heart twisted in grief for these men who'd been so horrifically damaged. John was at least working through new aspects of that trauma, which was progress. Painful, difficult progress. 

John's sobbing was occasionally punctuated by a scream, which was his attempt to expel the awful burden on his heart. 

The mind is a most incredible device, and one of its main functions is keeping one out of pain. It goes back to a primal need to survive, and the escaping of pain is a fundamental part of the human mind. There are several methods that the mind uses to cope with recent trauma and pain, the first of which is to disconnect or rationalize.

The mind will go blank, distract itself, grow numb, or attach fully onto something other than what has injured it. 

The second is sleep. John could already feel exhaustion creeping up on him to offer repose. 

The third is madness. If all else fails, some are driven straight to madness by their grief. There are subtle forms of madness, such as not accepting certain parts of reality, being overly cautious, paranoid, or performing comforting rituals. 

The fourth is death. 

If there can be nothing else, death opens its numb arms equally to all people, if they run to it. 

John chose the second, and was asleep within minutes. 

Paul got up and spoke quietly to Greg as he helped get John under a blanket, giving him fluids as he'd not had any in far too long. 

"He's going to go through phases like this. Keep him talking, let him feel what he does without arguing. This is progress." 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was laying still and quiet against his brother. He stared across the room, fingers tucked between his lips, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks and spreading a slow-growing pool of damp on Mycroft's chest. After nearly an hour of silence, Sherlock whined pathetically, pinching his eyes shut tight and biting at his fingers. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hand gently from his mouth and put it flat on his own chest, where he would be able to feel his heartbeat. 

"I love you. I always have and I always will. You did very good helping John today. I'm sure he appreciates it. It might seek grim right now, but that does good for him. I promise." 

Sherlock shook his head, smudging Mycroft's chest with the capillary bleeding he'd caused himself. 

"Wh-why did I t-tell him? I...I th-thought he knew...I...if...if he's ashamed of..of...m-my god wh-what is he going to think..." humiliation flooded through him and he lay there quietly, soaking in self-loathing. 

"I didn't w-want to watch! I...I could ha-have gone...it w-was _me_ h-he was b-begging...I-" he choked off, raw fingers curling in Mycroft's shirt. 

"It's too m-much! He's n-n-never going to b-be able...never...I'm...I al-always h-hurt him he- it's n-never going to g-get better."

Mycroft put his hand over Sherlock's and breathed a dejected sigh. 

"You're alright. It's better for him to talk about it than to ignore it. He's already made great strides in moving past his fear, and I am confident he will come to enjoy your company again someday."

It was the dejected sigh that got to him. Mycroft did not believe his own words.He was speaking from some sense of desperation. It was not as though Sherlock did not already see how hopeless it was, but to hear it reflected back in Mycroft's voice was devastating. He pinched his eyes closed and simply allowed himself to cry, accepting his fate.   
"N-no more calls," he sobbed several minutes later, shaking his head, "no m-more. He's u-using me to h-hurt himself or...I don't know wh-what he's doing...n-nothing he wants to do...no more...I...n-no more."

Mycroft did not want to accept that. He wanted the relationship between John and Sherlock to be his way of fixing his little brother, not further devastation. Life without John would, at this point, be miserable. Not even tolerable. Mycroft had seen how bad it got when John was in 'Africa', when Sherlock could still read and walk and go on cases. 

Mycroft's silence was simply confirmation for Sherlock, who sobbed and then, in a moment of panic retreated back into his mind. 

_The path was the same as it had ever been, though the sky was more chaotic, a swirling pool of grey and dark purple churning overhead. Moran was in the lower levels, he knew, but if he went up, perhaps he could avoid him. He allowed himself to grieve as he walked up to the front steps, openly weeping, dragging his feet until he hit the steps. He stopped at the door, holding the handle and closing his eyes. With a deep breath he let himself in, immediately hearing the whistling from down the stairs, gut twisting in fear._

_'Sherlock? That you? Come down and play!'_

_He nearly turned around and ran back out the door, deeply afraid to encounter the man. He'd come up to the main entrance room, why couldn't he go higher up the stairs? Perhaps he could bolt the door and he'd be fine. In the next moment he ran, flying up the levels as fast as he could, tripping and struggling back to his feet until he'd managed to tear up several flights, hitting the uppermost landing and diving into his childhood bedroom as fast as he could, bolting the door and then resting his back against it, panting wildly._

Mycroft could sense Sherlock was retreating and, as usual, attempted to call him back. Things were looking bleak. There was no future with John to look forward to, and it was already painfully clear to Mycroft that he simply was not enough. 

"Little 'Lock?" Mycroft gently shook his shoulder and turned him gingerly. 

"Could you come back to me? I know it's rubbish out here, but it's worse in there."

_Sherlock looked around the familiar room of his childhood, petrified to leave the door, still able to hear Moran's whistle loud and clear. He was coming up the stairs, and Sherlock had no idea if the door would hold against him or not._

_His brother's voice came on a breeze through the open window, and he whimpered in relief, abandoning the door for the safety of his brother. He ran forward, hitting the wall and leaning out the window._

He drew in a slow breath and let go of Mycroft's shirt, hissing as his fingertips stuck to the material. He pulled them to his lips, but they were stinging too much to tolerate the heat of his mouth. He curled his hand and closed his eyes, quiet with his brother for a long while. 

"Wh-What...what is m-my aim n-now? I...I d-don't know how...how to do th-this. John...k-kept me f-focused and...wh-what is left for me?" 

Mycroft, relieved that Sherlock hadn't retreated for very long, dragged in a shaking breath and dropped his forehead down. "Yes, you need a new goal.I...ah... You can run codes. The government needs more geniuses. You could use the mental stimulation, and you'd put them all to shame."  
Sherlock closed his eyes as his chin quivered. "H-Hateful..." he exhaled slowly and pressed his hand over his eyes, wondering how far Mycroft was willing to let him go. 

"W-would...you g-give m-m-me...a few m-minutes to mys-self?" It was clear to him that Mycroft had also given up, and this would likely be a relief for him as well. 

Mycroft hesitated. He did not want Sherlock to do anything stupid, or dangerous, or feel lonely, but he wanted for him to have control of his situation.

"Alright...I'll give you some time. Please, if you need me, call." He knew the child proof caps on the pills would likely deter Sherlock for long enough that he could hear the rattling if he tried something, but Mycroft was still nervous. He gave Sherlock one last hug and stood awkwardly in the door. 

Sherlock watched his brother leave and closed his eyes, rubbing his raw fingertips together. He stated at the door as a slow spreading calm washed over him. It would be better, it would. Mycroft was destroying his life for Sherlock's benefit, and what benefit would Sherlock be?

He looked over at the pills, imagining the effort of taking them. He'd never manage it quietly with his hands as they were. He chewed at his lip, looking around the room. His eyes settled on the drip line itself. It would take four minutes to snuff out his life like that, did he have four minutes? It would be quiet.

 

He reached out calmly and ripped the line out of the drip bag, holding it in his forever unsteady hands, looking back to the door. Slowly he wrapped it around his neck. Mycroft knew this was happening. He knew. This was how it had to be, was how they all needed it to be. He tired it off tight enough that they would have to cut into his neck to free him. Quietly he laid back, staring up at the ceiling, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks as he tried to call up memories of home.

Mycroft knew damn well why Sherlock asked to be alone, and hardly gave him any time to get it done. The second he stepped out the door he texted Millerthat there was likely going to be a fallout. 

It was agony. Everything was agony. 

Mycroft listened for the jingle of pills, but heard nothing. The only possible thing Sherlock could cut himself with was a pocket knife of which he did not know the location. 

He didn't think it had been long enough, surely, Sherlock hadn't managed anything in such a short time and with such limited resources. The color drained from Mycroft's face when he opened the door and saw Sherlock lying so still. 

A strangled, jumbled cry of Sherlock's name stumbled from his lips and he pulled at the knot. 

Tight. Very tight. Mycroft looked around for something to free it with, and while a pair of surgical scissors might have worked, all he had were his hands and a mostly useless knife that he wanted nowhere near Sherlock's throat. 

Very briefly, Mycroft panicked, but half a second later he had rummaged through his drawer and dug out the pocket knife. 

"Jesus, Sherlock," he stammered and flicked open the blade. He couldn't risk nicking the artery, and turned Sherlock slightly on his side so he could fit the blade under the tube, which was far too tight. 

Miller came in a hurry, though not at run. There was, after all, only the potential of threat. When he made it to Sherlock's room he paused at the door just long enough to see Mycroft struggling with something at Sherlock's throat.

"Move," he said in a calm, precise tone, grabbing his kit and going to Sherlock's side. He tried to slide a finger under the tubing, but it was far too tight. He shook his head and towards the back of Sherlock's neck began to carefully cut into the tube with a scalpel, only nicking his neck slightly. He tore the tube off and rolled Sherlock to his back, listening for breathing.

Mycroft sat back and his own knife clattered to the floor. He stood frozen as his entire world came screeching to a halt. The earth ceased rotating and absolutely nothing existed outside of his brother lying with a tube around his neck. 

The blood severely alarmed him and Mycroft rushed to Sherlock's other side, crawled over the bed and knelt by his side. "God... Oh, God! Miller, save him!"

His vision tunneled and Mycroft grew dizzy. He could hear his own heart and knew it would not calm until he heard Sherlock's.

Miller tipped Sherlock's head back, prepared to breathe for him. When Sherlock's airway was opened, however, it stimulated him to pull in a shallow, clipped breath all on his own, followed by another, and then another. 

"He's breathing," he said to Mycroft as he pressed fingers to Sherlock's throat, watching him closely. Sherlock had broken blood vessels along his cheeks, though he'd regained breathing on his own. He'd strangled himself, though he'd likely only just lost consciousness. 

Sherlock groaned as awareness flooded back to him in an overwhelming rush, his head throbbing along with the sides of his neck, heart rolling hard. Miller called out his name, roughly rubbing Sherlock's chest. 

When Sherlock's eyes finally opened he blinked twice, looking over to his brother before closing his eyes and groaning, breaking down into desperate tears. 

Mycroft broke down hard. 

He reached over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, where he wouldn't interfere with Miller, and laid his head down.

"I-I'm sorry," he pleaded and his voice cracked. "I'll g-give y-you a-a good l-life, I-I promise! 'M sorry I-I couldn't g-get y-you John. I'll try though, I-I'll try to b-be enough." 

Mycroft sobbed openly and took Sherlock's hand. 

"Please, d-don't leave. Don't die." 

Mycroft pressed his ear to Sherlock's chest and savored the sound of the heart still beating within. Suicide had never been an option for Mycroft, who always remained logical and capable of higher reason, but he knew if he had to put Sherlock's lifeless body in a coffin and bury it it would be the last thing he did. After all this, it would be the last. How could he stand it? How could he live three seconds without his brother? Would his heart not just sense the stillness of his blood's, and cease on it's own, without Mycroft having to find a painless way to make it stop? 

The devastated, broken older Holmes brother grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and clung on as if to root him to life by sheer force of will. 

Miller set his jaw as he worked, determined to maintain his professional decorum. He dragged out an oxygen mask and held it over Sherlock's face, wanting to help with his color. The man had all-out choked himself to unconsciousness, would have made it to death had his brother not returned within that minute or so. He pressed a pad of gauze over the shallow cut at the side of Sherlock's neck and watched him very closely, concerned with a myriad of complications that could occur in the next few minutes. 

Sherlock weakly pushed at his hand, trying to bat him away, openly sobbing into the mask, which amplified the sound. Miller made no move to speak to him, wanting Mycroft's voice to be in his ear. 

The clock slowly ticked on, and Sherlock's color began to improve, though he'd ruptured several vessels in his eyes and along his cheeks. He'd fought his own attempt to some degree, at least. Miller sternly kept the mask over Sherlock's face even as Sherlock fought against him, finally speaking quietly, "It's alright, Sherlock, it's okay." 

Mycroft sat up when Sherlock pushed him and held his arms across his stomach. Tears poured down his cheeks and he dared not touch Sherlock until he was absolutely sure it was welcomed. 

"I'm here," he offered weakly. What good was he? 

"I'm here for you if you n-need me. I love you. I _love you_." This was far worse than last time. Last time, he'd kept a level head. He'd been distressed, but even. Now he was rocking slightly and picking a hole in his sleeve as he watched. 

_You're slipping._

Mycroft reached out and gently touched Sherlock's hand to test how he responded. "Oh, my little 'Lock, I am so sorry."

When some degree of dusty pink returned to Sherlock's lips, Miller relented and backed off with the mask. He moved away, touching Mycroft's shoulder in sympathy and keeping close enough to help if needed. 

Sherlock did not pull away from Mycroft, though he brought his hands up to cover his face, so confused by Mycroft's distress. 

"I-" his vocal chords twisted the word into something abruptly high-pitched that snapped off, leaving him mute. He shook his head and grabbed at his brother, desperately needing comfort in is open confusion. He could not ask questions or explain himself, and so he simply had to remain locked in his own mental struggle to understand. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer and felt the relief of his brother moving, breathing and wanting to be comforted like fire to a freezing man; glorious and painful.   
"It's okay," he whispered without any conviction in his heart. 

"I love you. I've got you. It's all o-okay. My is here. I love you so much." 

Mycroft wept into Sherlock's hair and his whole body shook with the shock of what had happened, and what very easily could have happened. 

To Sherlock, it was anything other than okay. His swollen throat burned and his head was pounding, making him reach up and sink a hand into his hair, pulling gently to try and alleviate the discomfort. He turned his face to Mycroft's shoulder and held tight to his brother, who was clearly breaking apart. That reality frightened him, though he did little more than cling. 

Miller moved slowly, drawing up an anti-anxiety dose for Sherlock and slowly pushing it into his line before getting a cup of water and several tablets for Mycroft. 

"Please, take these. I'm not going to leave the room, you have another set of eyes," he offered by way of assuring that if Mycroft fell asleep, someone would keep watch over them both, that Sherlock would not have the opportunity to try that again

Mycroft took the pills and manually slowed his breathing in an effort to be a calming presence for his brother. "I love you," he said again, as if it were a cure all. If John were here saying it, it would be. 

"I'm sorry this happened. I shouldn't have left you for so long but -god, I didn't think you could... I'm sorry, I am so sorry." 

Sherlock lay there breathing erratically, tears trailing down his cheeks, silent as Miller fretted about. He was fitted with a thin tube under his nose to give him air, and placed back on a monitor.

When he finally spoke, long after, his vice was a croaking mess, strained and painful. "It...w-would have been...t-to the...b-benefit of...e-everyone."

Mycroft's breath hitched and he shook his head. "No, it wouldn't have been. How do you think Greg and John would have reacted? Should they have to bury you? After everything, it's hardly fair to do that to John." 

Thought it seemed unfair to use that against Sherlock, but it was the only ammo he had at this point, and Mycroft had grown desperate. 

Sherlock flinched and turned his eyes back to the ceiling, quiet and mostly still as the oxygen hissed under his nose and the monitor tracked his struggling heart. Minutes ticked by as he considered the hassle it would be for John and Greg to attend a funeral, one which Mycroft would surely insist take place.

He drew in a sharp breath through his heartache. "B-better a...d-day...of....in...inconvenience," he swallowed painfully, filling his lungs again, "f-for...J-John...than a...l-lifetime of....b....burden...t-to you."

"Inconvenience? Is that what you think your death would be?" 

Mycroft's voice was heartbroken, but not angry. He'd clearly failed somewhere along the line to express to Sherlock how important he was. 

"You are _loved_. I love you! It wouldn't be an inconvenience to bury you. It would be the worst experience of my life. I would...God, Sherlock, please don't make me bury you. I will do anything to keep you safe and happy. Just tell me what you want."

Sherlock looked back to his brother, studying his face. 

"I...want to....stop," he whispered, tapping the area over his heart slowly, "I want...t-to work...to...r-read...to play my...v....violin. I w-want...to w-walk...t-to...h-have purpose...I want...my....my J-John b-back...Mrs Hudson...M-Molly...L-Lestrade..." 

Tears flowed freely as he spoke, "I w-want...you back...a-at your...insufferable...w-work...I....it....f-for them it...would be inconvenience, I'm s-sorry it...would h-hurt you. But in the....end you...would thank m-me."

Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and wished he had asked for the moon instead. The way Sherlock called John _his_ was upsetting, as Mycroft had tried and failed to put them back together. 

"I will help you read, and you will be alright. I would never thank you for killing yourself. That is not what I want.That would not help me. I wouldn't survive it." 

Mycroft regretted the words as soon as he said them, and tried for a quick recovery. "Work would be so dull. I spent half my time monitoring you."

Sherlock leaned into Mycroft's fingers despite himself. He was not going to be alright, not in any sense of the word. If Mycroft did not want him to die, which made no sense whatsoever to Sherlock, then he was doomed to slowly slide alone into madness. 

"And h-how...will you s-survive it n-now? There w-will be n-nothing to monitor. I'll b-be here...j-just h-here. My a-aids will tell...y-you which...n-nappy I am on and h-how many meals I've bothered to take, and you will...th-throw yourself b-back into the..work to f-forget. Mummy and father w-will...wear you down...and in f-five years time at the...m-most generous, I'll b-be in a care facility." 

He closed his eyes and shrugged as his heart blipped on the screen, his pacemaker working overtime to counter the attempt he'd made on himself. 

"S-So b-be it...I'll do...wh-whatever you n-need."

Mycroft did not want to believe that as the only future for Sherlock, but could not see too many alternatives. "You won't need aids forever," Mycroft said with a good amount of certainty. 

If Sherlock couldn't have John, and Mycroft wasn't enough, then he clearly needed something or someone else to live for. Molly? Mrs. Hudson? Both could be his friend, come to visit, but he doubted either would make a good regular companion for him. 

"Would you like to have Mrs. Hudson or Molly over?" 

Sherlock shook his head and slowly pressed a hand over his chest, wincing as his heart rolled. Miller was at his side, slowly pushing medicine to help, keeping quiet.

"I'm...s-sorry I...misunderstood...wh-what you...needed from me...M-My...I...was n-not trying to...hurt. The opposite...I'm f-fact."  
Mycroft closed his eyes so he couldn't see the purple ring around Sherlock's neck. 

"I know you didn't mean to hurt me. You meant to help me, because you believe you are a burden to me. But you are not. You are a joy to me, because I love you. I love you so much, and I want you to understand that you have a life worth living. If you have any faith in me, or ever did, then know that I will do everything I can to make sure you are alright."

Sherlock nodded, "I h-have more faith in you than...th-than...anyone...el-else." 

He gripped tighter at his chest, whimpering with the pain of it. 

"I'll...h-hand it to...you then...I'm...I've n-nothing left. If you...w-want me to live and...it helps you...then that's what I'll do."

Mycroft almost whimpered. Jesus, that was difficult to hear. 

"I'm sorry. I don't want to trap you here, but I honestly believe that I can make your life good. I wouldn't ask you to stay here if I didn't think I could make it worth it for you." 

Sherlock nodded slowly, keeping his eyes closed. He reached down after a few minutes and found his brother's hand, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a shaking kiss to his knuckles.

"I'm s-sorry. I'll st-stay."

Mycroft wasn't sure if Sherlock actually trusted him, or if he was just trying to keep his brother from harm, but he was relieved regardless. 

"Thank you. Thank you very much. I'll make this a good life for you, I promise."

Sherlock held tight to his brother's hand, flinching again and clutching at his chest, feeling the threat of unconsciousness roaring up on him. "I..it...I'm...h-hurts, I...." he pulled at Mycroft's hand, "I'm...I'll...come b-back I..." he was still speaking as he dropped off unconscious.

Miller moved then, rolling Sherlock to his side just before he began to vomit. "He's going to seize," Miller warned Mycroft, "you can step out if you need to," he warned as Sherlock's muscles began to lock up.

Mycroft scooted back in the bed and knelt just far enough away that he wouldn't be in the way. He grabbed a pillow and held it to his chest to stop the bleeding that was surely coming from his damaged, torn heart. 

"Okay, okay....Just...help him...help him..." 

Miller kept hold of Sherlock as he began to violently seize, stopping him from falling off the bed. The entire episode lasted three minutes, when a faint, pained cry slowly rose up out of Sherlock, who still had his eyes closed.

"He's going to be confused, might happen again," he reached out and pulled Mycroft closer, "keep him calm I'm going to try and control this."

Mycroft was in sheer horror while Sherlock’s brain went into electrical spasm, taking Sherlock’s broken body with it. 

Three minutes stretched into three hours. Mycroft watched Sherlock's face, listened to his pained cry at the end, and experienced a complete lack of logical function. 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft reached out and gently touched his shoulder. "It's me, My. I'm here. Can you hear me??"

Sherlock did not open his eyes, simply crying weakly. "He's postictal," Miller said as he began to push more medication, "just talk to him while he comes out of it."

Sherlock's gentle cries subsided for a moment as he seemed to slip unconscious, going lax before jumping, his face twisting in pain before he cried out again. "M-My?"

Mycroft knew that Sherlock's voice was deep, much deeper than his own, but he heard the frightened cry of a child nonetheless. 

"I'm here. Right here." Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock tried to grip his brother's hand, his fingers weakly squeezing. He flinched in a pained sob, finally cracking his eyes open and looking at Mycroft in childlike confusion. 

"Ow...ouch...why...I'm sc-scared...I'm scared...h-hurts."

Again, Mycroft heard the childish voice of his baby brother crying for help, and he brought Sherlock's hand to his lips. 

"It will go away. I promise. No hurt lasts forever. This too shall pass."

Sherlock lay there sobbing quietly, shaking as his head thrived. Miller kept at him, quietly. "He's ok," Miller said quietly, stepping back and giving Mycroft room as he took the bin away.

Sherlock pulled at his brother, trying to get closer. 

"My," he whined.

Mycroft curled up next to Sherlock and pulled him into his arms. "I'm here. Right here. You're safe. I've got you."

Sherlock burrowed against his brother, twitching and flinching as his body ached. He pulled at his brother, pathetically crying until he slowly dropped off to sleep.

Mycroft rocked Sherlock well after he knew he was asleep in some pathetic attempt to feel as if he were helping. He continued whispering to him, nice things, sweet things, comforting things, though he doubted any got through.

He sent a text then, to Paul and Greg.

_Sherlock almost killed himself today. I stepped out for one minute. Less. He strangled himself with a tube._

Greg texted back swiftly. 

_Jesus! Why? John had a good conversation with him. I'm so sorry. What can I do?_

Paul read the text and ran a hand over his face, taking the next few minutes to text with Miller. 

_I am speaking with Miller, obviously we should not leave Sherlock on his own again. How are you holding up?_

Mycroft leaned over so his head was touching Sherlock's as he replied to both with one. 

_He thinks it would relieve the terrible burden he is on everyone. I am not doing well. I will never leave him alone. I request some form of emotional support for him, as he needs more than what I am capable of._

Greg fired back a response to their phones.

_John has frequent periods like this, always believing himself a burden. It is not your failing. I can talk to Sherlock as well. Is he okay? What tube?_

_The one for his IV. It had to be cut off. He seized for three minutes. He's asleep now. He's decided that he will live because I asked him to, but the look on his face when he agreed was not one of a man wanting to live._

Greg pulled John closer to him, looking across the room at Paul. "I have John. You should go, Mycroft needs someone. I've got John." 

Paul nodded to him, looking down at the sleeping man in Greg's arm, finding it remarkable that both he and Sherlock had selected strangulation. John's to escape torture, Sherlock's to escape a different form. 

"Please tell him I'm coming," Paul said quietly, getting up and leaving the room, scratching Gladstone's head as he passed. 

Greg pressed a kiss to John's head and then texted Mycroft. 

_Sometimes they can't live for themselves. John doesn't, even to this day, though he's had several breakthroughs where he's been able to see with his own eyes that he won't always hurt as he does now. I know it is hard to see them living out of some sort of duty, but you are in the 'take what you can get' phase. Work with that._

_If he's willing to keep on for you, that's a positive thing. You are not failing, Mycroft, these men are desperately injured and their healing is a long, slow process. I am so sorry he is so bad off right now. Miller seems very skilled, I'm sure he'll keep him safe. Paul is on his way over to you. I hope you'll speak to him._

Mycroft was curled close to Sherlock, where he could smell him, feel him, and hear him just in case something were to happen. 

_He doesn't live for himself. I am alright with that for now. But he seems to be subjecting himself to a new form of torture just because I asked. Isn't that cruel? Is it cruel for me to force him to go through all this just because I don't want to be alone?_

Oh now that..that startled Greg. ' _Just because I don't want to be alone_.'   
Greg did not know many things about Mycroft Holmes other than his love for his brother and his icy disposition, but the slip of admission was far more telling than Mycroft had likely intended it to be. Greg looked down at John, deeply understanding the conflict. 

_I battle with that constantly, but I do not believe it so. John very deeply wants to help Sherlock. Not only that, but he's eating better, drinking more, and finding enjoyment in life again slow and steady. He is improving, and Sherlock will as well. I think it's a bit premature to consider letting them go._

Mycroft looped one arm under Sherlock and typed with one hand. The warmth that had built up between his brother and the bed was immensely reassuring, and Mycroft splayed out his fingers on Sherlock's back. 

_John was a normal human being before! He could live! Sherlock was hardly surviving without John._

_He wasn't surviving well, anyway. He was improved by John. And I understand that Sherlock helped John as well, but Sherlock has literally nothing to live for. He can't read. He can't play music. He can't go on cases. I'm not enough for him. John has you, and he loves you. That is enough. Even when Sherlock had John, music, cases, experiments, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, you, and me, he still had a hard time with drugs and bouts of depression! What now?_

Greg hummed at that before he replied, trying to word things cautiously. 

_When he starts therapy to regain those skills, he's going to be so busy he'll be too tired to think on it much. One step at a time here, Mycroft, one step at a time. John wants to help him, he's still trying. I think we are going to have to get them together faster than we'd wanted._

_For now, Sherlock's physical therapy is the challenge. Get him to focus on regaining his body, and likely the rest will come into play. This is Sherlock, he surpasses expectations. Trust me, Mycroft, I am often not enough for John either. I know this is hard._

Mycroft moved his hand to a new spot on Sherlock's back, then swiftly retracted to his original place. He had a tiny pocket of warmth, which was unnecessary in the already warm room, but which provided an incredible amount of comfort.

More than the transfer of heat should.

_I will. He wants John. I am not John._

Mycroft stopped and set his phone down as tears abruptly clouded his vision. What the hell was it about a damn army doctor that Sherlock loved so much anyway? Yes, John tolerated Sherlock. But he wasn't particularly smart, or incredibly good looking. He was just a simple man. The 'first' one to show Sherlock love. 

Mycroft pulled his little 'Lock closer and pressed his face against his dark curls. 

For ten minutes he remained that way, before he remembered his correspondence, and reluctantly continued. 

_I'll get him focused on recovering. He has requested not to talk to John anymore. Could he call again tomorrow? At noon again?_

Greg deleted the message box on his mobile when so much time had gone by, interrupted with Mycroft's missive. It was odd to him that Sherlock asked not to talk to John again. He narrowed his eyes at that and tried to sort it in his head. Likely more fixation on hurting him. 

_John is quite determined to carry on calling and helping. I do hope Sherlock will allow it. I know he wants John, but Mycroft, hell, the way he clings to you, he'd never be able to do with anyone outside of John. Don't sell yourself short, he loves you. John will call again tomorrow at noon, I'm sure. He wants this to be something Sherlock can depend on._

Mycroft's breathes were hitching by the time he finished reading the text message. 

_I am not handling this well at all. I am breaking down. I couldn't get the tube off Sherlock's neck. He could have died because I am incompetent. He ate pancakes and eggs and bacon. Then he tried to kill himself. The progress is by no means linear._

Greg nearly laughed, shifting the sleeping John in his arms. 

_Isn't that the truth? John had a breakdown, a bad one, but it's mostly from having to face memory he'd rather not. He could wake up tomorrow mostly okay, or withdrawn and distant. If he can't make the call tomorrow, I will under the guise of knowing that Sherlock doesn't want to speak to John so that he isn't aware of John's difficulty._

_John feels enormous guilt for Sherlock having to listen to him scream for Sherlock to stop. I have faith though, that no matter tomorrow's outcome, John will eventually hug his dog and go outside and drink his tea. We have to keep faith._

Mycroft ran his fingers back through his now too long hair. 

_Sherlock is distressed about that as well. He commented that John was asking_ him _to stop. I am terrible at this, but I love him, and I think he knows._

_That's the most important part, isn't it? Making sure they know they're loved? Sherlock responds well to me hugging and holding him and touching his hair. He seems to drink up affection. It never does as good as John though, but John comes with a heavy pendulum swing in the opposite direction. Could you send a letter? Another picture? Maybe you could send another shirt, or ask John for advice on something to comfort Sherlock. Some form of contact from John that isn't a call._

Greg pressed a soft kiss to John's head and replied. 

_I'll send a shirt, and we'll get another letter out. Yes, you're absolutely correct that knowing they are loved is the most important, as it goes against the narrative of their torture. He loves John like a husband does a spouse, it is not better than what he feels for you, it is different. That is all. I believe John loves him in the same way, or else he'd have left him. It is very easy right now for John to forget and move on. The suggestion of which makes him very angry. He is hellbent on helping Sherlock, and I believe that will move back into his true feelings for Sherlock over time._

Paul arrived not long after, making his way up to the room with escort of the house staff, knocking gently on the door. Miller stood up and walked over, quietly letting him in.

_The two of them were practically married. I'm glad John is trying. If he wanted to, he could move on. I know it. That would kill Sherlock._

Mycroft looked up and wiped the tears from his eyes. "He tried to kill himself," he explained lamely.

Paul walked to Mycroft's side of the bed, putting a gentle hand on Mycroft's shoulder as he leaned over and took a look at the line around Sherlock's neck, noting where the scalpel bit in and looking up at Miller. "Did you put him down?" 

Miller nodded from across the room, "Seized and kicked the pacemaker off twice, I'm just giving his body a chance to reset itself. Going to put a stitch in that lac there, he had it very tight." 

It was easy to see that, as little starbursts formed in random intervals around his neck where the plastic had bunched the skin, pulled so tight. The laceration needed perhaps a stitch or two, but was not dangerous. Paul sat down beside Mycroft and spoke to him softly. 

"First, I need you to understand that this is not your fault."

"I left the fucking room," Mycroft retorted to Paul without a second's hesitation. He sounded undignified, uncontrolled and not at all like himself. 

Mycroft took a moment to take a deep breath. 

"Logically, I know that I did not do this to him. But I still allowed it to happen, and have a small degree of responsibility. I will change my outlook to that of hypervigilance, and make sure it does not happen again."

Paul was glad to find Mycroft speaking freely. He answered in a gentle whisper. "Yes, you left the room. And I'm assuming you took most everything he could use out of reach, or were close enough to hear the rattle of pills, given his method. That was desperation, Mycroft. He'd have found a way. This is not your fault." 

Sherlock whimpered in his sleep just before a long wave of tensing muscles locked him up from toe to head, making him jerk unnaturally. He cried out, gritting his teeth and shivering before going lax once more. Miller stood up and walked over to the bedside, watching the monitor and reaching down to press his fingers to Sherlock's pulse, keeping close eye. 

Paul looked to Mycroft and spoke quietly again, "Did you take the pills Miller gave you? This is traumatic, and we need to take care of you while your brother is unconscious."

Mycroft clutched Sherlock when he whimpered and his expression grew panicked very suddenly. "It's okay. I've got you. I've-" when Sherlock went limp, he cut off abruptly as the words stuck in his throat. 

"I took the pills. But that was...I can't recall..Jesus..." He'd not had an issue recalling..well, _anything_ in years. Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and moved it closer to his chest where he would have held it if he were awake, then rethought it, and held his brother's marred hand to his own face. 

Miller spoke softly, "Forty three minutes ago. Just 1mg, he can have- you can have more, Mycroft." 

Sherlock's fingers twitched against Mycroft's face and his legs began to curl up closer to his body, making Miller frown and lift one of Sherlock's eyelids. Sherlock twitched, his hand spasming down on Mycroft's, and Miller shook his head as he stepped back, grabbing a syringe and speaking fast.   
"He's seizing again," he warned, giving Sherlock another dose as Sherlock's legs began to pedal. Miller muted the monitors so that they would not scream at them and took up beside the bed, prepared for it to get worse. 

Paul reached over Mycroft and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, warning Mycroft to watch his head as Sherlock's began to jerk. At first the seizure appeared to be mild, making him move but not dramatically so, but a full minute later Sherlock was seizing hard, biting his tongue and bloodying his mouth, entire body bucking on the bed. 

By the time he slowed, Sherlock had seized for five and a half minutes, leaving him drenched in sweat, mouth and chin bloodied, hands locked up like claws as his heart pounded terribly. Miller spoke loudly as he cleared Sherlock's airway for him. 

"Sherlock? Open your eyes." 

Mycroft knelt by Sherlock with his knuckles pressed against his teeth. He added another pillow to the headboard, just in case Sherlock moved too much and hit his head. 

It was an eternity that Sherlock seized, and at the end of it, Mycroft was staring with a shocked expression and tears on his face. 

"Oh, God," he muttered over and over as he watched blood drip from the corners of Sherlock's mouth and down his chin. 

Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's unnaturally held hand. "'Lock? Can you hear me?"

Paul moved to help, swiftly using gauze to do his best to clean off Sherlock's face. It was quite normal for seizure sufferers to bloody themselves, though no less distressing to the people who loved them. 

Miller tried to get Sherlock's body to relax, touching him carefully and stretching out his arms, watching to see if his body would naturally slacken. When Sherlock began to shake from fatigue, he shook his head and gave him a muscle relaxer, pushing it slowly and watching as Sherlock's hands slowly relaxed in Mycroft's grip. A thin trail of blood continued to leak from the corners of his mouth despite Paul's efforts. 

Miller clicked on a penlight and carefully opened Sherlock's jaw, reaching in and touching his tongue to see where the wound was when Sherlock's eyes flew open and landed on a pair of legs directly in front of his face.

Immediately he began to cry, attempting to pull back and far too weak to do so, just as it had ever been when Moran did this to him. 

"’P'LEASE," he choked out through his opened mouth, openly bawling now, laying perfectly still. At this point, it was too dangerous to try and move, and likely his doctor had done something to him to keep him from fighting, as his hands were free. He keened in a childish whine of fear and slowly drew his legs up, sobbing. 

Mycroft gently helped Sherlock's hands out of their claw like manner and tried to help him understand that Miller was not going to force himself on him. Everything in him wanted to pull Sherlock away and draw him into his arms and explain over and over that he would never be sexually abused again. 

"My! My! Little 'Lock, it's me! I'm right here. He isn't going to hurt you. He's just helping. I've got you. I'm here." He laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders but did not wrap him into his arms for fear he would take it as an attack.   
Paul spoke quietly to Miller, “If it can wait, leave him," as Sherlock openly cried in obvious fear.

Miller nodded and swept the light across the inside of Sherlock's mouth before backing off, showing Mycroft to try and reach him. Sherlock snapped his jaw shut, gagging so violently that Paul was surprised he didn't vomit.

Sherlock did not try to speak again, trembling on his side in terrible pain. Miller gave him morphine to ease the ache his muscles were surely giving him. Sherlock went very still as he felt the slide of relief, holding his breath a full ten seconds before he began screaming, tearing his hands free from whoever held them, yet to open his eyes, scrambling to cover himself defensively as he begged. 

"Please no, g-god n-not- I c-can't...please, g-god pl-please anything _PLEASE_ , I'll w-watch! I'll....no...n-no!"

Mycroft scooted away from Sherlock and his expression mirrored his brother's torment. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered and touched just the tips of his fingers to Sherlock's arm. 

"It's My. My. My. I'm here." He settled down next to him but turned away, so his back was just barely brushing his side.

"I'll protect you. I've got you. If you don't mind, I'd like to hold you. I can protect you."

Sherlock was unresponsive to their voices.

"He's not hearing us," Paul said gently to Mycroft, "likely too soon after the seizure. Give him-" 

Sherlock broke into a frenzied moment of struggle, suddenly reaching to his nose and trying to rip the tube, thrashing to the side in a panicked bid for escape. Paul swore as he grabbed Sherlock's wrist, Miller lunging forward as well. 

"Sherlock! No!" 

Sherlock screamed in defeat, tossing his head to the side to escape, calling out in confused terror for help. "MY! _MY H-HELP ME!_ " he broke down in a babbling mix of French and English, begging and calling for help.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands and pressed them to his brother's chest, where he had held them before. "I've got you. It's My. I'm right here. I've got you. Everything is alright." 

His own tears had dried as he poured his focus into breaking through to Sherlock. He tapped on his shoulder in code.

_Safe. It is My. I am here for you. You are safe now._

It took Sherlock approximately thirty-six seconds to register that his brother was speaking to him. He still did not open his eyes, though he scrambled towards Mycroft and tried to crawl up onto his lap, even with his hands restrained. 

"MY," he screamed in terror, gooseflesh bloomed along his back, terror ripping through his chest. He was deeply confused and heavy with medication, a combination that never ended well for him. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock into his lap and wrapped one arm under his knees to hold him in a protected position. "I've got you," he responded in a shaky voice. 

"I've got you. You're safe. Deep breaths for me, 'Lock. Deep breaths."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's shirt in his hands, unseating the mask as he buried his face against his brother. He screamed again, curling up as tight and small as he could, breathing chaotically. 

Paul moved then, taking up Sherlock's blanket and draping it over them, offering a pillow behind Mycroft's head and under Mycroft's elbows to help support the elder brother as he held Sherlock to him. To Miller he pointed over at the speakers and had him turn on quiet music, dimming the lights and turning on the overhead fan. 

Sherlock did not scream again as the atmosphere around him slowly changed, allowing him to relax slightly. "My," he whined in fear, dropped down childlike and exhausted. 

Mycroft tried to relax for Sherlock's sake. He did everything in his power to be a calming presence for his baby brother, but here was his little 'lock, crying, bleeding from his mouth, with a purple line around his neck. Calm was an evasive state of being at the moment. 

"I'm here," he whispered and kissed the top of his head. "I've got you. You're safe. Very safe. I won't let anyone hurt you." _Including yourself._

Sherlock pulled weakly at Mycroft's shirt, his crying shifting to something more grieved and pathetic than fearful. He wept quietly, smudging his brother's shirt though no longer giving struggle, seeming to accept that his brother had him. 

When Sherlock finally slackened his grip, slipping down into sleep without another word, Miller excused himself from the room to call and consult with neurology about his patient. 

Paul, however, focused all his effort on Mycroft. "Look at me, Mycroft," he said quietly after helping with pillows to take some of Sherlock's weight. 

Mycroft did not look up at Paul. He had his eyes locked on Sherlock's face just in case the slightest hint of pain came across it. Rocking slightly, he muttered soft things to his brother without hearing Paul at all. He could hear Sherlock's breathing, feel his heartbeat, but was oblivious to the pillows Paul was helping him with. His entire awareness had tunneled down to include Sherlock, and only Sherlock.

Paul stepped away for a moment, walking to the bathroom and gathering up two soft washcloths, running each under the water to get them cool and ringing them out until they were damn without risk of dripping. He returned to Mycroft's side, speaking to him softly. 

"Mycroft, let me help," he whispered, reaching out and draping one of the cool cloths over the back of Mycroft's neck, not daring to touch Sherlock while Mycroft was so out of it, "Mycroft? Look at me, I very much need you to look at me."

Mycroft came back to himself with a jolt when the washcloth touched his skin. He looked up at Paul, though he had not heard the request. 

"He's..." Mycroft looked back down at Sherlock and swallowed hard. 

Very faintly he was aware that his logical mind was not in use, and it took every ounce of his concentration to bring it back. 

"Forgive me," Mycroft began roughly, and tore his eyes away from Sherlock. "I am not thinking clearly. I just-" he stopped and his gaze dropped back down to the bruise on Sherlock's neck, the one he might as well have just put there himself. 

Paul kept his eyes to Mycroft's, calling him back when he looked away. 

"Mycroft, look at me," he said again, calm but clear, reaching out and setting the extra cloth over Sherlock's forehead. 

"He's okay, confusion is very typical after seizure. Miller is on the line with neurology to get advice on the seizures. Sherlock has a good pulse and he's breathing on his own. He knew who you were and now he's simply sleeping. We need to get him cleaned up, but first let's get you calmed down. Will you take a few deep breaths for me, you're very pale." 

Mycroft was likely unaware of how fast and shallow he'd been breathing over the last few minutes. 

Mycroft took a deep gulp of air as if coming to surface after a long dive. "Not thinking clearly," he muttered with a scowl. 

He tried to brisk through his logical processes, only to find the magnificent mechanism stick at the first gear. How long had it been since he'd checked them? How long since he'd removed himself mentally and been objective? 

Mycroft locked his eyes on Paul's and breathed evenly. "I need an antianxiety and time to think."

Paul nodded and went to fetch Mycroft a tablet and a cold glass of water, returning with both. "I will sit with your brother, why don't you have a shower and change clothes? When you are ready, you can help us get him situated. Miller may need to treat him again anyhow." 

It was frankly refreshing to have someone with such a clear mental process to work with and he was glad that Mycroft mostly knew how to help himself. "If you need any help, Mycroft, please feel free to ask."

Mycroft took a deep breath and held Sherlock closer for just a moment. 

"My mind is a machine. Now I don't say that to sound impressive, I mean I store my logic and my capability for objective reason in a virtual machine. I've questions set that judge my thoughts, emotions and what is affecting me. Currently..." 

He trailed off and shook his head. 

"I used to know when it was off. Say, someone was rude to me and it had the possibility of putting me in a foul mood. That would be a speck of dust, a grain of sand in the machine. Wouldn't change much, not really. I can't even get the damn thing moving now.

"I used to keep all my memories, all the data, in a similar function that Sherlock does. Only I organized things differently, with files attached. Everything was split. I could view the memories objectively, or with the same emotions of the time. I've been changing it from a house to a room, all this being strictly metaphorical and existing inside my mind. A computer with screens and keywords is cleaner anyway. But progress has halted. I've not been continuing. Mentally, I am dull and rusty, prone to illogical actions such as giving a suicidal trauma patient privacy."

He replaced his body with pillows around Sherlock, so his knees would be near his chest even though he was asleep. 

"I'll shower, perhaps eat again, and take a few moments to think."

Paul brought a chair over and sat down close to Sherlock, looking over at Mycroft. "Please do eat, have something to drink. We will watch your brother." 

Miller walked back in not long after, sitting next to Paul so that the pair could quietly speak with one another. Sherlock did not so much as stir.

Mycroft felt a bit better for having explained, at least in some respect, how his mind worked. With a quiet sigh and a nod, he left the room and entered his bathroom. 

The hot water stung his face but felt glorious on his shoulders and back. Mycroft leaned against one wall and let the water drum against the unscarred skin on his back. Not long. He did not have long. 

Paul and Miller spoke in hushed whispers, discussing Sherlock's newest issue with asphyxia induced seizures. There was truly not much that could be done until the extent of the issue was examined. They needed to see how well Sherlock was functioning before they could accurately gauge the severity of the problem. For now, it was simply a matter of treating the symptoms and caring for him like that to the best of their ability. 

Ten minutes passed before Sherlock whispered his brother's name and pulled at Mycroft's shirt, finding instead a loose pillow that fell away. His eyes shot open and he cried out in panic, shuddering hard as he clearly believed himself fooled. 

Paul spoke softly to him, "Sherlock, Mycroft is here, you're in Mycroft's home. Take a breath, alright? Calm down, it's okay." 

Sherlock did not respond to Paul, instead sinking his hands into his hair and pulling viciously tight, rocking and sobbing quietly as he whispered his brother's name over and over again. 

Mycroft was only another ten minutes in the bathroom, and came out in soft, loose clothing that showed how much weight he had lost. His hair was disheveled, wanted a trim, and still very wet. When he saw the state that Sherlock was in, he dropped the towel he had been using to dry it and rushed over. "

'Lock, it's me," he said loudly as he slid into bed beside him. "I've got you. Can I hold you? Please?"

Sherlock virtually climbed Mycroft, struggling to get himself into Mycroft's arms and then wrapping his own around Mycroft's neck. Paul had been speaking gently to him, but allowed him to pull his hair instead of trying to touch him and further upsetting him. Sherlock's breathing hitched and he pressed his face to his brother's shoulder, clinging silently to him. 

Miller spoke quietly after Sherlock had wrapped himself desperately around his elder brother. 

"I've spoken with neurology. We are going to take another look at his medications. If you could try and get a feel of his mental state, whenever you feel he's ready, that would be helpful.I'm going to go down to the kitchen and get you something with plenty of calories, alright? I'll be right back." 

Mycroft nodded to Miller and rocked Sherlock in long, slow movements. "Hey, 'Lock. I'm here. I've got you. You know I love you, don't you? You've got to know that, because it's very important. Remember it and lock it away somewhere. Alright? Lock it up tight where you can't ever forget." 

Sherlock was quiet for the next half hour, clinging like an exhausted child to his big brother. When he spoke, his breath hot against the side of Mycroft's neck, his voice was very weak and wavering in tone. "I hurt," he whispered, whimpering pathetically after saying as much.

"I'm...I...my th-throat hurts and...my h-head and...he w-was here! He w-was here and I d-don't want him h-here anymore. I'll be g-good, My. Please d-don't let him h-here he- m-m-made me...open my m-mouth and-" he shuddered and gripped Mycroft tighter, starting to properly wake up and come around at last. 

Mycroft listened to Sherlock form sentences with relief. The seizures had greatly unsettled him and he would do anything to be beaten at a game of deduction. 

"That wasn't Moran. That was Miller. You bit your tongue, and he wanted to be sure you were alright. That was just a little penlight. It's perfectly alright. I was there, and I made sure nobody hurt you. It was just to check your tongue. Like when you were little at the doctors, and you'd get a lolly after."

Sherlock whimpered and pulled harder at his brother. 

"I...I d-don't remember. I- you were h-here? You were here. Of c-course you w-were here you're...y-you won't l-leave me. You won't l-leave. You're My...n-not John or...an-any of them you're M-My and you won't l-leave me. You st-still love me. I'm...I'm..." he shuddered and shook his head, "c-can I sleep?"

"From now on, I am here. Forever. No matter what, if you are confused, or scared, you can know that Mycroft is here, and you are safe. You can sleep. Thank you for talking with me. It makes me very happy to talk with you." Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and cuddled him closer. 

"Get some rest."

Paul waited until Sherlock was breathing slow and rhythmically, clearly asleep, to speak to Mycroft. 

"That is encouraging. He's mostly lucid. How are you faring?" 

He looked over to see the doors open, Miller returning with a thick shake of some kind and a sandwich. He walked over and handed it to Paul, looking at Mycroft. 

"I'd like you to get that down if you can, okay?"

Paul took a few minutes to explain to Miller how Sherlock's speech had been, nodding at Mycroft as he handed over the shake. Miller crossed his arms and listened carefully, nodding at that. 

"We have to keep an eye on it. Very likely that this was going to be an issue for him anyhow and the asphyxia pushed him over the edge. It's encouraging that he is lucid enough."

Mycroft took the shake and held it with one hand. He moved his knee up to help him hold Sherlock, and prayed that since Sherlock had crawled into his lap, he wouldn't mind. 

"He spoke mostly rationally, and worked through the fact that I was there through his fear. He can't always do that." 

He took a sip of the shake without registering the taste or consistency and kept his eyes on Sherlock. "Are we doing the right thing?"

Miller decided that he should sit, putting himself on the same visual plane as everyone else. 

Paul arched a brow, pressing Mycroft for more information. "In what regard, Mycroft?"

Mycroft stroked Sherlock's hair lovingly. "Mainly, I need assurance that this is good for him. He does not want to live. He made that clear. I asked him to live and he said he would because he does not want me to be sad. Is it right to force him? I know it is, and do not mistake this conversation as a reason to monitor me. I only request assurance that this is right."

Paul spoke calmly to Mycroft, assuring him as best he could. 

"There are no warm arms in death, Mycroft. He will not find peace or comfort, only darkness there. It is the right thing to carry on soothing him when he is afraid, protecting him when he is in danger, than allowing his heart to stop. Yes, this is the right thing. This is kindness and compassion, this is love. There is no warmth in death." 

Mycroft nodded and bundled Sherlock closer. If there were no warm arms in death, than he would provide them when he was living. 

"Thank you. I am sorry that I sound unstable. I just needed to be validated in thinking that this was good for him, even if he struggles against it. I'm afraid I'm becoming less logical and more interested in obeying his whim. No need to worry, though. I'll be careful."

Paul nodded along with Miller. "You are correct in keeping him alive. There is not an ethical or moral alternative. He will recover from this, painful as it is. How are _you_ fairing? We are both concerned for you. Is there anything you can think of that will allow us to help you further?" 

Mycroft tried to force some of the cogs in his mind to turn towards objectivity. 

_Analyze the situation. Isolate current emotional factors._  
Analyze previous situations similar. Isolate past emotional factors.  
Analyze mood prior to new information.   
Check objectivity.  
Check clarity.   
Run through objectivity questions. 

As Mycroft struggled with his E.Q., which took roughly two minutes, he realized with despair that it would take him nearly a full three hours to reach a place of mental objectiveness, if he could still reach it at all.

"I need time. At least three hours. I need to be monitored. Ask me questions to judge how I'm faring. It sounds foolish, but I might avoid them myself. I'll need someone to speak with. Greg. I need to speak with someone who has done this so I can know what to expect."

Paul raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, leaning back. "Alright, Mycroft, alright. Which do you need first, to speak with Greg, or the three hours? I think we can safely sedate Sherlock that long to give you time to recover, if that's what you need." 

Miller nodded, "It would be idea, actually, give his body a chance to recover."

Mycroft took a deep, slow breath. That was his true link between his emotional mind and his logical one. He could breathe slowly. "I would like to speak with Greg first, then have three hours to contemplate what was said and apply it."

Miller got up and began to prepare a sedative. "If I have your permission, he likely needs a change of clothing after seizing like that, in addition to bathing. Paul and I can do that while he's sedated, and you speak to Greg." 

He slipped the needle in Sherlock's line and slowly pushed the drug, watching his monitor as he ensured Sherlock would be alright. 

"We can actually just keep him down for the next eight to ten, allow the both of you to sleep and recuperate. Sherlock's heart is very stressed, seizing is taxing on the cardiovascular system." 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and slowly lowered him down. 

"I would appreciate it if you took care of that. Please, make sure he is sedated before washing him. If I'm not here, and he is unclothed in a room with two men, one of which he already mistakes for Moran... I just wish to avoid it. I'm sure you know this. I just had to say it to remove the weight from me."

Miller lifted Sherlock's eyelid in front of his brother. "He is down. Sherlock," he called out, rubbing at Sherlock's chest to demonstrate, "You go take care of yourself. The evening is pleasant, you may want to take your call out of doors. We will take care of Sherlock." 

Mycroft didn't wish to go outside and acknowledge that the day was nice despite his pain. "Thank you. I'll call Greg." 

Stepping out and closing the door reluctantly behind him, Mycroft walked down the stairs to his living room. 

_Can I call you? No emergency, just advice._

Greg looked down at John and returned the text. 

_Of course. I will be speaking in a hushed voice, that is in no way anything other than a want to keep him sleeping._

He rang Mycroft directly after that, shifting so that John was at his pillow, Greg scooting down to the end of the bed and then crossing the room, leaning as much to the corner as he could so that he could speak to Mycroft.

Mycroft sat down in his armchair and straightened his back. When he had started slouching, he had no idea. 

"I'm sorry to bother you," he began with as much calm in his voice as possible. "I am having a rough time with Sherlock. He seized again and there was blood and-" Mycroft caught himself in a run on sentence and took a moment to restrain himself. 

"I am not fairing well."

Greg drew in a slow, deep breath, looking over at John and fully understanding. "He seized again? I'm sorry, Mycroft that must have been hard to watch. You're not bothering me. You helped me numerous times while we were together." 

He looked over to John to make sure he wasn't waking him. 

"Talk to me, let me help if I can. No one can do this on their own. Sherlock never managed it even before he was taken. No shame in needing help." 

Mycroft crossed his arms and gave up trying to neaten his posture. 

"It was horrible," he whispered and pulled one leg up onto the chair to rest his chin on his knee. 

"He tore up his tongue and blood was dripping out his mouth. It lasted five minutes. And after, he looked and saw Miller, his head was turned to the side, and he thought that because his mouth was open since Miller was checking his tongue, he was about to be forced to...I'm sure you can extrapolate what."

Greg sat down slowly, not knowing the extent to which Sherlock was abused in that fashion. "Oh god, Mycroft, I'm- he- Jesus did...Moran...I didn't know it was that...severe for him. Moriarty didn't seem to have such a...desire for that sort of...they threatened John with it constantly, played games with him to make him choose but-" he shivered and cleared his throat. 

"That must have been terrible, Mycroft. I know that fear doesn't really allow for logic, which in and of itself must be upsetting."

"I don't know! I never saw it on the tapes but...But he gags, and he panics at tubes in his mouth and he clenches his jaw when he's afraid and-" Mycroft grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and held it on his lap. 

"My mind is falling apart."

Greg ran a hand over his mouth and looked at John. John only gagged when he believed himself about to be- he did not display those behaviors regularly. 

"Take a deep breath, Mycroft. Breathing is often the only thing we can do. How is he right now?"

"Sedated." Mycroft had both of his bare feet on the armchair and hugged the pillow. "My mind is dying! Falling apart! I left Sherlock _alone_ , Greg! I left a suicidal, traumatized, unstable man alone!!"  
Greg nodded, forcing himself to remain calm in the wake of Mycroft's panic. 

"You're _exhausted_ , Mycroft. Your mind is not dying. This is what starts to happen after months on end of trying to manage through this. You did not know Sherlock was going to tear up his drip line to do that. Hell, I was _in the room_ looking _right at John_ when he got the string around his neck. It's not always our fault. This is not your fault. They have been horrifically hurt, and this is part of the process to heal their minds. Breathe, Mycroft. We are not trained psychiatrists."

Mycroft suddenly perked up a bit as an idea struck him. "I can learn a language in an afternoon," he stated as if just remembering. 

"I can be a psychiatrist if I wanted. How hard can it be? How many books would I have to read? Ten textbooks? That's less than a day."

Greg smirked at that, "Must be nice," he said quietly, deeply wishing he had the ability to do so, "if you learn anything useful, would you do me the kindness of cliff notes?" 

He looked down at his lap, suddenly feeling useless again. The idea of helping Mycroft at all had been cathartic, something useful he could manage, something he could contribute to. Only no, of course that wasn't the case. He was just Greg, after all. 

"I can...Jesus, why haven't I? I can read on my tablet while Sherlock sleeps. But still..." Mycroft slowed his speech and his chin sank back to his knees. 

"Could you give me some information? Just what to expect? Right now, it appears random. I know there is a pattern, but his pendulum swings so violently I can hardly track it."

Greg looked up at John and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. 

"John often wakes happy and a bit childlike, and if he's not happy from a dream or a fright, a bit of cuddling will get him happy. Then he has moments where he is strong, nearly himself, but it's much like scaling a mountain. If he's pushed down from there, he topples hard, often having flashbacks and confused, panicked. Sometimes John leaves me for days at a time when I screw up." 

He shrugged, he managed to screw up an awful lot. 

"That's what happened in the last attempt he made on his life, though he'd woken up from a nightmare like that, for once, I didn't cause it. Then, when he's coming out of that phase, it's back childlike, and the cycle repeats. It deviates, for sure, but that's what I've noticed." 

Mycroft took notes, mentally, of course, but they held far better than any on paper. 

"Childlike, strong, broken. It sounds a bit like Sherlock. He's childlike very often; clinging to me and whimpering. But he isn't very often strong. Even when he's clear, it's like he is only surviving so we won't have to be sad about his death."

Greg nodded sadly. "John is just now moving away from that, and more so when he believes he can help Sherlock or someone else. Sherlock is very fresh from this still, Mycroft, don't forget. Also, when you're reading, don't forget to sleep. He needs you. I wish I could give you more help, likely I'll be bothering you for help soon enough." 

He picked at his hands, startled to find his vision blurring. He wasn't doing enough for John. This wasn't enough, not when John belonged with the Holmes' brothers, not himself. 

"I am sorry you are having a difficult time. If I could do more, oh please believe I would."

Mycroft had the phone on speaker with it resting on the arm of the chair. 

"I don't know what I can do for him more than what I already am. I am determined to get him and John to have some form of relationship. He calls him ' _my John_ ' and laments him. I've heard him say all he wants is his John back. He wants his hands, his music, his work, his experiments, his books, but he'd trade it all for one man." 

Greg nodded, struggling hard with himself. "I believe he already has," he whispered, looking up at John as tears spilled down his cheeks. "They should be together. It's always been them. I do hope you know I've not lost sight of that. John wants very much to have him back in some way or another as well. He's still afraid, but he wants not to be." 

_My John._

Possessive anger twisted around his chest and he was forced to brutally shove it away. Sherlock had walked into hell for John. They'd always loved one another, despite it being obviously uneven. Greg never factored in, would never have factored in had this not played out as it had. 

_My John._

He shook his head, gritting his teeth and forcing himself calm. "I'd encourage you to keep hold of your temper. I know it is infuriating when they cannot see reason, but that's just it, they _can't_. I'm trying to get John back where he can be around Sherlock. I promise you that I am. John will hear nothing of not going to him eventually, completely lost it when he learned that Sherlock feels abandoned."

"I didn't...I hardly lost my temper...I just spoke normally...with a bit of a bite, I guess. He's sensitive and I just forgot and..." It was hard for him not to occasionally revert back to his old way of speaking to Sherlock, the way he had spoken to him in adulthood. 

"Greg..." Mycroft could hear his distress. "I know it upsets you to have to help John so he can go to Sherlock, but he does love you. I don't expect you to ever be out of the picture. Ideally, you would all live here, with me. I've other rooms in the house. At one point, I considered a family. Or, at least, I had to convince my mother that I was considering one. There's rooms right down the hall. It's not a solution for now, but later on."

Greg nodded, dashing his hand across his face, angry with himself that Mycroft had heard his upset. "It will be fine, whatever happens will be fine. I am not a factor here, we will do whatever is best for them. Now, as for you, do you feel like you have a plan? I know it is easy to forget to care for yourself." 

He didn't know what else to offer. "Do you still want John to call tomorrow?"

Mycroft had not really considered Greg as a factor, so much as he had considered him another tool, such as Miller and Paul were.   
"You're a person too. You need to remember that. It is clear that you love John, and I am sorry to have to ask you, but Sherlock needs him. So, yes. I need him to call tomorrow."

Greg nodded, feeling the hour glass being tipped and the sand starting to fall. It was only a matter of time now, before John and Sherlock made enough progress to reunite. His heart squeezed and he dragged a hand over his face, fingers shaking as he pressed them over his eyes. 

Mycroft had called for help, and Greg had fallen for it. 

"I won't be in the way when the time comes, Mycroft," he said quietly, "John will call tomorrow, you'd have been hard-pressed to stop him anyhow. I know where I factor into this, there is no need to be diplomatic or coy about it. I have my own plan, not that it's- not that you are interested." 

He cleared his throat and then added rapidly, "I need you to promise me you'll always make sure he's cared for. Let him keep the dog, he loves the dog. I know it's a ways off yet, but I need to know that you will still help him if he needs it years from now."

Mycroft did not like the sound of Greg's plan, whatever it might be. "I need you to stay with John for the long run. I can't always be with the two of them, and they need a level head. What happens if I'm away, at work, or just away, and John panics? Do you think Sherlock could handle the sound of John screaming after what he went through? Besides, after everything you've done, you deserve a nice place to live with someone you love. I'm not counting you out of this."

So, coy it was. Nice and diplomatic. 

"Alright," he said dryly, not at all enjoying being toyed with. "I'd ask Paul what books to read, and if you find anything useful, let me know and I'll use it to help John in that direction." 

He rubbed at his thigh, watching John and shivering at the thought of handing him over, of watching him go to Sherlock at long last. It was as it should be, what the original plan was, what John and Sherlock would want when they were healthy. They would be healthy again, surely. Greg did not fit anywhere in the narrative, and he'd always known it. Mycroft was a _sibling_ , Greg was...Greg. 

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Mycroft knew that tone, but did not know any other way of convincing Greg. 

"Would you at least tell me what your plan is?" He failed to respond to Greg's other requests, but had every intention of following up on them. 

"Other than that, I'd just like to hear about the progress, and when or how to expect it. You got John eating. How?"

Greg shook his head, "I'm not sure, I just...we worked on it a long time. I distracted him while he ate, and I made sure what I offered him tasted good. Then we just...little by little got him to manage eggs. That's about all he eats, it's not the miraculous breakthrough I was hoping for. He's still very wary around food, and tea...there is a whole process, but he's drinking it when he's anything other than panicked. Part of the routine, he thrives on routine." 

He intentionally sidestepped the bit where he walked to the Thames and put a round in his head. No one needed to know that. "I have no idea what to expect with Sherlock, his handling was much different than John's. I wish I could tell you more."

"Routine, yes." Mycroft noted that perhaps structured meals would be beneficial. Maybe a bath a day at a certain time would help. Regular calls from John. 

"I believe the loss of control they both experienced would make them crave structure and routine. I'll get on that. Thank you. That very possibly could make Sherlock's life easier." 

Greg had avoided the topic of his plan, and Mycroft filled in the gaps. Something bad, something he did not want shared. 

"Any time, Mycroft. Just remember that you help him far more than you hurt. I've seen him with you, he needs you and you are doing him good." 

He stared over at John as he allowed himself to draw his legs up, his chest raw and hollow from the conversation. He ran an unsteady hand across his forehead and closed his eyes, feeling small and foolish. 

Mycroft was very quiet for quite some time. 

"Thank you for speaking with me. This... this is awful. I've not made this many mistakes in my entire life. And... Sherlock thought... I remembered that when John walked to the other side of the bed, Sherlock almost came out of his skin thinking John was leaving. I didn't want him to think that, so I put my hand on him and crawled over, and he... he forgot who I was and thought I was going I... Later he explained, but Jesus, I should have known."

Greg could not help but think of all the times Mycroft had snidely told him to get over a mistake he'd made with John. "Well, I held John in a shower, and he stopped speaking to me for weeks. I absolutely should have known."

It occurred to him then that comparing his mistakes to Mycroft's would likely not help. 

"I'm...I'm not you though. I make mistakes everywhere, all the time. Lost a family...incompetent..." he trailed off, feeling like the idiot he was. 

"I think I'm just going to focus most on getting John near Sherlock, the eating and whatnot will likely go faster around better abled people. I am sorry that happened, I can hardly stand it when John thinks I'm going to hurt him like that."

Mycroft could hear the self-loathing dripping off Greg. But what could he do? With Sherlock, he held him and told him he loved him. Actual, normal comfort was still beyond him. 

"I don't think there is anyone more able to help John than you. He clearly loves you. I don't know if you've seen it, but he clings to you even when I've seen him calm. But I commend your efforts with Sherlock. Thank you for the advice."

Greg whispered a quiet, "You're welcome," before ringing off. He held the mobile in his hand for a moment before slowly setting it down, wrapping his arms around his knees and staring at John. His heart ached as though Mycroft had taken a bat to it, throwing him and his pathetic efforts in stark relief to real, honest help. Mycroft could become a psychiatrist overnight, and then Sherlock would have proper help, where John was stuck with Greg. He was under no illusions. John clung to him simply because he was the body there that helped. It had nothing to do with Greg specifically. 

He dashed the shaking back of his hand across his damp eyes and allowed himself to tip his forehead to his knees, quiet as he broke down. A deep, flashing ache that manifested as physical pain pulsed just behind his breastbone, leaving him carved out and empty. He pictured the happy faces of his children, longing to pick them up and feel their little arms around his neck, pictured his beautiful wife and squeezed his knees tighter, longing for the soft touch of a partner. They all faded in his mind, leaving John there with his arms outstretched. Soon though, he'd be embracing Sherlock, his time with Greg a pained memory. So he wept silently, shoulders shaking. 

John wasn't entirely peaceful in the last hour of his sleep, but he wasn't panicking, and his dreams were only mildly stressful. When he woke, he reached around, eyes still closed, for his Greg. 

After a moment he woke fully and sat up, his too long, disheveled hair and scruffy chin making him look a bit wild. His expression was soft, loving, and placid, which counteracted his messy state. That was, of course, until he saw Greg crying. His heart skipped a beat and his chest twinged painfully. One hundred different possibilities slammed against John's mind and he rushed to get his arms around Greg. 

"Love," he called in a sad, worried voice. "What's wrong?"

John's voice lanced through his heart and Greg allowed himself a few seconds to simply absorb it. He'd not intended for John to see him like that. 

"Nothing's happened, I just got sad," he offered lamely, voice catching and hitching as he tried to explain himself. 

"I'm...how are you feeling?" He dragged his face along his knees before looking back up to John, doing his best to shake off the terrible pain in his chest. 

"Oh, Greg," John said in a voice quiet and soft. He wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head. 

"It'll all get better. I promise you. Today, we can practice going outside. I bet Gladstone fetches. That will be nice, won't it, love?" He was incredibly thankful nothing had happened, and melted onto Greg. "We'll have ourselves a really, really great day. Starting with something to eat. Or, we could stay in bed for a bit. Your choice. I'm not picky."

Greg leaned into John's touch and closed his eyes, the kindness nearly more than he could take after such a brutal conversation with Mycroft. He bit his lip as his eyes burned, doing his best not to cry in the face of such warmth. 

"Let me make you breakfast," he said quietly, his voice anything but steady. He shivered and pulled John closer to him, wanting to remember what this was like for later. He wrapped his arms around John and breathed in deep, knowing it was wrong to feel as he did, that John was far from a consenting adult and that he was simply leaning into protection and comfort, not Greg specifically. 

The thought, however true, made his breathing hitch roughly, leaving him just on the cusp of falling apart, desperately needing kindness. 

"I can m-make your eggs and maybe a bit of toast today, yeah? Some nice tea and-" his voice caught and cracked, and he cleared his throat as best he could, "and then we can take Gladstone out." 

"I was just thinking about toast!" 

John rested his chin on Greg and smiled even though he couldn't see. 

"I think I can make that the next thing I'm not afraid of." He leaned back and took Greg's face in his hands. "I feel good today. Really good. So, I won't be any trouble, and we can relax." 

He gave a half-smile and pulled away. "Come on, I'm starved. I can probably stay in the kitchen with you too for a bit. Mycroft's men put everything sharp in the top cabinet anyway. Which I _can_ reach, by the way." 

Greg gave John as much of a smile as he could, even as a single tear shot down the side of his face. 

"I don't doubt it for a second," he whispered fondly, reaching out and tracing John's scruffy jawline with his fingers. He needed a bath, and a shave, but Greg was likely going to have to convince him to let Greg sedate him to do so. That was a conversation they were _not_ having today. He stood up then, taking John's hand in his, and walked them out into the kitchen with Gladstone happily trailing behind. 

Greg put John in a chair at the table and then pressed a kiss to his temple, getting the eggs and bread out. Soon enough the kettle was on, and Greg was making John's eggs the way he liked them, and he looked over to the empty dog food bowl.

"Think you can feed him for me?" He asked with as cheery a voice as he could manage, tears rolling down his cheeks as he kept his back to John. He stopped every now and again, sliding the back of his hand across his cheek to clear them away, honestly wanting nothing more than to go have a shower and have this out before it got the better of him. Paul wasn't there though, and there was no way in hell he was leaving John alone. 

John sat with his hands folded in his lap. Clearly, he'd not been doing good enough. Greg was still a mess. But he had a chance to redeem himself, and John stayed in the room even as water boiled and metal heated. He kept his eyes away from it and guarded against strange tides of emotion that came from being near something that had been used to damage him so terribly. 

"Yeah," he responded in a voice much thicker than his usual one. John practically leapt to his feet and scooped food for Gladstone, who sat patiently by his bowl. 

Perhaps eating more would make Greg happy. He could give him another massage. He could walk Gladstone and not need tranquilizer after. That would be a good way to help. 

"I love you," he said quietly and sat back down on his chair. The kettle began to steam and John abruptly looked up at the ceiling as his eyes clouded with tears. But he could not leave. Not yet. 

Greg was as together as he could make himself as he pulled the kettle off, quieting the steam. He poured a cuppa and let it steep, glancing over to John who was...

_In tears. Well fucking done, Greg._

He left the eggs on the plate and the tea cooling at his back, walking over to John and brushing a soft kiss to his temple as he took his hands. 

"Come on, let's see if you can find something on the telly. Thank you for feeding Gladstone," he said gently, leading John out of the kitchen as his own heart sank. John had sounded so strong, and less than ten minutes with Greg had destroyed it. He tried not to let his self-loathing show. 

"I'll bring you breakfast and you find us something to watch for a bit, yeah?" He settled John down on the sofa, dragging his blanket around his shoulders and holding his hands, deeply hoping that it would be enough to settle John. 

John felt relief at being away from the metal, but just being near boiling water and such things had been stressful, even if he had not actually been hurt. He squeezed Greg's hands and blamed himself for the distress his love was in. "It wasn't your fault, it was the water, and the hot...hot things...I'm sorry. It's stupid, really." 

He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. "You know I love you. I didn't mean to get all emotional, I just wanted to stay in the kitchen with you." He drew his knees up to his chest and gave a pitiful whimper.

_Get it together. You have one minute to stop crying, of you don't get to sleep tonight. If it takes two, you don't get to eat tomorrow. If it takes three, you have to hurt yourself._

Just a few moments later, John had talked himself into a small bit of calm. He kissed Greg's knuckles and offered a small smile. "Just the metal. I'm alright now. I'm not panicking, just sad."

The hope bled out of him like water in a sieve. John had been so calm and hopeful, and now he was crying and sad. Greg looked down at their hands, unable to help himself as his chin trembled. "I'm sorry. I thought- I should have just brought you in here. I'm- l-let me go get your breakfast, I'm sorry, John." 

He'd never have brought John into the kitchen had John not sounded so hopeful that morning. He pulled John into his arms, hating how he'd made John pull into a ball and whimper. He kept himself perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to draw back if John made a hint of resistance to being held. "I didn't mean to scare you," how he loathed himself for listening to John, for allowing himself a moment of comfort. He'd thought that feeding the dog might help and allowing John to decide to join him without arguing as well, but as usual, he'd done the wrong thing. 

"You don't need to be in the kitchen again today, that was my mistake, I'll bring you food okay? Do you need your pills? I can get those too. I'm so sorry, you were so happy. I-" _Christ_ it was difficult to face this, "what can I do to make you happy?"

John shook his head and breathed deeply of Greg's shirt and relished the comfort it brought. 

"This wasn't your fault. It's normal for me to be afraid of boiling water and hot metal. I think it's normal. Is that normal? Either way, next time, I'll be less scared, and the time after that, even less." He didn't know why he was explaining this process to Greg, who clearly already knew it. 

John pulled away and held Greg's shoulders. 

"I'm alright. Just give me a moment. We're still going to have a very good day, right? We'll walk Gladstone, and we'll do nice things. I can give you a massage, if you want. Those are good things. Rummy too! I just got a bit nervous, or...Sad? I don't know why it made me sad. It just did. I'm alright now though, and it's over." 

He smiled at Greg and brushed his fingers through his hair. "Okay?"

Greg gave John his best smile, nodding. 

"Okay," he returned, standing up and walking into the kitchen, collecting the food he'd made for John and bringing the cooled tea with a straw. He sat down beside John with his own tea, though he'd not made himself breakfast, in no mood to eat. 

The telly had a few interesting documentaries on, which he tuned to on a low volume, staring at a woodpecker working at a hole in a tree as he sipped at his drink, doing his best to mask how heavy his heart was. He tried to put his mind to why the earlier incident in the kitchen would make John sad. 

"Eggs okay?"

John nodded and left out the toast he had been hoping to try. Or would Greg rather he mentioned it? 

"Yeah, thanks. Sorry about that. Don't know what happened. I guess I could ask Paul later on." He started on his eggs and slowly scooted so he could lean on Greg slightly without being annoying. 

"I was thinking that we could maybe get headphones for when I walk. Maybe if I can't hear all the things..." John scrunched up his nose and shook his head. "But then I couldn't hear you. Never mind. Stupid idea. I really do want to go outside though."

Greg wrapped an arm around John's side and pulled him in close. "It's not a stupid idea. It's really not. What if you had the headphones on and I just tap your shoulder when I need to tell you something? We can take him to the courtyard where there are no cars or street traffic, and it will be enclosed."

He looked over at John's plate and then up to him, "Toast too much? I could put a bit of jam on it if you'd like, make it sweet? Don't be sorry for earlier, you've gotten very brave with the kitchen,you've watched me cook a few times, please don't worry on it." 

John wanted very much to try toast, but was worried that somehow he would fuck it up and react badly. It was just toast, but the kitchen had just been a kitchen, and he'd cried. 

John broke a piece off and used it to pick up some eggs. It was pleasant to eat, but John had already gotten himself a bit worked up. 

He'd had bread in captivity, hadn't he? Oh, god, the things he had done to earn it! And the punishments he received! 

John looked over at Greg, desperate for conversation.

"Headphones then. Yeah. Any music will do, but I'd like violins. I like the violin. I wasn't very brave. It's a kitchen! I shouldn't be afraid of a kitchen. Or bread. Stupid things to be afraid of. Food and kitchens. I'll never be a chef, will I?"

Greg's heart twisted hard and he did his best to mask his fear. 

"John...you don't have to eat the bread. It's okay if it's something you don't want, you don't have to eat it. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. It's...they are not stupid. Let's not walk Gladstone right now, okay? He's fine, he'll let us know if he needs out. We can just watch the telly for a bit. You don't have to eat the eggs. Do you want to watch this? I can find something else-" his ears were ringing as he babbled on, trying to fix everything. How had he dropped the ball so _fast_? 

He ran a shaking hand through his own hair. "It's safe, yeah? We're home, and you're safe. I didn't mean to stress you. Let's just...you're okay, John, we can just...I'm sorry! I didn't mean-" he'd been caught off guard and already struggling, and now he was hurting John. "Your pills, do you want your pills?"

John watched Greg spiral down so quickly and his expression grew sympathetic and pained. 

"No, no, Greg, it's alright. I just need to work through this. I'm just working through it. If it's stressing you, I can stop. But I'd like to add it to my meals, if..." Realizing that Greg likely wouldn't like him asking permission to eat, John stopped and recollected himself.

"I"m going to finish this piece of toast, alright? I might be stressed, but it's not your fault. I love you, alright? I'm just going to work through this." 

John broke off another piece of bread and covered it with eggs, which were familiar and therefore safe. 

"I'd like my pills though, yeah. That would help me, if you could get them, then come back."

Greg nodded, relieved that he could do something. He smiled tightly at John and got up, rushing off towards the bedroom and grabbing two of the four tablets Paul had left out for them, rushing back to John and tripping on his own feet as he made it back into the sitting room. He stumbled forward, keeping himself from hitting the ground, and sat down next to John. 

"Here...here are the...you take one or two, it's fine, either way it's fine. I- can I get you anything or-" he raked his hand through his hair, flashes of his children being ushered out the door with his bitter wife glaring at him sucking his breath away. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself to calm down, taking a deep breath and restraining himself from reaching out and pulling John into his arms. 

He was going to scare him if he wasn't careful. 

"Sorry, I'm...bit scattered today I'm sorry."

John leaned into Greg when he was held and nuzzled softly against him. "I love you," he muttered and took two pills. "I've-" John's blood ran cold and he abruptly turned to look at the clock. There was still just under three hours until Sherlock called. He relaxed visibly and kissed Greg's cheek. 

"I don't blame you for being scattered. I am sorry you are feeling that way. I'll help you in any way I can. Now..." He leaned back and took another bite of toast and eggs. "Should we go for a walk first, and risk me being a bit tense for Sherlock, or wait and talk to Sherlock, and risk being stressed for the walk?"

Greg didn't like either option. 

"What if I just take him down? You can sit out on the balcony and feed your birds, and you'll be able to talk to me over the ledge. I've already stressed you out so much, I-" God, he hated himself, "I can take Gladstone now and then it's done and we can just lay in bed and you don't actually have to call if you'd rather not I can just...I'll work on your hands? And we can watch- or you can- I'll read to you or-" he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to counter the hammering of his heart. The idea of stressing John so terribly was making him sick. 

"I can just take the dog," he repeated, shaking his head and holding John tight, "and we can keep the call to Sherlock very short." 

John understood Greg's discomfort, but he was having a rare bit of clarity. "I know you don't wish to cause me pain. You want to keep me safe. God, I understand that. But love, listen. I need to do these things. I need to talk to Sherlock, go outside, and be active. Those things stress me, but I need them. Just like adding toast to my meals. I want you to not be stressed, but I also want to do these things. Please, allow me to make a schedule for the day. Can I write it? It would make me feel much better." 

Greg very nearly whimpered in distress, tamping down on the sound as soon as he was aware of it. John made brutal schedules for himself that never failed to leave him screaming and begging Greg for mercy, retreating into his mind for days or terrified of Greg. 

His hands shook as he stood up, walking over to the desk and fetching John paper and a pencil so that he could write out his idea of a schedule. 

John had been so sure of the kitchen. It had taken less than five minutes for that to pan out predictably. 

He sat back down beside John, chewing the inside of his lip and breathing tight and fast, doing his best to keep quiet in his distress. It was going to be another day of failure on his part, and he wondered how long he'd have to beg John to come back to him this time. 

John took the pen and tapped it absently against the table in a rhythm of three, then four. "Okay, so first, now... I can give you a massage, or you can work on my hands." He wrote 'massage', so as to leave it open, then moved on. 

_12:00- call Sherlock_

Realizing he did not know how long that would take, he left a good amount of time to recover as well as to speak. 

_2:00- Go for walk with Greg and Gladstone.  
3:00- Eat again? Or Rummy._

John looked up at Greg hopefully. "Can we do these things?"

Oh, and how innocent that little list appeared. Just four little things. But it was never, ever just four little things. Greg already knew Sherlock was going to be resistant on the call, requesting not to speak to John again. It was unlikely to be an easy conversation. This created the massive possibility that calm would not happen until very near two, if at all, and then the walk? John had _lost_ it the last time they'd gone out. 

Greg nodded, "Yeah...John we...it's your day, we do it the way you want to," he said honestly, because John got to do what he wanted, and no fucking way was Greg going to stop him from trying to make progress, no matter how terribly anxious it all made him. 

"We...that's fine, John we can...however you want to.." he swallowed and tried to shake off the cold, dragging his palms over his trousers to dry them. 

John pushed the paper and pen to the middle of the table and started again with his toast and eggs. It didn't take him very long, and while it was fairly stressful, John managed it without tears and only the occasional, seemingly random flinch. He did his tea routine twice, which was his absolute minimum, and drained it rather quickly. 

When he was finished, there was still two hours until he had to call Sherlock. "So, do you want me to give you a massage, or would you rather work on my hands? Either is good for me, honestly. Your choice." He beamed up at Greg, as he was very pleased he'd managed a new food.

Greg abruptly pulled John into his arms, rocking him slightly and speaking with a smile he did not have to force. 

"You ate all of that! I am so- oh my god, John, that is _fantastic!_ Your first try and you ate all of that! I wasn't expecting-" he cracked a laugh and rubbed at John's back, "and you drank your tea faster!" Greg would never admit it, but it scalded him every time John checked to ensure that Greg wasn't going to hurt him. He very much looked forward to earning enough trust that John wouldn't shy from it as he did, expecting pain. 

"Your pick," he said as he eased back, smiling easier at John than he had earlier in the day, forcing himself to focus on the victory, "we can go either way, your pick."

"Oh, oh, thank you!" John closed his eyes and hugged Greg as tightly as he could as elation soared through him. He choked up, grew misty eyed and laughed in delight. 

"I'm...Jesus, thank you. Oh, my Greg. Thank you, Greg. Thank you. I'm going to keep working at it and keep making you happy. Thank you. It's such a relief to be able to eat." 

He flopped forward into Greg when he pulled back, completely giddy with joy of a success that was worked for. 

"I love it when you're happy with me. Thank you. Thank you for being happy with me. Oh, this is wonderful." 

He sat up then and kept one hand on Greg's shoulder. "Ah, I'm sorry. I get a bit excited, apparently. How about I work on your head, shoulders and back, then you fix my hands after?"

Greg smiled gently at John's reaction and gave him a nod in return. 

"That's fine, yeah, I'd like that," he said quietly, keeping the smile on his lips. These moments were sparking flint, popping embers on an otherwise blisteringly painful existence. Bright and brilliant, though sure to fizzle out swiftly. He was determined to enjoy them anyhow, taking what peace he could, even though he knew it was little more than hook and lure.

John looked down at his hands and hoped he would be able to relax Greg with them. Maybe, if he worked down from his head, to neck, to shoulders, then back, he could help him with whatever had been stressing him before. 

"You're the best. Thank you for letting me help. Where should I start?"

Greg smiled at him and shrugged. "Wherever you like, it was all amazing last time you did that for me." It seemed ages since they'd had a good day. Today was surely doomed already, but Greg was deeply in need of touch, feeling like something wild and injured. He leaned his shoulder against John's and looked back up to the telly. 

"Should I sit on the floor?"

John considered it for a moment, then turned Greg so he could sit sideways on the couch. "This will probably be easier. Then, you can lie down and I'll work on your back." John sat on the armrest of the couch and started gently on Greg's scalp. 

"I love it when we have a good day. I'm sorry the hot things made me sad. But we're okay now."

Gooseflesh bloomed down Greg's back as John's fingers sank into his hair. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin down. 

"You don't need to be sorry for that, John. It's hardly your fault and nothing you enjoy. I love when we have good days as well." He was quiet in his tone, closing his eyes as John's fingers slid over his sensitive scalp. 

"Thank you for doing this," he added, much later, "if you get tired, please say so."

John moved slowly and in a way that was clearly full of love. 

"Thank you for forgiving me. I didn't panic, though. Could you imagine if I was in a room with boiling water and hot metal say... a month ago? I'd have lost it." 

He leaned over and kissed the nape of Greg's neck before moving his fingers down. 

"And I've nearly gotten over it, thanks to you."

Greg tightened his hands on his wrists, keeping himself wrapped up in a ball, eyes closed and cheek resting against his knees. 

"You've made remarkable progress," he agreed, bypassing his role in any of that. Truly John had progressed _despite_ his efforts, "should be proud of yourself." 

The light kiss against his neck made his eyes burn, pulling up the corner of his lips in a shadowed smile.

_I wish I could keep you, or that you would keep me._

The thought of eventually losing John caused gooseflesh to bloom down his arms and set the echoing hollow of his chest off, pained and raw. John's affection was bittersweet, both deeply welcomed and terrible, one in the same.   
John worked down Greg's neck with gentle movements. He spared nothing, worked out every muscle slowly so there would be no discomfort. 

"Your shoulders are tight," John commented after some span of silence. He knew that stress, generally from loss of control, was held in the shoulders. 

"Maybe you need a hot bath." John could recognize that water was a positive thing for Greg without wanting it himself. 

Greg smiled at that, humming to himself as he tried to sink into the feeling of soothing hands on his back. [

"Maybe later," he quietly replied. He was never going to leave John on his own again, not as long as he was around. John's neck was still bruised from where he'd very nearly lost him and suddenly the feel of trying to push air into John's lungs came rushing back to him, catching his breathing up. 

He coughed, trying to clear away the momentary laps. He did not want to think about John with ashen-blue lips, lifeless under him, grey and mottled with a string tight around his neck in Greg's bed. "Maybe later."

John was used to Greg being not quite alright at this point, and while his hitched breath hurt, he did not inquire about. "Here," John said when he had worked his shoulders, "lie down. It'll be more comfortable." 

John knelt beside the sofa and began to knead the tense muscles on Greg's back. He wanted to go slow, to drag this out, as it was the first useful thing he'd done in ages. 

"You're still tight, love," John said quietly and bypassed most of the taut muscles in favor of simply rubbing Greg's back in a way that would relax him. 

"Just relax. Everything will be alright in the end."

Greg rest quietly on the sofa, allowing John to move him as he liked. It would be alright in the end, one way or another and John's calm kindness was deeply soothing. 

Greg closed his eyes and put his focus to attempts at relaxing, humming softly at the welcome touch. Within a few minutes, he was nearly dozing, lulled by the illusion that John was there as himself, and that somehow this would end with all of them alright. 

John worked for as long as his hands would allow, and when his fingers grew sore and weak, he simply worked with the heels of his hands in long, relaxing movements. The silence around John was comfortable, like a night in the fall when you've got just enough blankets to keep warm. But, just like a night in fall, it had a vague feeling about it that suggested it threatened coldness. 

John hummed as well, which warned things, and he smiled peacefully at the relaxation he had helped with. When he was nearly at the end of his capabilities, John simply ran his hands up and down Greg's back as he reached for a pillow to sit on. He crossed his arms on Greg's back and laid his head down gently in an attempt not to rouse him from his calm. 

Greg cracked an eye open and smiled at the weight of John's head on his back, reaching up over his shoulder and pulling one of John's hands down, starting to work on the tight muscles without a word. He delayed their conversation until half eleven, knowing it would be unfair to keep John in the dark before his call with Sherlock. 

"I was speaking with Mycroft just before you woke up this morning, John," he said quietly, still working on John's hand, wishing they could hold the easy silence far longer than they had. 

The gentle rise and fall of Greg's back as he breathed was more than comforting, and when combined with the work being done on his hands, it was blissful. John hummed and nuzzled down on his Greg. 

"What's wrong? This morning you said nothing had happened, right? Is everything alright?" Over worried as always, John shifted a bit so he could wrap his other arm around Greg's shoulders. 

Greg inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to get his thoughts together. 

"I said...I was thinking more...I wanted you to know that Sherlock was not-" _dead_ , "that he was...I misspoke, I did not intend...I used the wrong words. I was afraid you might think that...that something permanent had happened since I was upset and- right." He pressed John's palm to his lips and carried on with his efforts to work the tissue loose. 

"Sherlock had an...episode yesterday. He ah, he's mostly alright, Mycroft found him in time. Had a few seizures since but he's..." _What? Okay? Hardly, Greg_ , "talking and lucid." 

John started out sad, as Greg's rambling, pained tone always dragged him down, but at the mention of Mycroft finding him in time, John froze. Icy dread licked up his spine and drove away the warmth and calm he had cherished moments before. 

"So... When you say..." John stopped and cleared his throat. "When you say...found him in time...do...do you mean l-like how you found me in time?"

John's entire life seemed to be hanging in the balance of the question he hadn't had the strength to outright ask. 

Greg held John's hand to his chest and closed his eyes. "Like I found you in time," he said quietly, wishing he had other news to give. He shifted and looked over his shoulder, trying to make eye contact with John, unsure how he'd take that news.

John was silent for a few moments, then his breathing picked up. He drew the hand that Greg was working on to his chest, then over his face. 

"No, no, no, he...I talked to him and...he didn't... why? I didn't...did he think he was back? Oh, god...oh, god..." John had already begun to rock himself and pulled his other hand away to cover his face. 

"I-I should have...I was supposed to...I don't know but...I should have..." He didn't even know what he should have done, let alone what he had done wrong. 

Greg felt the stinging loss of John's hand, allowing it to slice through his heart before he turned slowly to his back, wrapping John in his arms and pulling him down against his chest. 

"Mycroft climbed over him, hand a hand on his chest and climbed over him, I think that may have contributed to what happened. I'm not clear on how it all played out. You didn't do anything wrong, John. He's not been away from Moran for very long, it makes sense that he's struggling. Take a deep breath for me, I know this is upsetting," he said as gently as he could, "breathe John, slow down."  
John let out a choked sob and held on to Greg with all his strength. He pressed his face against his shoulder and allowed the grief to fill him. 

"Did he stop...was he breathing? Oh, God...oh, god..." John could see it, his Sherlock, his chest so still and his lips turning blue. "Oh, God..." John rocked himself in Greg's arms and tried to breathe properly as Greg had asked. 

It dawned on him that this was, perhaps, just as painful, if not more, as when he himself had tried to die. He knew that he loved Sherlock, that the loss of him would be devastating, but here he was once again, being reminded of how intensely he needed Sherlock to be alive, even if he did not particularly want to go to him. 

With a sudden jolt, John realized that there was a possibility that it was his fault. "If I-I had gone, h-he w-wouldn't have-" He broke off when he became completely unable to articulate what he had so clearly done wrong.

Greg kept his voice as level and even as he could manage, taking a deep breath and again exhaling slowly. 

"And what should I have done, John? If this is your fault with him, then it is surely my fault with you. What should I have done differently?" The words were gentle and quiet, if not laced unintentionally with sharp pain. 

"You are not there, John. This is not your fault, it's not. He's...he's dealing with quite a lot, and I'd imagine Mycroft's misstep was instrumental in giving him a flashback. It's a stretch to blame yourself, John. You were very kind to him on the phone." 

John shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut at Greg's voice. 

"I'm sorry! You couldn't have done... I tricked you! I intentionally manipulated you. I just...There were always so many mind games and I had to think and I thought I had finally..." But no, John would never have been able to outsmart Jim Moriarty. 

"I'll h-help him better this time. I know...I know that...flashbacks...Okay. Okay. If it was a flashback, it's not my fault. Couldn't be my fault. Not my fault." John looked at Greg and his eyes shone with pain. 

"Can we go to bed now? Can we go lie down for just a bit?"

It was only fifteen to twelve. Greg simply picked John up in his arms, carrying him down the hall with Gladstone following close behind. Absently he wondered if he'd be sending a message to Mycroft in apology or not. John always became agitated when Greg suggested they not call, so he kept his mouth shut as he tucked John into the bed. 

The reminder that John had done what he'd done intentionally was far from welcome, and he had to force himself to accept that pain and move on without a word. 

"Even if it wasn't a flashback, John, it's not your fault. I'm only telling you so that you're prepared the next time you talk to him...he ah, he is just confused." 

John continued to cry, though lightly, through grief and not panic. He adhered himself to Greg and placed his head just over his heart where he could hear the reliable metronome ticking away.   
"You won't ever leave me, right?" 

John was quite certain Greg never would, but he needed to hear it. 

"I'll always have you, right? You won't get too sad because I'm not good at this?" He grabbed a handful of Greg's shirt and raised it to his face. 

If Greg and Sherlock left, John only prayed they left him a way to follow. 

"Till you don't need me anymore," Greg assured, sliding his fingers through John's hair, working gently over his scalp, "till you don't need me anymore." 

He decided not to tell John that Sherlock requested no more calls. Mycroft wouldn't have it, and John would likely fall apart. 

"Mycroft said that he's been...behaving very...ah, childlike, so...I just wanted you to be prepared in case he's still like that on the phone. Are you still up for calling him? I can push it back, that's okay too."

John hugged Greg tighter for a moment. "I'm never going to not need you."

The idea of not calling exactly at twelve made him anxious, and he shook his head. "We'll call at noon exactly. I want him to be used to that."

Greg drew in a slow breath and gently slid his fingers down John's back, picking up his mobile. 

"It's three minutes till, John. Are you sure? I know you want him used to this, but he's...are you up for this right now? I don't want to discourage you, I really don't, I'm just worried."

John held the phone absently and leaned up to kiss Greg's cheek. "I'll not tell him that I tried to leave. I won't mention that he did. I'll speak gently, try not to sound afraid, and say nice things. Is that right?"

Greg shifted them to their sides so that John was in no way exposed, keeping him wrapped tight and patting the area behind John's back so that Gladstone would hop up and lay at John's back. "Whatever you want to do, John. It all sounds fine, but you're allowed to speak to him how you need to." 

It was odd that John was having such mixed reactions, though that was likely from his trauma. How anyone could still be afraid of Sherlock at this point, Greg had no idea. "I'm sorry he still scares you." 

John sighed and dropped his head. "He doesn't scare me. I know that. I know he's a kind -well, sort of- man, and he wouldn't hurt me. That doesn't change that his voice can be a bit stressful over speakerphone, and that... Well, mostly I'm afraid I'll mess something up, and it'll be me hurting him."

John dialed the number right when the clock showed twelve. 

Sherlock's voice came over the line after the fourth ring. 

"J-John?" He breathed, his voice small and rasping. Greg closed his eyes at the sound of it, disheartened to hear the man sounding so very diminished.

John anchored himself to Greg by holding tightly to the hem of his shirt. "Hey, Sherlock," he began in an amiable tone he prayed would last. 

"How are you? I'm here with Greg and Gladstone."

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut tight and spoke quietly. 

"That's...is...is th-the d-dog..." he trailed off, whimpering as he looked up to his brother, his lower lip trembling, "is h-he...f-friendly?" 

John was grateful for the pleasant conversation and ruffled Gladstone's fur. "He's massive and as docile as anyone could hope. He sort of follows me, but not in an obnoxious way like the little dogs. We don't trip over him or anything. And he's protective of me."

Sherlock sank a hand in his hair, pulling tight as he lay there quietly sobbing. He managed to get his voice somewhat under control. 

"Th-at's...g-good you sh-should...be protected," he managed, the raw rasping of his voice painful, making him wince. 

John whimpered a bit and his expression grew pained. "Sherlock, you're upset. I understand this. But I'd like to tell you that I understand what you're going through, and It will get much better." 

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments before he fell apart. Greg bundled John closer as Sherlock's fragile sobbing came over the line, carding his fingers through John's hair and wrapping tighter around him. "It's okay," he breathed to John, trying to infuse a bit of calm to the situation. Sherlock was very quiet, his voice distressingly weak. 

"I'm....I'm-m scared," Sherlock breathed through the line, indeed sounding much like a child, "a...an....and it...h-hurts."

"It's going to hurt, Sherlock. It's going to be frightening, and painful, but you'll get better at it.You'll learn that things aren't so bad. And I know it's painful, I know you're scared, but you need to keep going. Alright? You just keep going, and eventually you'll some reason to be alive. I've got happy things now that I would have missed if I hadn't made it through." 

John used every ounce of his strength to not ramble or stammer.

Sherlock whimpered and brought his fingers to his lips, crying sadly as he listened to John. 

"G-Greg...and....and Gl-Glads-s-stone and...b-birds..." how he'd begged his brother not to force him to take the call, how he'd pleaded! He bit at his fingers, breathing rapidly. 

"Ok-kay, John...I..." he lost his voice then, terrified that it was going to carry on being painful and frightening, sobbing around his raw fingertips, "Okay-y."

John did not like what he was doing, and he looked to Greg for help as he began again. "After we talk, I'm going to go outside and practice being alright with it. I'm coming to you. Remember that. I might not be all right yet, but I am coming to you. Today I stayed in the kitchen even when there was hot metal and boiling water for making food. I cried..." John sounded disappointed with himself, "but I stayed. Are you... You can eat, can't you?"

Sherlock shook his head, not wanting to get into it. "I...I c-can't...hold a f-fork or...it's...I t-try but...n-needles and..." he whimpered pathetically and pulled at his hair, rocking himself in a bid to calm down, heart racing and his blood pressure through the roof. 

"I...I d-on't want...m-m-metal I-" he cried out as fear raced up his spine and he covered his chest with one hand, chewing hard at his fingertips. 

"I don't w-want- please I-" he shuddered and looked to his brother in wide-eyed fear. 

"There's no metal today," John said in an easy tone. "Please don't be afraid. You're talking to John Watson. You are in your brother, Mycroft Holmes' house. You are safe. Please don't be afraid." 

There was a tone of desperation in his voice that he simply couldn't mask.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer to him and began to rock him. "It's alright, 'Lock. I've got you."

Sherlock wept as he pressed his face to Mycroft's chest, holding on for dear life. He screamed, the sound muffled, as John stated his full name over the line, which threw him into a violent panic. He could not get his voice to work for nearly a minute as he clawed for purchase against Mycroft, his forehead damp with sweat, confused and afraid. 

"I- I'm s-sorry," he sobbed, "I d-didn't- I _didn't_ h-hurt J-John! I- oh g-god _please st-stop_!" 

He screamed again as his mind threw him right back into the arms of Moran, the drag of metal on stone making him gag with fear, nearly ripping Mycroft's shirt as he pulled chaotically in a tangled mix of wanting closer and trying to escape. 

John dropped the phone as if it were on fire and scrambled almost on top of Greg. He wrapped his legs around his waist, his arms around his neck, and looked very much like a child clinging to a parent. He hid his face, but his eyes were wide. 

"I'm sorry! Sherlock, I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean it please stop screaming you're alright and you're safe and I'm an idiot I'm so sorry!" John trembled violently and his vision wavered in stress brought on by pure self hatred. 

_If I do not help Sherlock in one minute, I do not get to sleep tonight.  
If I do not help Sherlock in two minutes, I do not get to eat tomorrow. _

Remembering that sometimes calming took longer, his next allowed for more time. 

_If I do not help Sherlock in ten minutes, I have to hurt myself._

John snatched the phone and began to speak in hushed, slightly urgent tones. 

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, I'm alright. I'm safe. I'm not being hurt. You've saved me from that. C-Could you listen to me for just a minute? I'd like that very m-much."

Greg decided that in all of this, it was at least a positive thing that John carried on knowing that Sherlock was not in danger. That, in and of itself, was massive progress. John brought himself back from the brink of panic as well, again something admirable and relieving. 

Sherlock did little more than weep for the next few seconds, though the sound of John's quiet, yet urgent voice pulled him out of it. "J-John?"

"Oh, thank God," John said on an exhale. He held the phone close again and spoke softly. 

"You forgot where you were. I'm safe, and you're safe too. I'll be there to help you soon. Just give me time to get used to cars, alright? Is that okay? Will you wait for me?" 

John desperately needed to know that Sherlock would be alive when he got there.

"W-Wait...for...b-but you...you don't l-like me an-anymore. You're n-not...not coming you...you h-have a n-new life...you d-don't l-like me..." he whimpered and bit at his fingers, sounding much like a small boy. 

"I m-make you...y-you cry and...you don't..y-you don't w-want m-me anymore I-" he looked up at Mycroft in confusion. 

The words stung mainly for their truth. They hurt because John realized, as he was going I retort, that he didn't want Sherlock anymore. But damnit, if Sherlock wanted him there, he would go, because even if he didn't like Sherlock, he loved him dearly. 

"I love you," he said with a solid tone and firm conviction. "I am coming for you. Now if you don't want me, I'll stay away. But I don't think that is the case. I'm coming to you."

Sherlock absolutely did not understand. 

"Y-You don't!" 

He'd not meant to shout, but he could not stand the games. He was exhausted, and forcing himself to stay for his brother's sake, and John's words did not make sense. 

"Y-You don't! If-f...n-no you...l-long time ago y-you st-stopped...you...wh-why are you...wh-why? I d-don't know wh-what I did wr-wrong! P-Please just...wh-what...wh-why are you s-saying..." he broke down sobbing, shouting into Mycroft's chest again. 

"I DON'T H-HAVE AN-AN-ANYTH-THING _L-LEFT!_ I'm s-s-sorry I couldn't st-stop you from leaving! I- y-you don't WANT M-ME ANYMORE!" 

Oh, how those words ripped up out of his heart and broke across his swollen throat and dripped heavy with his own heartbreak, anguished, shouted for the weight of his grief and devoid of anger. 

John could not stand another moment of it, and the phone fell from his hands. Tears streaked down his face and he began to sob, slowly, as the feeling of his heart twisting and dying pained him worse than anything had in months. He turned away from the phone and pressed his face against Greg's chest. He'd not helped Sherlock, which would mean he couldn't sleep that night. Or eat tomorrow. And- how long had it been? John wailed in despair and closed his eyes tight. He couldn't manage many words; they were all ripped away from him by the force of his pain. He shouted without being able to form thoughts and his words remained jumbled. 

"SORRY! SOR- I LOVE- I CAN'T-" John cried hard and his grief was blinding. He knew that he didn't want Sherlock, and he already felt terrible about it. He already despised himself. "I'M COMING! IM GOING TO- WHY ISN'T THAT ENOUGH- I CAN'T-" John grabbed hold of Greg and shook him. 

"Make it stop! Make it STOP!" 

Greg grabbed the mobile and simply rang off, wrapping his arms around John and holding him tight, texting at his back. 

_I'm sorry, that was out of control. Maybe tomorrow let me calm John down._

He held John tight, rocking him as he carded his fingers through his hair. "It's done, it's over, breathe for me John please, just breathe." 

John screamed into Greg's shoulder and wailed in grief. 

"H-HE- I DON'T BUT I S-SAID I-" Unable to continue and feeling sick to his stomach, John sat up and put one hand over his mouth. He gagged abruptly as waves of nausea over what an utterly despicable person he was. 

John was pale and went suddenly silent, just for an eerie moment as he contemplated the fact that he would now, according to his time schedule and punishments, have to hurt himself. And he had no breakfast tomorrow. And he couldn't sleep. Pain, no food, and no sleep. It made him shiver, and abruptly break down once more. 

Greg took hold of John's shoulders and pushed him back enough so that he could look him in the eye. "John Watson, you will listen to me," he said firmly, leaning in and brushing a kiss to the corner of John's lips, lingering only for a second before leaning back, "he is _lost_ , he isn't thinking clearly. You did _nothing wrong_! Breathe, John! Please do this for me, if not for yourself. I need you to calm down." 

John was hyperventilating. He was not thinking. He looked at Greg, but his words seemed to fall mute upon John's ears. John felt faint, dizzy and overwhelmingly awful. It went beyond the self hatred that he'd felt before. Right now, he wanted someone, perhaps God himself, to strike him down. He wanted the earth to swallow him up. 

How would he give penance? Would it be hot tea that he hurt himself with? A knife? John screamed at the thought and doubled over on the bed. There was no way out of it; he needed to do something to make it up to Sherlock. John didn't feel right not being punished. 

"C-Can I have a...a shower?" That had been the most terrifying real thing to happen since Greg had taken him in.

Greg blinked at John, totally startled. "A _what_? John _no_! No, we are not- absolutely not, no, are you- what- Jesus Christ, are you trying to _punish_ -" he shook his head, reaching out and grabbing the remaining pills off the dresser. 

"You take these, right now. John, take these." He kept a tight hold of the man, horrified with this reaction and not entirely understanding it. 

"You are _not to hurt yourself_. Do you understand me John? You are _not_ going to hurt yourself."

John closed his mouth shut in refusal of the pills that he wanted but did not deserve. His chest was brilliantly painful and his eyes burned from tears. Shaking his head, John sat up and wrapped his arms around himself.

He looked away from Greg in shame when he told him not to hurt himself, and simply shook his head. Sobs shook him in broken, guttural waves that broke his desire to keep his mouth shut. 

"No, John. Absolutely _not_. If this is how you are going to treat yourself after we speak with Sherlock, then we will not be calling him again." 

Greg was _not_ having this. He did not reach for John, though he felt the sting of his retreat horribly, "I love you, and I am not going to watch you do this to yourself. You didn't do anything wrong! Love, _please_ , don't do this. I know you're upset,I'm sorry he said those things to you. Please, we were going to have a nice day, remember? You made a schedule, and we are going to have-" his words stuttered out as his own throat closed. 

"Please," he repeated on a whisper, "John, I love you, please don't make me watch you do this to yourself."

John was trembling hard and he doubled fully over on the bed. He screamed into the mattress, but remained otherwise mute. If Greg was going to take his phone time away, how would he be able to help Sherlock? What purpose would he serve? If he didn't call, then Sherlock would think he'd abandoned him! He'd know John didn't want him!

The thoughts alarmed John and he shook his head. 

Terror, blinding, burning and agonizing, licked up John’s spine like brushed fingertips of unwanted touch. What he was doing, the measures he was taking to make sure he didn't hurt Sherlock again, were actively hurting Greg. 

John looked up with stark panic on his face and practically lunged for Greg. "O-O-Okay," he stammered in an attempt to comfort him. "'S o-okay." 

Greg wrapped his arms around John, holding him tight and rocking him. 

"John, love, you're not thinking clearly. Please take these, or let me give you something else. You are not thinking clearly. I don't know what's going on in your head right now, but you've got to let me help you. Please let me help you." 

He rocked him, sliding his fingers through John's scruffy hair, his own chest locked up tight with fear. 

"Sherlock is just sad and confused, it's not your fault, John. It's not your fault. You were so kind to him, he's just lost. Please, John, I would tell you if you did something wrong. Please. I love you, let me help." 

He was doing his best to keep calm as John clearly tried to take care of Greg as well. 

"You look like you're about to faint, love. Please let me help you, let me take care of you. Please."

John wailed in abject despair. He seemed to be upon a choice, either listen to Greg or go through with his punishment, which he believed would help Sherlock.

In reality, Sherlock would have much rather John be safe and comfortable, and his and Greg's desires on the topic of John hurting himself were aligned, but to John, the choice was between Sherlock and Greg. 

"I C-CAN'T CHOOSE!" John's voice was muffled behind the hand over his mouth. "SHERLOCK AND-AND YOU I JUST-" 

John turned and felt himself growing sick. 

Greg kept rocking him, trying to calm him down. 

"You don't have to choose, John, you don't have to choose. You are in pain right now, that is _not_ helping Sherlock, and it's not helping me. It's definitely not helping you. Let's get you calm, so we can talk about this. Please, love, I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, John," he asked as he dragged the bin over with his foot, feeling John's stomach heaving, "Take three deep breaths for me and then tell me if you trust me.

John got to two breaths before violently sucking up over the side of the bed into the bin. He stayed doubled over and wept. Clearly, Greg didn't understand that there were rules, even if they only existed in John's mind, and that there were punishments, even if John had to give them out himself. 

"Sh-Shower then w-we can b-be done!" John grabbed his blanket and attempted to stand on his own, despite his shaky legs and dizziness. 

"You are terrified of water. No. _No_. John, I love you, I'm giving you medicine," he said as he stood up, putting the pills back on the dresser and moving across the room to grab one of the predrawn syringes, "Just in your dripline, you won't feel pain. Sit down, John," he instructed, lost as to how else to handle this. 

He gently moved John back to the bed and sat down next to him, wrapping an arm around his side. "Please let me have your hand, let me give you this. Please. I love you, we can't do this." 

"NO!" John hid his hand from Greg and curled over it. If Greg wanted it, he'd have to pry John off first. 

"Shower! SHOWER! I deserve it! I DESERVE IT!" The last two words came out easy and rehearsed, and John let out a wheezing scream with each exhale. 

He sank his fingernails into his skin on one arm and began to tear at it with the clear intention of drawing blood.

"JOHN!" 

Greg grabbed at John's wrists and prized them far apart, pressing John's hands down to the bed on either side of John's hips, giving Gladstone the command to sit as the dog whined at them, nosing at John's leg. 

"John _stop this!_ " He pulled John into his arms, holding John's biceps to John's sides, rocking him and keeping him in a position where he could not get his hands together. 

"Stop it, John, stop it, you don't deserve to hurt. Stop it."

John did not want his wrists pinned, even if I was by Greg, and he gave a sharp cry of fear before struggling against them. "Don't! Don't! Please! Sorry!" He did lean against Greg, despite his bit of apprehension.

"Punishment," he gasped, "Sherlock was... He said I didn't... I DESERVE IT! I'M HURTING HIM!" 

Greg knew that John loathed being pinned and spoke as softly as he could, "John, I'm going to let you go, but I'm going to stop you from hurting yourself. You do not deserve to be punished, this is not your fault!" 

He eased off, but kept hold of John's wrists without restricting him, simply following his movements while holding tight. 

John whimpered and kept his eyes down in a mixture of shame, guilt and fear. 

"Th-there a-a-are RULES!" 

He looked around the room for something to get his punishment over with. This was not the first time he'd been left to deal out his own punishment, and John was just surprised there wasn't a iron rod to hit himself with, or a bit of still glowing metal. 

"Shower," he gasped again, this time pleadingly. "Y-You did b-before! I n-n-need to be put in... M-Make the water hot and-" with a rush of tears and a pained wail he stopped and doubled back down on the bed. 

Greg's gut twisted as John spoke of the shower as though Greg had been punishing him. For a moment he considered going through with it, the water tepid and getting in with John himself, but that would not work. John was looking for punishment and would associate the shower as such. 

"Those are not our rules, John! Don't you dare bring his rules into OUR HOME, he is not in control here!" 

He rubbed John's back gently, horrified with what he was hearing. "These are not our rules! You are going by the wrong rules!" 

"These a-are MY RULES!" John closed his eyes and screamed the last two words. 

"B-Because I'm STUPID a-and d-don't do anything right an I-I-I d-do bad things and I need to LEARN!" 

John wrapped his arms around Greg, but something in him spat that he didn't deserve the comfort. John flinched, held Greg as tight as he could to pull as much warmth as possible, then let go. 

He sat whimpering and crying in front of Greg with his head bowed and tears dripping from the tip of his nose. He was so incurably stupid, and punishment was clearly the only way he was going to learn. 

Greg reached back out, refusing to let John do this to himself. If John didn't want to hold on to Greg or be restrained, then Greg would work with what he had. He moved to John's back, legs splayed out on either side of John's outer thighs, arms wrapped around John with one hand splayed over John's heart and the over over his too-thin belly, leaving John's arms free and rocking him as he rest his chin on John's shoulders. 

"I love you. _Bullocks_ are those your rules. Those don't come from John Watson, they come from _abuse_. You are brilliant, and you've done so much right, and I've not once watched you do a bad thing since you've been back." He pressed a soft kiss to John's neck. 

"Please hear my voice, and not the the cruelty in your own mind. Listen to me, John. Listen to me."

John held desperately to Greg's hand and squeezed when he felt the kiss. 

"I d-don't DESERVE IT," he cried and drew his knees up to his chest. "My rules! They a-are my rules! It's n-not abuse! I n-need to LEARN! I have t-to LEARN!" 

John twisted and tried to escape the comfort he wanted more than anything. 

"I-I h-hurt him and n-now punishment and I'll l-learn and not d-do it again and h-h-he'll stop screaming at me!"

Another wave of nausea hit him and he scrambled to lean over the edge. Sherlock's accusing tone rang in his mind and scattered his thoughts like frightened birds. 

Greg rubbed John's back as he was ill again, refusing to let him go, desperate to keep hold of him. He grabbed the cloth that Paul had left, gently running the dry cotton over John's lips after he was yet again ill, and then pulling him back up against his chest. 

"Learn _what_ , John? You did not do _anything wrong_. He's in pain, but you did not do that! You did not do this to him. You didn't. You told him you love him, and that you're coming for him, and that you are sorry he's hurting! You told him that it gets better, that you understand! Remember how I told you that he was already lost before you called? John, please slow down, slow down."

John's stomach clenched painfully and his weak abdominal muscles ached. He brought shaking hands up and buried them in his hair, where they hung on, but did not rip. 

"H-He was right! I don't w-want him! I want you and Gladstone a-and my birds! But I c-can't leave him b-because that h-hurts him and I want him to be happy more than I-I want to be above water!" 

John knew what was to happen when there was a problem with his thinking that needed to be corrected. He knew that it meant punishment until he was thinking properly, and only at that point would the punishment stop. 

"N-Need to w-want him and h-help him. Punish... I need to learn!"

Greg kept his voice gentle, though loud enough for John to easily hear him, rocking him slowly to keep from making him ill. 

"John, you cannot be _made_ to want him. I know that's heartbreaking but it's the _truth_. He has Mycroft, and he will heal from this. Maybe in time your feelings will change. Punishment isn't going to honestly make you want Sherlock again, it won't. He doesn't want you to hurt, Christ, John look what he did to stop you from hurting more. You punishing yourself flies in the face of what he did. You want him happy, not just safe but _happy_. That's huge, John, it's huge. Maybe sometime down the road, you'll miss him. Either way, you can't _force yourself_ to feel that for him, you can't." 

John shook his head and reached for his blanket. He balled it up and held it in his lap, which was strangely comforting. 

"If Moriarty can force me to f-fear someone I-I loved, I c-can force myself to want h-him again!" 

John's tone was wild and desperate, but also focused. 

"Shower w-would b-be good. Fair. I ch-choose water. I choose the w-water." John was very abruptly dizzy and stars cracked along the edges of his vision. 

"I-I ch-choose water, I choose w-wa....wa....ter...." His voice trailed off and he dropped his head down to the blanket in an attempt to regain his mind, which was attempting to slip away. 

Greg closed his eyes and just held John to his chest, moving with him when he folded down. He kept his hand firmly over John's chest and belly, allowing Sherlock's music to thread through the room. Gladstone moved closer, nosing at John's legs with a quiet whine. 

"I'm right here," Greg whispered after a few minutes, "I'm right here with you. You're safe. You're home. I'm right here and I love you." 

John let out a choked sob and repeated the phrase 'I choose water' in broken speech until the phrase sounded odd and meant nothing to him. 

He wept bitterly at the fact that not only would he now have to find a new way to punish himself, but he wasn't even allowed to sleep and escape. Or eat in the morning. 

John was making his life more and more like it had been with Moriarty, though unconsciously so.

Greg spoke quietly to him when this had gone on so long that John's voice was strained. "If we do water, you do that with me, in the tub, and I get to control the temperature. That's the only way we do this, John, that's it." 

He slid his fingers gently through John's hair, brushing the pads of his fingers over John's temple. "I love you, I hate that you are hurting like this. I'm sorry Sherlock was like that on the phone."

John nodded immediatly. "Tub. Alright. That's-" his voice broke and he began to cry like a frightened child. 

"Th-that's a g-good idea. Okay. I-I choose the t-tub." 

In his mind's eye, the tub was an old bathtub that didn't belong, crusted with blood and full of dank water. It was something to be held in until your lungs burned, or something to be heated and thrown in. John clutched his blanket to his middle and scooted to the edge of the bed. 

"Tub. O-Okay. Fair. F-" dejected sobs, like those of a cowardly man going to his hanging, shook his chest as he stood. "Fair. Learn."

Greg sat up with John and watched him closely, his gut twisted, terrified that he was going to make this worse. 

"First, you take your pills," he said gently, reaching out and taking them in his hand, offering them to John. "We are not going to move at all until you take these." 

John pressed his lips together in firm defiance. "I don't g-get pills," he retorted as if to an offense. He stayed balled up around his blanket and took shuffling, halting steps towards the bathroom. 

Inside was terror and agony, blinding and hot. He knew this, and yet he took another step. Inside he'd be in water, And yet he took another step. He walked forward with grim determination that only occasionally cracked and left him still, crying, and terrified. 

Greg followed him into the the bathroom, still holding the pills in his hand. 

"I'm serious, John. _Take these_ or we are just going to go back to bed. In fact, forget this, no, you're petrified. No. This is wrong, this...this needs to be a good thing for you, no. Come back to bed with me, okay? I'll read to you about the dragons. We are not doing this, I made a mistake," he said as gently as he could, his own voice shaking, "John, come back with me, no water, you're not ready for water." 

"NO!" 

John smacked Greg's hand as hard as he could and darted into the bathroom. He pressed himself against the back wall and held his arms across his chest, which would make him a bit harder to grab. 

"DESERVE IT! LET ME!" 

There was no trace of reason in his voice, and John had nearly forgotten what he did to deserve his punishment. It didn't matter. He would go through with it anyway, because that's what needed to be done.

Greg stood there, frozen in place as the pills went flying, staring at John in open shock. John had managed to get a surprising hit on him, and while it wasn't anything that he couldn't take, it surprised him down to his core. His heart slammed against his ribs as confirmation of his error stood directly in front of him. 

"Fine," he said after a moment, his voice dejected, "you punish yourself, and then you feel free to spend the next...how long will it be, John? Two days? Two weeks? Punishing me for failing to protect you. Alright, fine, we'll do it how you want. I suppose I deserve it for letting this get so out of hand. Do as you like, John." 

He spoke in a quiet whisper, slowly crouching down to get the pills. 

He turned around and walked out, opening drawers and closing them before returning to the lav, setting out clean pants, trousers, and comfortable shirt for John to change into. He then took up a seat on the closed toilet lid beside the tub, determined to keep John from burning himself. 

"I'm NOT PUNISHING YOU!" 

John slid down the wall as his knees went weak. He fisted his hands in his hair and stared wildly around the little room as his chest heaved. The water was there, able to hurt him, and John felt rooted in place. He slowly got onto his hands and knees and crawled, which was a habit not forgotten, over to the tap. Using the lid of the bath as a protective barrier, John reached one hand cautiously out and started the tap. The rush of water startled him greatly and John screamed. He jerked back, slammed his head into the cabinets under the sink behind him, and covered his face with his hands. 

Greg was forgotten. His guilt about punishing his friend was torn from his mind, as was his reason for needing punishment in the first place. But he had a set of things memorized to keep him pressing forward. 

_The faster I get this done, the less pain I will be in._

_The more pain I inflict on myself, the happier he will be._

_If I wait, hesitate, or try to escape, it will make it worse._

John crawled back to the edge of the tub and slowly looked over at the water. His eyes glanced to the temperature control, which he set to the highest possible setting. 

Greg put one hand out, firmly pushing John bodily away from the tub as he killed the taps with the other. No, _fuck no_ was this about to happen. 

He set his jaw and reached out, grabbing the blanket John had dropped and wrapping him in it, using the full force of his own strength to bundle John to his chest. He lifted him up, gut twisting at the heat of blood against his arm, and turned to carry him out of the bathroom. 

"I love you," he repeated, knowing John was already gone from him, tears blurring his vision as he ignored any protest, taking John back to the bed. He sat down with John in his arms, holding him firmly in his lap as he grabbed the cloth and pressed it to the small but bleeding laceration at the back of his head. 

For lack of any better option, or rather, for lack of any other known option, John began to scream. His agonized voice tore from him as even the small pain in his head was blown far out of proportion. 

At this point, John was no longer trying to punish himself for something he did to Sherlock. Now, several mental steps down, he was screaming in fear that he had not completed his assigned punishment, and therefore would be hurt tenfold. He thrashed and quickly lost sight of the person holding him as his mind tossed him back in time to a place of animalistic, raw fear. 

He screamed until his voice was raw then wept until he was empty inside. 

Greg pushed himself back on the bed, bruised from John's frantic efforts to escape him. He held on to him as he thrashed, deeply regretting that Paul was not there to help, feeling each terrified scream tear through him with tremendous guilt. He knew John, in this state, would not hear him. He simply kept him wrapped up tight and rocked him, doing his best to keep John from hurting himself. 

When John finally began to lose his strength and the fight began to bleed away from him, Greg began to speak very gently. 

"You are home, John. Blankets and pillows, music, warmth. You've your clothes on. You're with Greg. Greg has you. Safe, John, safe." 

John whimpered with pain and fear. Surely his punishment was coming. Why hadn't it come? Why wasn't- 

John came to life again when he realized that someone had their arms around him. He jumped and began to frantically rock himself while humming something high pitched and repetitive. 

Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and he wanted to part of it. As his humming increased in volume and pitch, John tried again to speak. 

"Tried, I-I tried, I couldn't...Please...Please, I didn't...I tried..."

Greg adjusted his grip on John as he rocked him, keeping him close to his chest and rocking him at a slower pace than the panic that was tearing through the man now. He carried on repeating himself, talking over John as he begged. 

"You're home. You're safe. Oh!" he'd forgotten. Perhaps it was worth a try. "John! Vatican Cameos!" He said the word loud and forceful, hoping to cut through the fog. 

Immediately he fell back into repeating, "Safe. Blankets and pillows. Clothes. Warm. Greg. Safe..." 

John could hear Greg, though distant, and without knowing who it was or what he was saying. He couldn't scream, and the knowledge scared him. 

"Trying...Tried... I-" John suddenly froze and his arms flew up to cover himself. Danger? He hadn't exactly heard the words, but he knew that something wasn't right. John shifted and his whimpering stopped for just a moment as he tried to listen and figure out what was wrong. He was somewhere bad, this he knew, had failed to punish himself, and would be injured soon. He was certain. But, as always, the words he didn't remember hearing prompted him to look further. 

Greg thumped his head back against the wall and nearly fell apart, whimpering in defeat. His eyes pinched shut tight and he nearly screamed, defeat pouring over him as his last plan failed. He adjusted his arms over John and held him tight, rocking them both as he allowed himself to fall apart, quietly crying as he rest his head against John's with his eyes pinched closed. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've tried to keep you safe, you're home, no one is going to hurt you, with Greg, you're with Greg, warm, safe, with Greg..." 

John didn't understand what could be wrong with the situation. It was so familiar. He'd done this so many times and not died yet. While it was terrible, it was also known and familiar to him. 

John caught snatches of words between his own whines on each exhale and the blood pounding in his ears. One word, one word...there was...

"GREG?" John caught the word and held his breath in the silence that to John, held the deafening threat of disappointment. 

Greg spoke right there against the side of John's head. 

"You are with Greg, I'm right here, Greg is right here, you're safe. You're with Greg and you're safe," he repeated again and again, rocking John, his own muscles starting to shake with exhaustion. 

"You're with me. I love you and you're safe, John."

John was hopelessly lost and confused, which reflected in his voice. 

"GREG? GREG!" 

His eyes were still closed in fear that he would open them and see the cheshire grin of Moriarty, or Moran's threatening built, or Sherlock standing over him. 

But that wasn't right either, was it? John cried in confusion and terror before catching another word. Love. John drew in his breath to scream, but stopped. It didn't sound like the painful sort he had been threatened with. 

"GREG! GREG!" John knew nothing else, but alone on the concrete floor, as he perceived himself to be, he knew that he wanted Greg. 

Greg very gently leaned down and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to John's temple, speaking softly to John who was screaming his name. 

"I have you, John. I have you. You're with me. John, I'm right here," he repeated, brushing his fingers along the side of John's face, sliding a hand along the side of his neck. 

"Greg is right here. You're with me, John, open your eyes, I'm right here. I'm right here. Safe, you're safe and I love you. Greg has you." 

John's eyes opened on command and he stared at Greg for a full three seconds before crying out in relief. He turned so he could hold on and wrapped his legs around Greg's waist. He held on for dear life and clasped his hands together behind Greg, one over his shoulder and one under like a seatbelt. 

"Oh, Greg, Greg, Greg! Help! Help!" He pressed himself closer and breathed chaotically on his shoulder. "Help! Help me help me help me I don't know I don't know!"

Greg rocked John, allowing him to cling as he covered the back of John's head with one palm, the other rubbing at his back.

"You are home, John. You're home. Gladstone! Up!" he watched as the dog hopped up on the bed and lay at their side with his nose along John's leg. 

"I'm helping you, John. I'm helping. Breathe, just breathe, you're safe and I have you! We are home! Blankets and pillows, warm, dry, clothes, music, it's all here. You're safe. I have you. You're with me. Slow down, John, breathe."

John coughed and his stomach pained him, as well as the back of his head, and his throat. 

"I'm confused," he whimpered and, preferring comfort to his perceived strength in holding on, grabbed hold of Greg's shirt. 

"Gladstone? Oh, _oh_ , Gladstone!" He turned and reached one hand back to pet him on the head. 

"Where... I was... concrete and water and... and he was supposed to...Greg, I don't know!"

Greg shook his head, keeping John close and rocking him slowly. Gladstone shuffled closer, licking at John's arm. "You've been with me the whole time, John. There was no concrete. You're just confused." 

He gently rubbed at the back of John's head, avoiding where he'd managed to cut himself. 

"I have you. You're home, safe. Blankets, pillows, warm and dry. You're safe." 

"It all hurts," John whimpered weakly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't understand... I was... But I was punishing and I w-wasn't going to s-stop but then... I don't..." 

John held one arm back and looped one finger under Gladstone's collar, buried in fur. "What happened?"

Greg spoke softly, trying to dry his face, deeply hoping the places the felt bruised did not look it. 

"Will you please, _please_ take your pills and we can talk about it? I'll tell you what happened but _please_ ," he looked up at the tablets for pain and John's anti-anxieties and licked at his lip, looking down at John. 

"Please, love, take your pills? I'll explain, I swear it."

"If I was punishing...I did something, and...And I don't..." John shook his head.

"I'll take them. I don't know...I'm hurting and I don't know." 

He reached out and put one shaking hand on Greg's face in an attempt to calm himself. 

Greg covered John's hand at his face and leaned forward awkwardly, straining to reach the pills. He snagged them and brought them back, returning he and John as they had been. 

"Please take these. You did _nothing wrong_. You got scared and panicked, you did nothing wrong. I love you, _please_ take these pills."

"Okay...Okay..." John took his pills, which was a bit difficult for him due to the dryness of his throat. He kept his hold on Greg even as his muscles began to ache when the adrenaline wore off. 

"I'm sad," he said in a piteous voice, "I hurt and I'm confused." 

Greg nodded, "I know...I know you are sad. You had a very difficult call with Sherlock, and you panicked because he panicked. It's all okay, John. Please trust me. You tried to punish yourself but you didn't do anything wrong, you had no reason to. You're safe, you hit your head, but you're safe. Let the medicine work, you will stop hurting soon. I love you, I'm sorry you are sad." 

John leaned his head on Greg's shoulder and wept bitterly. "He was...I hurt him? I did! I..." John had far too little energy to panic, but he was still upset. "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I..Oh, I hurt you! I hurt you too, didn't I?"

Greg shushed him, rocking him gently. "Everything is _fine_ , John. He was already panicked before the call, nothing here is your fault, okay? You're safe, and he's safe, and I'm just fine. I am sad for you, sad that I couldn't help, but I'm okay. Everything is okay. Please just breathe." 

"O-Okay. Okay. Okay." 

John kept his eyes half-lidded and on Greg. 

"I didn't mean to. I love you. Love you. Can... Oh, God, can I sleep?" All at once, he remembered the punishments he had set in place. Did they still count? Had he hurt himself? He certainty felt pained. "I don't...I..." 

He reached up to touch the nagging pain at the back of his head and his hand pulled away bloody. 

"Greg?! What? Who?" He held his hand out to Greg and showed him the blood on his fingertips with swelling panic.

"Shh," Greg whispered, covering John's hand with his own, "you hit your head, remember I told you that you hit your head? I looked at it, it's small but I am sure it hurts. The morphine will fix it, shh, you're safe. You can sleep. You are perfectly allowed to sleep. I will protect you," he carried on rocking John, keeping him close and safe. 

"Please breathe, you are safe, just relax and trust me, please John trust me." 

John touched it again. " _I_ did this?" Relief flooded through him. He'd done it. He'd hurt himself. John went lax against Greg and nodded. 

"Morphine. I want morphine. I really, really want morphine." 

With a desperate whimper he grabbed Greg's shirt and pulled a handful of it over his face.

Greg whispered softly to him, "You've just taken it, with your anxiety meds. Ten more minutes and you should feel it. Just relax, you are not going to keep hurting. Nothing bad is going to happen, you're with me, you're safe. I love you, everything is okay," he rocked him gently and then spoke again. 

"John, love, when your medicine starts working, can I give you a sedative and get you cleaned up? Please. It will just be me, I won't...won't hurt you or anything. You need to be cleaned up. Please?" 

"Oh...Oh...I'm...I'm confused...I don't...I still hurt! I still hurt!" He stiffened a little at the idea of being cleaned while unconscious, but this was Greg, and he trusted Greg. 

"I...That scares me but...Okay...Okay... Y-You can, and...I love you too. Don't let them hurt me, alright? Don't let them hurt me." 

Greg sank in visible relief. "There is no one else here, John, no one else. I'm not going to do anything until you feel better, and then you can sleep and when you wake up you're going to feel so much better, I promise you'll feel better, clean and fresh. I won't hurt you, you know I won't hurt you. I love you." 

He rocked John slowly, trying to help him relax. "I know you're confused. It's all okay. All you need to do now is relax and breathe, just relax and breathe."

John felt the morphine reach up and whisk away his pain. "Oh, oh...okay..." He nodded numbly and closed his eyes. 

"Can you get rid of this?" He touched his chin absently where several weeks without shaving had given him a beard. "I don't like it. It doesn't feel right."

Greg nodded, brushing a kiss to John's fingertips. "Already planned on it," he whispered quietly. He carried on rocking him, watching as some of the tension bled away from John, deeply relieved. They syringe was on the counter, though he wasn't going to push that heavy of a sedative until John was already asleep. 

"You're safe. It's just me here. No one else is here. Greg and Gladstone, your little birds outside, that's it. You're home and safe."

John drifted off slowly and held Greg's hand. "I'm sorry, I love you. I love you. Love...Love you." 

John continued to cry until he fell asleep. Once he dropped off, the tears dried on his face and his hitching breath slowly returned to normal.

Greg laid John down twenty minutes after he fell asleep, reaching out and grabbing the syringe. He slowly slid the needle into the drip line and pushed the medicine as Paul had shown him, ensuring John would stay asleep. After watching him for several minutes, measuring his breathing and making sure everything was okay, he stood up and walked out of the room, down the hall, and went to stand outside at the balcony to breathe. 

When he had his head back on straight, he sent a text to Mycroft. 

_Surely we can't carry on like this, with a call every day._

Mycroft held Sherlock to his chest and rocked him slowly. The entire ordeal had made him rethink if he wanted John near his Sherlock at all.

_That was devastating. It can not happen again. Until they are both ready, I suggest no more calls._

Greg sighed in relief, knowing that John was going to protest, but preferring to work with that as opposed to this level of chaos. 

_If he wants, and is acceptable to you, I'd like to call him a few times per week just to remind him that I'm here, that I care._

Sherlock shifted against his brother, whimpering pathetically at him as he gripped Mycroft's shirt tighter. 

_Yes, please. If Sherlock seems calm, I'll discuss contacting John again, but it will be in the form of letters and such. I'd love for you to call him. He feels alone._

Mycroft hushed Sherlock softly and petted his hair. "It's alright. I'm here. I've got you. Greg says that John is feeling much better now. I'm sorry we had to end your call." 

Sherlock visibly flinched when Mycroft spoke of John. As soon as the call had cut off, Sherlock had gone into hysterics, yet to say a single word in all the time that had passed. 

_Oh, did you think he was going to heal, that he'd want you again? He stopped wanting you before I ever got hold of him. My god you're fucking pathetic._

He'd gone still and quiet after Moran began dragging his blade across the stone, whistling absently. 

_Home with Mycroft, or properly cracked and still here with me?_

Sherlock pulled at his brother, desperate for confirmation that he was safe. Even as Mycroft reported on John, he could hear Moran just as surely as though he were standing there. He'd not dare to open his eyes in the last hour. 

"I h-hurt him," he breathed, by way of confession and hope to avoid the worst of what was to come, "I m-m-m-m-" he whimpered, unable to complete the word without taking a few pained breaths, "m-made...m-made him c-c-cry and....w-was sc-scream-ing and-" he shuddered hard and curled down to make himself smaller. 

"I h-h-hurt him. It was m-me."

Mycroft shook his head and kissed Sherlock's temple. "I don't agree. You did not hurt him. His fear is not your fault. He was sad because you were sad. It was empathy, not anger or fear or hatred." 

Sensing that it was a lost cause, Mycroft changed the subject. "You're alright now. You're safe. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. Remember that I love you. My loves you."

Sherlock went quiet again, fingers to his lips, sucking on the ends of them and savoring the pain of it. He rocked himself lightly and did not respond. 

Paul drew in a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. "I suppose I should go. I'm likely needed. Please let me know how he is in a few hours? Distraction is best, I'm afraid." 

He was shifting the idea of what was to happen with these men in his head. The exchange had gone very poorly, and both of their reactions had been very severe. Hours in, Sherlock was hardly talking. He could imagine how life was back at Greg's home. 

"Distraction. Right. Thank you." 

Mycroft nodded to Paul then took Sherlock's hand out of his mouth. "If you're thirsty, you can have water. If you're hungry, I'll have food made. But I can't let you hurt yourself. You've made your fingers raw." 

Mycroft inspected them sadly and held them gently to his chest. 

"Please don't hurt yourself, 'Lock. I can help you, if you let me. Telly? Music?"

Sherlock whimpered as his fingers were taken away from his mouth,chewing at his lip instead, nervous with no way to soothe himself. He kept his eyes pinched shut, quietly crying to himself as he started to rock. 

_What's left? Shame I left your tongue, should have taken that eye, but really what's left? What do you have? He's home with Greg, screaming about you and what you've done._

Sherlock tried to pull his hands away, wanting his fingers back in his mouth, deeply afraid and restless. "He d-doesn't want m-me anymore...th-they don't...don't w-want...he's n-not coming and...a-and..." a sob tore its way from his chest and he shook his head desperately, choking on the words. 

"I l-lost." 

Mycroft shook his head and took Sherlock's face in both his hands. "You did not lose. You won! You and John are alive! Moriarty and Moran are rotting! No, they're just piles of ash! You are victorious. You can start reclaiming what was yours. It would destroy them to know that John, even after everything they did, still wants to talk to you. They'd be distraught to know that he loves you." 

Mycroft kissed his forehead. "I love you. You haven't lost."

Sherlock drew his hands back and bit at his fingers in an attempt to soothe himself. He refused to speak, his throat swollen shut, too distraught to hear anything other than John's screaming. 

Why wasn't it enough that John _wanted_ to help? It should have been. He didn't deserve even that much. But John hadn't denied that he didn't want him. Quite the opposite in fact, screaming that it needed to be enough. 

Sherlock choked on a sob, heart torn to shreds. 

It wasn't enough. He wanted to be wanted more than he wanted his violin. He needed to be wanted more than he needed to walk. It was illogical, and it was the truth. 

_Freak._

_Machine._

_Psychopath._

_Brilliant._

He sobbed around his bleeding fingers, helpless and unmasked as his heart bled into his chest, ripped apart and trampled.

"Oh, little 'Lock, please don't." Mycroft drew Sherlock's hands away from his mouth once more. 

"You know it's not good to hurt yourself. They're raw. You need to let them heal." 

Mycroft took his hand and pressed it to his own chest, regardless of the saliva. He closed his eyes briefly and ran through the chances that he would ever be enough for Sherlock. 

"I love you. I hope you know that." 

The next hour slid by with Sherlock doing little more than weeping, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, lightly shaking. He finally dropped off into a brittle, restless sleep with his head over Mycroft's heart, breath hitching and completely worn down. 

Mycroft, now left alone and with his thoughts, began to weep at the hopelessness of the situation. He needed rest. He needed more time. He needed so many things that would never happen. 

"Love you," he whispered quietly, and hoped Sherlock knew.

Paul arrived back at Greg's house just as Greg was tucking John back into the bed. Greg was very damp and looked quiet winded, but John smelled freshly washed, his face shaven and his hair trimmed back to an acceptable length. 

"I've taken care of his teeth as well. He's been in the tub, properly cleaned. Got his permission to bathe him." 

The two men sat and chatted a bit as Greg ran his fingers through the shorter hair, marveling at how much better John looked now that he'd been groomed. Greg had changed and given John a feed, despite his willingness to eat. Paul decided it was an ideal time to change out the drip line, pulling the old tube and starting a new one on the back of John's hand opposite. 

Soon it was just Greg sitting beside the slumbering man, dozing as he scratched at Gladstone, glad to have a bit of a break. 

John didn't wake for several hours, and when he did, he was confused. He wasn't confused in terror, or discomfort, but instead John was the bleary sort of confused you might get when waking up for the first time in a new room. He shifted and reached, which was rewarded with feeling Greg near him. Of course it was Greg. John opened one eye, just to check, and smiled a bit. 

"Love," he muttered and closed them again. For now, in his bit of haze, the call was pushed aside in his mind. 

Greg woke easily and was deeply relieved to hear calm in John's tone. "Right here," he said warmly, brushing his fingers through John's hair, which now felt remarkably soft having go so long between washing. 

"I love you," he added, otherwise remaining quiet. It was dark out now, and he did not want to wake John properly unless John wanted up. 

John shifted and nestled down in the blankets further. When he didn't feel the slight pull of hair on his face, he reached up and checked with his hand. 

"Thanks," he muttered and checked his hair as well. 

"And I was safe? You kept me safe. You always keep me safe." 

He reached for Greg's hand and closed his eyes again. "Thank you."

Greg nodded, "Of course. You were safe, it was just me. Paul came home after you were already back in bed, he's in his room sleeping. Only I was home when I helped you, you were safe. How are you feeling?" 

John yawned, but made no move of awaking fully. 

"I don't know. I don't want to know. Bad things happened today and I just want to sleep. I'll just sleep. Can we do that in the morning? We can work on it in the morning. I don't want to right now."

Greg slid his fingers through John's hair again and nodded, "Of course, I just wanted to know if you needed tea, or anything else. I took care of your teeth for you, I hope that helped a bit. Are you warm enough? Need another blanket? Anything?"

John felt his teeth with his tongue and was happy to find them smooth. At this point, having someone else brush his teeth didn't even touch his pride. "Thank you. I don't need anything. Will you stay with me?"

Greg shifted back down for sleep, wrapping John in his arms. He smiled as Gladstone shifted along with them, tail wagging, weight pleasantly heavy on Greg's thigh. "Of course, I'll stay with you. I love you, go back to sleep. I'll be right here."

John dropped right back down with a pleasant mutter of his affections for Greg and a few seconds of humming contentedly. His mind seemed to deem that it was not the proper time to handle what had happened, and he slept soundly through most of the night.


	7. Chapter 7

_'John hated this table.'_

_The pistol kicked in his hand, the shock of it jarring to his splintered bones._

_'There now, you've killed John Watson.'_

_The weights bent his arm, digging the raised corner edge into his muscle, bruising and painful._

_'I'm going to break your arm now.'_

_The muscle shook, desperately trying to keep hold of the weights as his mind supplied the image of a damp sapling bent to the point of ripping, the separation starting at the middle._

_'SHERLOCK STOP! P-PLEASE STOP!'_

His eyes snapped open, heart racing hard enough to make the little monitor scream, quaking from head to foot in bone-jarring terror, blood on his lips. He threw his hands out in an attempt to protect himself, too horrified to make a sound. It was not quite half four yet, though time meant nothing to him. 

Mycroft had been asleep, but he came awake very easily now, and was alert just seconds later. 

"Hey, 'Lock, it's me.I'm here. Right here. I love you. I've got you." 

He reached out and gently placed his arms over Sherlock's shoulders, but was careful not to grab him.

The sound from directly beside him made Sherlock scream in panic, grabbing at his own chest as his heart twisted violently, shocking pain through his body. He pinched his eyes closed, not daring to move the hand away from him, nearly hyperventilating as tears slid down his cheeks. 

_Please no. Please no. Not now, please no._

Mycroft swore under his breath and let go of Sherlock immediately. "I'm here. My is here. Right here. Will you look at me? Please?" He tapped the question and his name on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock pulled sharply away from the touch, biting down on his tongue and rolling away, protecting his head with the cover of his arms and shouting as he caught his pins on the blanket, tearing at the skin. Begging would do no good, it was tuck and endure, pray to anything holy that he wasn't after _that_ and endure. 

The doctors had been at him, there were tubes and blankets, so he'd likely not die which was so unfortunate it forced a terrified sob from his throat. He pulled at his hair and held his breath, anticipating the dull fire of a blade or some other such thing to land against him, openly weeping in exhausted fear. 

Mycroft kept himself from adhering to Sherlock only by willpower. He reached one hand out, cautiously, and laid it gently on Sherlock's shoulder. He tapped with one finger. 

_I am Mycroft. I will help you. Please open your eyes._

For a stretch of time Sherlock could not measure, he ignored the tapping. 

_It's a lie, don't be stupid, you're so fucking stupid all the time, don't be stupid._

He toyed with his mind, trying to force himself to walk into the ruins, turning and running from the whistling there. Frantically he rocked himself, sobbing. 

_Mycroft Mycroft Mycroft Mycroft Mycroft._

He tapped his name so many times he began to wonder if he was making errors in the spelling, and still he tapped. "I'm here," he called occasionally in hopes it would pull Sherlock out of it. 

_My-_

_That's not My, it cannot be My. That's not him. Don't be an idiot._

Moran whistled as clear as day, making Sherlock's heart roll. He screamed out again as hot, fetted breath ghosted over his face, and he shoved backwards hard, crashing himself inadvertently against Mycroft. 

He shifted violently to keep whoever was at his back away, nausea twisting up his gut as his eyes flew open, landing squarely on-

"M-My? _My_?" he breathed, sobbing Mycroft's name nearly an hour after waking. 

Mycroft was exhausted by the end of it, and his own name from his little brother was sweeter than any music he'd ever heard. 

"Yes! It's My! You're in my house. I've got you. You're safe." 

He opened his arms for Sherlock in a display that he clearly wanted to hold him, but did not wish to scare him.

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's chest and screamed at him, his face a perfect mask of terror as he felt Moran's hands at his back. "MAKE HIM ST-STOP!" 

He shook his brother, not understanding why Mycroft would allow this, "HELP ME! _HELP!_ "

Mycroft jumped and his expression twisted to match Sherlock's for just a moment before he regained his control. He pulled Sherlock into his arms and dragged the blanket up around them to cover him from any perceived attacks. 

"I've got you. It's all in your head. It's not real. It isn't real." 

Sherlock jerked away from the feel of cloth at his back, pulling at Mycroft as he sobbed. 

"Please! PLEASE! I- I'm-m your b-brother! I'm- oh g-god _please_ don't! PLEASE, M-M-MY!" He gagged as terror twisted cold and vicious around his racing heart, kicking off his pacemaker and flooding his mouth with saliva. He dropped his voice to an urgent whisper, sure he knew what was happening.

"I'll- I- I- Oh p-please," he wept, begging like a child, "please n-no I'll...an-anything- please M-My you l-l-ove m-m-m-me...y...you...you s-said...you....l-love...pl...please brother..." 

Mycroft's blood ran cold and he practically flew away from Sherlock. He shook his head, at a loss for words, and numbly got out of bed. He stood at the opposite side and held up his shaking hands. 

"Oh, god, no, Sherlock...no! I wasn't going to touch you! I wasn't! I'm sorry! I...Jesus, no! I'm sorry!" 

He backed up until he hit the wall and slid down it. 

"I won't hurt you. I'm not going to-" His voice broke and he ached for Sherlock to trust him again. 

"Please,I'm not going to hurt you. I'm gone. I'm not touching you. You're safe."

Sherlock stuffed his fingers into his mouth, rocking and sobbing like a little child, shoulders hitching, legs drawn up as much as the damaged limbs would allow. He kept his eyes to Mycroft, terrified, confused with Mycroft's behavior. Confused, in fact, with Mycroft there at all. He felt the loss of warmth like a sucking void, nearly begging for him to come back before he recalled the rustle of cloth behind him. He keened in his terrified grief. 

"Y-You...y...you.....l-l-love....m...me you...s-said...you s-s-said..." 

Mycroft clamped one hand over his mouth and nodded. "I do love you," he said on a hitched breath. "I love you and I won't hurt you! I promise." 

He kept himself sitting on the floor with his hands up. "I will protect you. I will protect you. Always. I will always protect you. I pulled the blanket up to protect you and you got scared. I was never going to... to hurt you."

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed and whispered to himself that his brother loved him, that this was okay because his brother loved him. His brother loved him and everything was okay, it was okay, it had to be okay, it was...it was...

He whimpered again and shook his head, pain lancing up his arm from where he'd caught the pins. 

"It's n-not! It's not! I...I d-didn't m-m-mean-" he gagged again, this time his stomach physically buckling though he was scared to sick up on the blankets. Moran loathed when he did that. His stomach flexed again and he sobbed out in desperation. 

"I c-cant help-" he was explaining when he suddenly made himself sit up, sicking up in his lap, screaming between moments of retching in abject terror of the punishment he was bound to receive. 

Mycroft was on his feet by the bed, but he didn't reach out. He clasped his own hands together and knelt down so he was below Sherlock if he looked. 

"Please, let me help you. Let me help you. Would you like a shower? A bath? We can have a nice, warm bath. This will all be cleaned up when we get back. I promise. You're alright. Please look at me."  
Sherlock sank his fingers into his hair, sobbing as the nauseating wet heat began to sink down through the blanket, shame and terror gripping him ruthlessly. 

" _MY!_ " he screamed, holding the 'y' until his voice snapped, making his shoulders shake with the force of how loudly he called for his brother, again breaking down into terrified sobs, bitterly crying as he sat there expecting a proper thrashing for ruining his blanket. 

Mycroft reached out and placed one hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm HERE! I can protect you!" 

He sat up and knelt on the very edge of the bed, a piteous expression of grief on his face. "I'm here. Please," he opened his arms, "let me help you. You can have a bath and be clean and warm."

Sherlock's attention snapped when Mycroft spoke loudly at his side, touching his shoulder. He jumped, but when there was no pain, he reached out with both hands and grabbed hold of his brother's shirt, eyes wide in terror. 

"I g-g-got s-sick...they...oh they are going to b-b-beat m-me for...I d-d-didn't m-m-mean to! P-Please help! Please help me! I'm- he's g-g-going..going...t-t-o....I n-need h-h-help!" 

"Okay, okay, I'll help. I'll help you." Mycroft spoke in a low tone and slowly reached out to pick Sherlock up. He was already holding his shirt, and he took that as a good sign. 

"I'm going to get you cleaned up. Warm water and nice soap. Warm. I am helping you. I love you. I am your brother. I am here to help you."

Sherlock twisted in Mycroft's arms, trying to keep him clean. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered, hushed and afraid, "I'm s-s-sorry I...s-someone was...t-touching..." he trailed off, confused. "I...was w-with...but you...you l-love me...you loveme...I'm...y-you wouldn't...n-not...y-you wouldn't...th-that w-wasn't..." 

He covered his face with his hands, shaking terribly and trying to understand as tears rolled down his cheeks. "I d-didn't mean...th-the b-blanket I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry!"

Mycroft lifted Sherlock out of the blankets and cradled him to his chest. "I would never hurt you. Never ever. I love you so much. I'm helping you now. I'm helping." 

He carried Sherlock into the bathroom and clumsily opened the door to the shower. 

"We'll sit off to the side for just a moment while it heats up," he said and gently sat Sherlock down. He was grateful now that he had an obnoxiously large shower. The water started off cool, but Mycroft stood in the way of it, and it was shortly very warm. "Can I hold you under the water?" He knelt at a respectful distance from his brother and opened his arms in a way that was not at all reaching for him. 

Sherlock tried to get his legs under him, struggling just to crawl the short distance to him. He ending up dragging his legs as he cried out and and kept his eyes on Mycroft, wanting to reach for him but using his palms to push himself across the short distance. The second he could, he reached out and grabbed Mycroft's shirt in a panicked grip, his own skin shock-white and freezing. 

As soon as Mycroft saw that Sherlock was coming towards him, he met him halfway and scooped him up. He scooted over to the water and let it hit Sherlock's legs first, just in case he reacted wrong. 

 

"I've got you. You're alright. I'm helping you now. I love you."

Sherlock held to Mycroft in an exhausted, shaking grip. "My," he whispered, much quieter this time as he became overwhelmed with the situation. "M-My." 

He shifted his legs, disgusted with his lap, but the rushing freeze of his skin and the ringing in his ears proved too much, and soon Sherlock is slumped in his brother's arms, passed out cold. 

Mycroft listened to Sherlock's breathing and checked his pulse before he was satisfied that he need not call Miller. He held Sherlock in the water and shifted them so it would run off his lap and down the drain. 

Gently, with a soft natural sponge, Mycroft started cleaning Sherlock's face and arms, but he feared to do anything else. 

Sherlock slowly came awake to the sound of rushing water, warm and comfortable, something soft and rhythmic on his arm. It was such a contrast to how he had normally been woken that he immediately opened his eyes, breathing in the gentle scent of soap. 

His eyes touched on the shower walls before he found Mycroft, looking up at him in slow confusion. "Am...am I...I ok-kay?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded despite his distress. "You're okay. I've got you. I'm protecting you. You're just having a nice, warm shower and I'm helping you clean up a little." 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he rest against his brother, shaking and unsure. He could faintly smell sick on himself, and it took a moment for it to all come rushing back. 

"I...y-your blanket....I ru-ruined...oh n-no..." he whimpered and then began to shove away from Mycroft, pulling at his sodden shirt in a desperate attempt to get it off his body, "he'll know! I...I'm...n-no I...please no..." he was muttering mostly to himself, managing to get the soaked material off him and hissing as his scars were exposed to the water. 

"M-My I n-n-need help! Pl-please he's g-going...g-going to beat me again I'm s-s-so tired! I don't...I d-didn't m-mean...a-accident I c-couldn't-" he whimpered and began to cry, fussing with his trousers, "h-h-he'll know!"

Mycroft helped Sherlock where his mobility gave him issues and shook his head. 

"Moran is dead. I had him killed. I would kill anyone who came near you. I love you. I don't give a damn about the blanket. I can buy a new one. I have several spares. I have guest rooms too. You're alright. I am not angry, and he is dead. Now, would you mind if I helped you clean up?" 

He held the sponge for Sherlock to see. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around himself, sitting under the spray of warm water. 

"T-T-Tell me....m-me where...wh-where I am. I'm...I k-keep slipping...t-tell me...m-me..." he dropped his head to his knees and screamed, shivering despite the warmth, " _please_! I'm l-lost, My! I'm lost!"

Mycroft rocked him slightly from side to side and repeated the same few phrases under his breath. "You are safe in My's house. You are very safe. Moran is dead. I have you. You're with your big brother, who won't let anything happen to you."

Sherlock wept in his brother's arms, slowly unfolding from himself to reach out, sliding an arm around Mycroft's neck and dragging himself into Mycroft's lap again, not a care in the world to his state of undress. "M-My," he breathed in relief, "I...I got l-lost." 

The heat of the shower was clarifying to him, offering him a comfort he was never allowed in Moran's company. Water had always been freezing and stagnant, or scorching to the point of not registering as water at all. He tucked his face to the hollow of Mycroft's neck and held on tight, the tension very slowly beginning to slide away from him. 

Mycroft rocked him and stretched to reach a bottle of soft soap for Sherlock's hair. He was careful not to get any in his eyes and gently massaged his scalp while continuing his mantra of comfort. 

"You're safe. I'll protect you. Nobody is angry at you. I love you. I've got you. Safe and warm. Safe and warm."

Sherlock relaxed into his brother's embrace, exhausted and feeling quite ill, though the relief of safety was more than enough to calm that. 

"I...I sh-shot John...and...h-he was breaking m-my arm. He m-made me...he told m-me so calmly..s-said .'G-Going t-to break...b-break your arm n-now...Sherlock....h-hold it out...' and...and..." he shivered hard, though made no move to distance himself. 

"I sh-shot John." 

"You didn't shoot John. In fact, you never hurt him. You saved him. You carried him out and got him to a hospital, and now he calls you and makes sure you're okay. He said he's going to come to you, once he isn't afraid of cars." 

Mycroft absently massaged Sherlock's scalp even when his hair no longer wanted cleaning. 

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips and shook his head. 

"N-no...it...o-only because..." he shivered and closed his eyes, "I'm lost...I don't u-understand...I didn't sh-shoot him but...b-but I did sh-shoot him and...I did I- I- but it wasn't him and...M-Moran wouldn't let me turn the g-gun on myself and...my hand was broken it..h-hurt to pull...t-trigger it w-was a Sig...a S-Sig...my eyes burned but it...h-had to be...p-229 and...I sh-shot...but now he's..he's with Greg and I c-can't s-see him again and..." he shook his head, quietly crying as he rest his full weight on his brother. 

Mycroft listened to Sherlock work the problem out on his own with a tired, but pleased expression. 

"Yes, it wasn't him. Very good, Sherlock. I'm glad you remember. It was not John. John is safe. And you _can_ see him again, just not yet. See, he's still very afraid of cars." 

Yes, they would blame cars for now. "And he is frightened of leaving his current place of living. He's expressed many times though that he is actively working on that to come see you."

Sherlock shook his head. That wasn't quite right. He rest limp against his brother in the water, holding tight to Mycroft's drenched shirt. "Th-That's...I _did_ m-make him cry today...I m-made him...he y-y-yelled at me. He was...an-angry with...wh-what did I ask from him? I asked...I asked...it w-was too...t-too much...too much and..wh-what did...d-did I ask him for?"

"It wasn't your fault, 'Lock. You just got frightened and..." And what? Shouted at him? Demanded something that John was clearly trying to give? Mycroft still viewed John's inability to speak with Sherlock as a terrible inconvenience. It wouldn't do well to pass the blame to John though, not to Sherlock. 

"The two of you each reacted negatively to the other's pain." 

Sherlock felt the hesitation in his brother's cadence and deflated. "I...s-s-said something st-" 

_You don't want me anymore!_

He flinched as he recalled the way his gut twisted and he exhaled a shuddering breath, whining as he did so. "I...I w-wanted...wanted t-to tell h-him...th-that I knew...knew it was over and h-he didn't...need to call again. B-But...w-weak, I'm _weak_...I...it h-hurts and...I l-lost...lost...my restraint and..." his breath hitched and he eased off his grip from his brother, feeling entirely undeserving and completely disappointing. 

"I know h-he doesn't...want me anymore and...I w-was trying to tell him...b-but I..." he drew back, wrapping his arms around himself and hanging his head in shame, "I sh-shouldn't have taken the call."

Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his chest in an effort to show him that he would always be loved. 

"I made you take the call. That blame is on me. You only expressed how you were feeling, which you have every right to do. Would you like to try an easier form of communication? Maybe texting? I can type for you and read them out. That could be nice. Or-" He was about to suggest they email, but it seemed like a bad idea due to the fact that Moriarty had sent fake ones, pretending to be from John. 

"Or you can write a letter, or something. Could be nice."

Sherlock could not understand this at all. He was quiet for a long while, allowing Mycroft to hold him, though he felt quite undeserving. Finally he spoke, his voice small and quiet, hardly audible over the shower. 

"He...h-he doesn't _want me_ , My. I n-need..." his breathing hitched on a sudden, unexpected sob, "n-need t-to...to l-leave him...him in peace. He d-d-doesn't...w....want...w-want m-me..." 

_Freak._

"He's confused," Mycroft offered and leaned down to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "And even if he didn't, I want you. I want you to stay here and be happy. I want you to recover and beat me at Chutes and Ladders. I don't want you to be hurting anymore." 

Mycroft nuzzled down and pressed his face into Sherlock's wet hair. "I'm sorry I'm doing so disastrously, but if you could consider it, I could make a good life for you. We could play pirates. Discuss murder. I don't care."

Sherlock loathed the idea, simply loathed it. He'd go mad with boredom and stagnation. 

"O-okay," he whispered, feeling sentenced to life incarcerated. "Th-thank you." 

His heart ached for the loss of John, for the way he'd yet again horrifically messed things up. "Will...w-will you t-tell him...goodbye f-for me?"

Mycroft washed the soap out of Sherlock's hair and gently worked on his torso with the sponge. There was not an inch of him left unmarked, and Mycroft forced himself not to look away. "Thank you for staying with me. I'm very glad. I'll tell him, and we can choose when to make calls."

Sherlock's lower lip trembled and he nodded very slowly, bringing his fingertips to his lips without biting down on them. It was horrifically painful to anticipate saying goodbye to John, though necessary. 

"I d-don't want t-to talk about him an-anymore," he said quietly, tears on his face mixing with the clean water from the shower. 

There was a particularly painful area at his flank near his kidney, where the nerves had been terribly damaged and were still attempting to mend. He cried out sharply when the soft sponge ghosted over his side just above his hip, making him jump with the effort of pulling away, whimpering to himself. The burn there had been more than he could bear, making him black out again and again, only to wake finding Moran absently pushing pins into the shiny flesh. 

Sherlock did not pull away from his brother, instead burying his face against Mycroft's chest and crying in broken defeat. 

Mycroft dropped the sponge and cradled Sherlock with both arms again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. I won't do it again.You’re alright. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about." 

It was a long time before he spoke again, nearly nodding off against Mycroft. He bit gently at his fingertips and shuffled closer to Mycroft. 

"C-Can...m-may I st-still sl-sleep...in th-the bed? I...I w-won't do th-that again...I w-want to sleep...pl-please m-may I sleep?"

Mycroft nodded and brought his knees in to help hold Sherlock closer, now that he was adhering to him willingly. "Of course. You'll rest on your bed while I change mine. We can get you changed in here." There would be no mistakes like last time.

Sherlock nodded, pulling at the sodden material of Mycroft's shirt rhythmically in a bid to soothe himself. "C-Can we...go now? I...h-hurts...hurts n-now I w-want..." he whimpered and went quiet, exhaustion getting the better of him after such a traumatic waking. 

"Okay. Okay. You're okay. I'll let you stay in here for a few seconds while I bring you clothes. Is that okay? Are you alright with that?" He shifted so Sherlock was sitting directly under the spray. 

Sherlock nodded and curled in on himself, leaning his back against the wall and rocking quietly. "Y-Your cl-clothes...I'm sorry...I...I'm s-sorry," he called out, ashamed that his brother was wrapped in drenched cotton. 

He tipped his forehead down to his knee, not quite resting his head down on the swollen joint but using it to hide, anyhow. Tears slid slow and heavy down his cheeks and he simply waited, exhausted and quiet. 

Mycroft left rather quickly and got clothes for both of them. He set them outside and walked into the shower again. He lifted Sherlock up into his arms and shut the water off. "We can sit down on the bath mat, alright? I'll set you down and help you change, alright?"

Sherlock was pliant in his brother's arms, allowing him to move Sherlock as he wanted without fuss. "Ok..M-My," he whispered, teeth chattering for pain and exhaustion. He cradled his arm to his chest and waited, eyes to the floor.

Mycroft bent down beside him and gently patted his hair and torso dry with a towel. "It's okay, 'Lock. I've got you.I've got you."

He pulled the soft shirt over his head and tried not to let it cover his eyes for more than an instant.

Sherlock did not react as Mycroft dried him and pulled the shirt over his head. It was a welcome, blooming warmth that followed.

It struck him then that he'd have to surrender his sodden pants, making him suck in a sharp breath as he reached down and grabbed hold of the side of them with his better arm.

Mycroft held a pair of pants and lose trousers. "It's alright. You can wrap a towel around your waist, or we can change in your bed while I change mine. You're safe. Whatever makes you most comfortable." 

He took another towel and draped it over his shoulders. "You're safe with me."

Fear twisted around Sherlock and he looked down at his brother's feet. "W-would y-you...j-just...b-b-back away fr-from me...I n-need you to...b-back away I-" 

_Oh, Sherlock am I glad to finally see you! Been one hell of a day and no one endures like my detective does, all that screaming and carrying on. Be a good boy and I might give you morphine when I'm done, would you like that? I know you would, you're such a whore for it._

"B-Back- don't...d-don't t-t-touch...m-me I-" his features hardened as his grip blanched on his pants, the softness of the rug lost to him as his vision swam. 

_Want to watch me fuck John? I didn't get to play with him like I wanted, but it was still a fantastic one-off._

"N-No," he hissed, furious, "I d-don't...w-want to w-watch..." his focus was towards the ground, rage thrumming through him as he stared at the rust-stained floor, drawing in on himself and coiled defensively. 

Mycroft slank back like a shouted at puppy. He backed against the wall, leaving Sherlock's trousers and a pile of towels for him. 

"I'll back up. I won't touch you. I'm all the way over here, and I won't come closer. You're alright. It's okay." 

He held up his hands and pressed himself against the door, sitting low with his shoulders hunched. He was not going to leave, though. Not again. 

_I'm bored of this. I'll give you a few minutes to breathe and then I'll be back, don't worry. Wouldn't want to leave you lonely._

_Moran shoved away from him, hands and trouser front bloody, lighting up a cigarette as he backed away with a sly smile on his face. "Oh, rude of me, would you like a smoke?"_

_The flaring burn on the inside of his thigh was nearly more than he could stand, already feeling as though he'd been torn in half. Sherlock screamed in agonized rage, pulling hard against his restraints and spitting curses at Moran in several of the harsher languages._

Sherlock jumped and scrambled backwards, grabbing a towel and the trousers, ignoring the pants as they fell away. He glared across the room, though not at Mycroft specifically, his arse firmly on the tile. Carefully he took to covering himself, dropping his eyes as he touched the inside of his thigh, bringing a perfectly clean hand up despite the glistening blood his mind supplied. He ran his thumb over his fingertips and grit his teeth, struggling to pull the cotton trousers on. 

Phantom pain as real as any tore up his spine, sourcing deep and private, making him double over with the force of it. He shouted against his thighs, holding his gut, shaking hard. 

"J-JUST K-K-KILL M-ME AND HAVE _D-DONE WITH IT_!" he screamed to Moran, voice echoing in what he was seeing as his little cell. With another pained shout he dropped the towel, pushing backward and whimpering with the pain of it. 

Mycroft had one hand pressed over his mouth and the other held open for Sherlock to see. He watched Sherlock check the insides of his thighs for blood and his stomach kicked. Anger surged in him and he wished Moran was alive to torture. He swore. 

"I'm sorry, 'Lock. I'm sorry this happened to you. Never again. Never again! I promise. I swear I will kill anyone who touches you. But I can't-" Mycroft knew the request to be killed wasn't directed at him, but it burned regardless. 

"I can't. I just can't. I love you. I'm your brother. My. I'm here." He didn't know if Sherlock knew he was there and feared him regardless, or if he was mentally back with Moran. "I'm here to protect you."

Sherlock was not hearing his brother, breathing so hard and so fast that he was panting. He groaned and shook his head, forcing himself to sit upright. 

_Why are you free? Why are your hands-_

_He's going to whip you. Find somewhere- hide- get covered._

_Such an idiot Sherlock where the fuck are we to go?_

He managed to sit back up, his legs burning with pain, eyes touching on many places in the bathroom though his pupils were overly large and he was clearly unfocused. His mind was providing images despite his eyes telling him nothing was there. Fear was making him wheeze on every exhalation, the sound loud in the tiled room. He dragged himself backwards as a few tears rolled down his cheeks, shock-white and petrified. How was he going to withstand...

"C-Calm-m-m d-d-dow-wn...Sh-Sh-Sherlock-k," he whispered to himself as he pressed back to the cabinetry, "wh-wh-what w-w-would-d J-John..." he bit off the name as a sickly shade of green washed over the pure white of his face. He closed his eyes, teeth audibly chattering, "M-My...wh-wh-at-t would M-My..." 

His voice faded as he tipped his head back, allowing himself to breathe, bad arm automatically cradled to his chest. "Ob-obs-s-serv-ve....'L-Lock...a-always so _s-stupid_...st-stupid l-little b-boy," he hissed at himself in the best imitation of his elder brother's disappointment. 

He'd so often let Mycroft down as a child, the voice came very easily. He cracked his eyes open, carefully avoiding the table in the center, sliding his focus along the walls in a desperate bid for anything that would help. 

"I'm s-s-sorry...M-My," he breathed to himself, oblivious to his brother's presence, whimpering and tucking his raw fingers to his lips, starting to rock himself, "I'm n-n-not....cl-clever en-enough...never-r e-en-enough...'

All at once, Mycroft was thrown into his mind. The white room, the one with the panels, the one that he had been transferring all his memories to, came in clear view. Without his will, every single time that tone had been used was called to the screens. 

_What do you mean it's hard? This is basic calculus! Don't be an idiot, Sherlock! You've done that all wrong!_

_You're being stupid again. Stop crying. You can just get another cookie from the box. It is illogical to cry. Things fall._

_It's not hard, you're just stupid!_

_Don't be an idiot, Sherlock._

_You're only just figuring that out? I had that years before you!_

Mycroft flinched and held his hands over his eyes. This wasn't right. He had control of his mind. Of course he did. He made this room.

Mycroft opened his eyes and his attention a snapped back to Sherlock. He'd only been tossed in for a few seconds, but it was concerning to lose control. 

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft exclaimed to Sherlock, "I was a stupid boy! I did not yet understand EQ! I was... Jesus, I was at least sixteen before I grasped the concept! I'm so sorry! Please, 'Lock, I love you."

Sherlock jumped hard as another voice in the room caught his attention. He looked up sharply, his face a mix of rage and incredible fear, expecting to see Moran. Slowly he slid his eyes over the room and then fixated them on the wall, figuring the tape was about to flicker on. 

He rocked himself, humming quietly as tears slid down his face, unfocused and simply waiting for the pain to begin. Minutes ticked by, marking a half hour before he slowly dropped off to an overwhelmed sleep against the cabinets. 

Oh, god, had that look been for him? Mycroft pressed himself against the wall for the duration and tried to guess if the anger had been meant for him, or Moran. Sherlock had mimicked his voice and his scorn so perfectly that it left Mycroft doubting. 

When Sherlock was finally asleep, Mycroft slowly helped him fully into the cotton trousers, then carried him into his own bed. 

As soon as he felt a surface at his back, Sherlock swung with everything he had, solidly connecting with tissue before snatching his hand back, teeth grit as bone-deep fire roared up his arm. He twisted hard, grabbing hold of fabric that felt to be on a body and shoving back with a blistering shout, anger and agony twisting together. 

He'd allowed himself to sleep, and he was not going to pay for it without a fight. "NO!" he screamed, thrashing out again to put space between himself and Moran, falling headlong off the back of the bed as he lost his balance. 

There was a crash, and then total silence. 

He lay flat on his back, the air knocked violently from his lungs, gaping like a fish. His chest caved in as he tried to pull in air, finding to his complete terror, that he was unable to do so. 

Mycroft stumbled back and hit the floor hard. Before the situation got too far out of hand he called Miller, set it to speaker phone, and rushed for Sherlock who was now on the floor. 

He bent down near him and reached out one hand. "Sherlock, let me help you. Please, I'm just going to-" he noticed Sherlock's gaping, his struggle to breathe, and hurried over regardless of permission. 

Sherlock's entire focus was on the desperate need to fill his lungs. He did not move, staring up at the ceiling as his chest buckled again and again, desperate to move air. 

Miller had answered the call, only to hear Mycroft talking in a rush to his brother. He hung up the line and tore out of bed, rushing down the hall to help. When he found Sherlock on his back beside the bed, he rushed over, stepping around Mycroft and grabbing Sherlock's side, pulling him over. "What happened, did he seize?"

"He threw himself out of bed in a panic. Hit the ground hard. Can't inhale." Mycroft stepped to the side and knelt by Sherlock, but not as close as he would have liked. Mycroft supplied no other details, none of the emotional ones anyway. 

As Mycroft was speaking, Sherlock dragged in a deep breath in his new position, the pressure taken off his chest. Choking and sputtering, though unable to see his brother, his eyes turned up to Miller and he screamed again, the sound dying in his throat for lack of properly restoring his air. . 

"Calm down, Sherlock, it's just me," Miller said gently, putting a hand on the back of Sherlock's head to check for bleeding. Sherlock tried to twist himself away, shouting again, sobbing as he tried to reach back to cover himself. 

Mycroft pulled one of the blankets off Sherlock's bed, which were clean, and draped it over Sherlock's legs and hips. "You're alright," he said and put some of the blanket under Sherlock's hand, so he could keep or remove it at will. 

"You're safe. It's My."

Sherlock caught sight of his brother and reached out, grabbing him. "H-HELP ME!" he choked out, driven by his fear of Miller, whom he was not at all seeing in that moment, "B-B-BROTHER H-" his words cracked off and he stared at Mycroft's bruised face in open horror, desperate for his brother's help. 

Miller stepped back, giving them space. "Just had the wind knocked out of him, when he's calm I'll give him painkillers, he's likely to need them."

Mycroft touched the side of his face where a large bruise was forming. "Nothing happened. I fell. That's it. That's all. You're alright." He came closer to his brother this time and drew him into his arms. "It's alright. I'm here. I'm helping you. I've got you. Everything is alright.”

Sherlock scrambled to put himself in Mycroft's arms, wrapping his own around Mycroft's neck and tucking his face down, trembling hard. "S-Scared...I'm sc-scared...I don't un-underst-tand." 

He began to bitterly sob as he used his flagging strength to hold tight to Mycroft, pain enveloping his entire body. 

"Oh, thank you," Mycroft sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He closed his eyes and held Sherlock with the strength his brother was rapidly losing. "I've for you. You had a flashback. Nothing serious. You are safe. I've got you." 

Miller moved very quietly and reached down, taking Mycroft under his arms and helping him to stand with his brother held against his chest. He'd stripped the bed, swiftly fanning on loose fresh sheets without attempting to make up anything. He moved the men, wanting both of them resting. Sherlock was wrapped too close to Mycroft to see Miller take a moment to lower Mycroft's eyelid, ensuring his eye had not been involved in the blow. 

Sherlock kept hold of his brother, crying without struggling, the fear giving way to grief and exhaustion.

Mycroft didn't let go of Sherlock when he was in bed, or even lower him down. He kept him in his arms and rocked back and forth while Sherlock wept. "You're alright. You can sleep. You can sleep and it'll be alright. Big brother My has you. I've got you. You're safe. I love you. You're my little 'lock."

Sherlock remained clutched to his brother, aching and confused, until his hand slowly fell away from the fabric of Mycroft's shirt nearly twenty minutes later. Miller had cracked a cold pack and pressed it to the side of Mycroft's face once it was clear that Sherlock was not paying any attention. When Sherlock finally dropped off, Miller dared to give him pain medicine. 

"This just looks like bruising, nothing serious, I'm going to look at his hand in a moment. What happened?"  
"He thought I was going to rape him." 

Mycroft had never resented words more in his life. He grit his teeth and swallowed hard as it to rid his mouth of the taste of them. 

"He knew it was me, but he still thought... and he threw up. He remembered who I was, or rather, that I wouldn't hurt him, and I took him into the shower. He was alright there, relaxed a bit then passed out, then woke up, asked to get out. He panicked again during dressing and told me not to touch him. Then... He fell asleep... But it took so long, and he was so afraid... What time is it? Six? Half past? It must be... He woke up in bed and struggled hard."

Miller drew in a slow breath and nodded, "Quarter after seven. That's...I imagine that's very difficult to have seen. I would guess that the conversation with John stirred up quite a bit. Here, let me help," he offered, building up pillows around Mycroft to aid in supporting his brother's weight. 

"He has painkillers in him now. What can I do for you? A bit of anxiety medication and something to eat?"

"I couldn't eat," Mycroft responded quietly and shook his head. 

"But some anti-anxieties would be wonderful. Sherlock, he's... He's so broken." 

Mycroft shook his head again for lack of words and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's damp curls. 

"So broken."

Miller did not respond other than to walk out of the room, fetching Mycroft a class of orange juice to drink with his pills, wanting to give him a bit of proper energy. He brought it back in a cup with kids and straw, adding tablets for pain and swelling.

He looked at Sherlock's hand as Mycroft took the pills. "Split his knuckles, that's one hell of blow fit someone in his condition."

"He boxed," Mycroft explained briefly and touched the swelling under his eye. "Among other things." 

He took the pills and some juice, but once again was oblivious to the taste. He could be drinking antifreeze and never know it. 

"Also he was terrified. He thought...well I suppose I'm not sure anymore. Either he didn't know it was me, or he did and thought I was going to try and...try and take him anyway." Mycroft nearly gagged. 

"It must be terrible for him."

Miller sat down beside the bed, shaking his head. "This has been a trial for you both. I wish I could do more for you. It will improve, this is not unexpected, but it is traumatic."

He nodded to Mycroft's swelling cheek, "that's going to be impressive, hopefully the swelling will not be as severe with the ice. That coward was wise to keep him restrained, he'd likely have lost."

Mycroft felt a swelling of appreciation at that remark. "Yes, he would have. Even with Sherlock injured going in, I bet he would have lost a fight. Sherlock's clever. He'd have beaten him. He's... Oh, don't tell him, but I used to watch his fights. He'd have called it spying, but he was brilliant. Kept himself moving, always figured out the opponent's weaknesses." 

Just another thing Sherlock would never be doing again.

Miller smiled at Mycroft, glad to have him talking about something that made him proud. "He's very sharp. Clear more than I would expect so soon back. Clever, focused most of his energy on John. Seemed to help him heal himself when he was focused on healing John. Really something to see."

"Yes, he's strong. He's far more stubborn than I, which is proving to be a good thing. I tried making his progress out that it would help John, but at this point it does more damage than good." 

He petted Sherlock's hair and leaned his head back. "You know, for a while, he didn't let me near him. I had to spy, track, and follow him if I wanted to talk. He can be quite abrasive. We were exceptionally close in childhood, though." 

Miller nodded, tapping his lip and thinking on it. "Have you considered the next step? He's been so focused on John. It would likely be prudent to discuss with Paul. He needs to start physical therapy, get on his legs and build up strength."

Mycroft didn't want to move on from John, but for now it seemed the only option. "I am hesitant to... Let's not call it moving on from John. Let's just give him a new goal. Walking with crutches or something. Moving his arms. Eating."

That sounded as good idea as any. "Normally I would bring in people to help, but he's not exactly a fan of new faces. I can do this, with the disclaimer that I am _not_ the best. I'm not a specialist, I'm only consulting with them. I'm a trauma surgeon, as you well know. There is already a walker here, which is our best bet for the foreseeable future. He'll likely be restricted to forearm crutches until he's ready to basically start this process over again. His knee is going to swell, and it won't be very mobile. He's lucky he kept his leg at all, to be honest. Moran did the separation over weeks." 

Miller stretched, watching Sherlock as he shifted, cradling his arm to his chest. "Two days behind on the screw as well." 

"Weeks..." Mycroft couldn't imagine having a kneecap separated, even if it didn't take so long. "He was a sadistic bastard."

"I am torn between calling in the best, not to say that you are not the top of your field, and possibly scaring him, or keeping you on since he is used to you. I don't know which is better. I could ask him, but if I decide against what he chose it would be upsetting." 

Miller nodded, "There is no offense taken, I am perfectly aware where I do and do not specialize. For now, it would likely be best if it was me. I can do just fine with major movements, and by the time he's ready to work on more fine-tuned dexterity we can call in specialists? Keep in mind that they will have to be very hands on with him, a good deal of physical contact." 

Sherlock's lip trembled and he drew his arms in tight, whimpering in his sleep. Miller frowned and looked back to Mycroft. "This is going to be difficult. It is worth it in the end, but it will be a hard road, especially given the fallout."

Mycroft hushed his baby brother, much as he had when he was an actual baby. "I understand. If you would work with him for now, I would appreciate it. He is used to you, which makes you one of the few people in the world he could see without a meltdown."

Miller nodded without hesitation, "Of course, that's what I'm here for. I'm going to go wash up and change into regular clothes. Hopefully he will sleep for a while and then I'll come check on him. He's going to be sore," he looked at Mycroft's swelling face, "as are you. Those tablets should help." 

He got up and quietly left the brothers alone before Mycroft felt the need to speak again, hoping he'd get a bit of rest.

Mycroft settled next to Sherlock and closed his eyes. Though he had every desire to sleep, it did not come. He closed his eyes and tentatively stepped into the room in his mind, which had given him a bit of trouble. Slowly he began to pull more memories from his old filing system and place them in this one. 

He went over every sight, sound, the weather, his clothes, and his thoughts at the time. He inserted the text that showed him other variables he would not be able to experience in any way sensory and had it appear in blue if he needed. In short, he simply added information as he waited for Sherlock to wake up, though he hoped he would get some rest.

Sherlock woke with a hard startle several hours later, eyes flying open and breathing in deep, as though he was coming up from under water. 

_Mycroft._

_Flashback._

_Pain! Pain._

_..._

_..._

_'WHY ISN'T IT ENOUGH?!'_

He flinched hard at the recall of John screaming over the speaker. 

_You don't want me._

He exhaled slowly as he remembered the conversation, closing his eyes and nodding to himself. Within seconds of waking, he knew it was done, that he'd messed it all up by wanting to be wanted. His throat was raw and his entire body ached, but it had nothing on this new, empty awareness. Slowly his eyes cracked back open, touching on his brother's face before scanning the room. 

Always there had been a goal. He woke now, for the first time, without one. 

"I hit you," he breathed, reaching up and tracing the good skin that surrounded the bruise on Mycroft's face. 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and gently placed his hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, 'Lock, but it wasn't your fault. You didn't know it was me. I'm glad to see you still have some boxer in you." 

He smiled and tried to judge Sherlock's mental state. "Nothing to worry about. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands, running his thumb over the split skin of his knuckles. 

_Hard right hook, staggering contact, likely he fell._

He closed his eyes and tried to consider the question. Did he need anything? He was in pain, but not uncontrollably so. He felt filthy, but only due to the nature of his flashback. He was hungry, but food sounded horrible. 

"Y-You're...not hurt? I...I d-didn't...I apologize...My...I...th-the call with John..." his lip trembled and he closed his eyes, "I am d-determined t-to...s-say goodbye properly. That...that w-was my fault and I...ruined my chance...b-but I want to say goodbye."

Mycroft's face throbbed with dull pain, but it wasn't unwelcome. Sherlock had been through so much, and his bruise really was nothing. 

"I'm not hurt. Just a bruise. I'm not that frail. Now, if that had hit my jaw, I might have gone down a bit harder. You still have heavy hands." 

He wanted the conversation a bit lighter before bringing up John. "And... you can say goodbye to John. I'll text Greg and ask him when it's a good time for him."

Sherlock shook his head. "N-Now. I'm clear now," he said firmly, his eyes stinging but his mind as clear and controlled as he was capable of at the moment, "I can't...make him scream. Not a-again. Call Greg n-now." 

He kept his voice firm and steady, as close to his normal speaking tone as was possible given his physical state. His heart was slow and steady, despite the impossible clench of his guts and the way his palms sweat. 

_You're already not wanted, it cannot be made worse. Say goodbye to him, you owe him this._

Mycroft's heart leapt and he stammered. "I...I'll call Greg, but if John isn't up for it, it might be wise to wait..." 

He grabbed his phone and pressed Greg's contact. As it rang, he actively tried to prepare Sherlock. "I don't think you should say goodbye forever. Just maybe... Maybe for now? Just say that you can't talk for a while?" 

Greg stared down at his phone, heart twisting as it always did when Mycroft called. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of John's neck and answered the line. "Mycroft?" 

Sherlock heard Greg's voice and some of his bravado bled away from him. 

_This is not your choice to make. You are not wanted. You. Are. Not. Wanted._

_Which means that you are unwanted by John._

_John doesn't want you._

_You are not wanted._

_Unwelcome. Unwanted._

_He wants you to go away from him. He does not want you. He does not want you._

_This is not your choice, this is what you owe him._

He forcefully kept his cheeks dry and curled his shaking hands to fists. He was going to do this. If John could endure him, then he was going to endure this. 

_He doesn't want you. You're not wanted._

His eyes stuck to Mycroft's, and he nodded once to press him on. 

Mycroft took a deep breath and prayed John wasn't available. "Sherlock... He wants to say goodbye to John. Properly." 

John stretched and tossed one arm over Greg when he stirred. "Morning, love. What- oh, who is it?" He sat up a bit and rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes. 

Greg, freshly awake, was not sure what to make of that. He looked over to John and chewed at the inside of his lip. 

"It's ah, it's Mycroft. Sherlock wants to...talk to you, I suppose. I can have him call back later?" 

John was bleary, a bit down from the day before, but as clear as he could be first thing in the morning. "I... No, I can talk. I'm alright." 

He leaned over and kissed Greg on the cheek before taking the phone. 

"Hello? Sherlock? You alright? I..." He remembered what had happened, Sherlock screaming at him, and his panicked retort. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't be upset." He held the phone slightly further away and braced himself to be shouted at.

Sherlock heard John on the line and reached out, gently taking the phone from his brother. He closed his eyes, set his jaw, and forbade himself from accepting the kindness for himself. John was a good man, and he was doing what he could by his own nature. 

Sherlock deserved none of it. 

"I never giggled at a crime scene with anyone else," he began, tamping down on his stammer and doing his best to project his normal voice. He smiled, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the memory. 

"You saved my life, and then we had a laugh. You were right. I w-was going...to take that pill. When you m-met me, John, you saved m-me. I was so al-alone. I want to thank y-you for that. I never did, that night, I never s-said it. You s-saved me, and then you allowed m-me to laugh." 

He drew in a slow breath, his chin trembling and his eyes closed, though he kept his voice as steady as possible, his normal timbre back in his tone. 

"I w-would very much like to tell you three things, John. M-May I?"

John relaxed when Sherlock's tone didn't bite. He settled his weight against Greg and tried to respond gently as his heart weighed heavy. 

"Yeah, I remember that, and yes, you can tell me three things. But then you've got to let me say some things as well, okay?" 

He looked over go Greg nervously, as he was still unsure of where this was going. Memories of Sherlock, this tall, dark stranger giggling with him brought him both joy and pain. 

Sherlock nodded, taking a few moments to get his trembling chin to comply, drawing in three slow, deep breaths before pressing on. 

"Alright, John," he said as steady as possible, his jaw shaking despite the way he held his tone. He could feel his heart twisting up, slowly ripping apart. It was done though, it was already done. This was a gift, this conversation. The opportunity for goodbye, not a chance at redemption. That was long gone. 

"F-First-" his voice clipped off as tears began to slide down his cheeks. He set his jaw and dug his nails into his palm, making himself focus. "I should not have been s-such a child about you leaving. You had every right, and y-you deserved to be supported in your efforts. I am at f-fault for how long you were suffering, and I a-accept that responsibility. If I had been...br-braver about your leaving for Africa, I'd have seen. I am n-not asking your forgiveness in th-this, as I do not deserve it." 

_He doesn't want you. This is your last chance._

"This brings me to my second point. J-John Watson...you w-will forever be the bravest, k-kindest m-man I know. I did not understand the depths of l-loyalty until I met you, and the continued protection you've sh-shown me even when you b-believed I-" his voice broke and he whispered into the line, 

"A m-moment, please." 

He pulled the phone away from his face, covering his mouth with one hand as his shoulders shook in a quiet sob, tears rolling down his cheeks. He allowed himself ten seconds before firmly forcing himself to carry on. 

"Y-You were right. You are al-always right, John. You are. I w-will be at sea without a compass, though b-better at finding north for h-having known you. It sh-should have been enough. I am a s-selfish man and I w-was...afraid to l-let go. No one wanted m-me before. In an-any capacity. I w-was scared to let go, but it sh-should have been enough." 

He pulled in another sharp breath, chin dimpling and trembling as his heart raced. This was it. They'd finally arrived and this was going to be it. His tone dropped to something much more personal and he spoke almost breathlessly. 

"I will n-never forget y-you so long as I live, John. I did not know l-love of this nature, and you gave me that. I am n-nothing but better for having met you. You've d-done more than enough for me, and I...it is my d-deepest hope that l-life is kind to you here-out. If you ever...n-need an illiterate s-sociopath...I'll always be here." 

His voice cracked with his heart, and he turned his face to his brother's chest, his breath catching hard on each inhalation. 

"G-Goodbye, John." 

"No, Sherlock, don't. Don't go." 

John took a deep breath and blinked up at the ceiling. Something about the way Sherlock said goodbye sounded all too familiar, and the incident on the rooftop that he thought he had left in distant memory was called back. This was all blindingly painful. It tore at something deep in him as Sherlock hit each and every sore spot he had. 

"I... Just give me a second to process..." 

He wiped tears from his face and tried desperately to remain calm. What was he to say to that? Sherlock's calm voice was helping immensely, but John was still a wreck already. 

"Alright...alright, I'm just going to ramble, and I know you had nice organized points but I can't... I don't do that and... just... _Sherlock_ ," he spoke the name in a pleading way and his voice cracked. 

"We have been through so much." 

His voice came out a harsh, shaking whisper. 

"I have been through more than I ever thought I would and it... And I'm broken, Sherlock. I'm not a soldier anymore. And I've been like this before, when I got back... Let me explain. I was a soldier. I came back and I was nothing. I did nothing. I had no one. There was absolutely no point in me existing. I met you, and I killed someone to save you just over twenty four hours later. You... He poisoned me against you and I am so sorry I wasn't- I couldn't- I just wasn't strong enough, and I could feel it! I could feel myself growing afraid and I-I fought it because of all the people in the world I didn't w-want to lose you. I didn't want to fear you. But I l-lost and I hurt you. I hurt Sherlock. I hurt you and I-I never meant to-" 

John broke down and turned to Greg. He pressed his face against his shoulder and forced himself to breathe evenly for a few moments before continuing. 

"Now I'm useless again. I am sure of very little. But... God, even when I thought... Even after..." John was absolutely ashamed of himself for still wanting Sherlock safe even when he thought he'd been tortured and raped by him. Of course, now he was glad he'd always helped, but at the time it had seemed sick. 

"I still w-wanted you to be alright, and I still... Jesus, I thought... But... I think the point is that I would rather go back than you be in pain, and beyond that, I don't want this to be goodbye." 

His voice broke on the last word, the one he did not want, and John began to sob. 

Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear as John began to cry. He was never going to be granted closure. He breathed in broken resignation, only wanting for himself a calm last conversation with John, finally accepting that he was never going to have it. It took him a full minute to respond, bringing the phone back to his ear as though it would physically burn him, struggling with the sound of John weeping over a speaker. 

"You r-resisted...very...v-very admirably, John. You did not go down without a long, hard fight. It took them depriving you of sl-sleep and w-water before it happened. He was ir-irritated with it, I could see. You got under his sk-skin." He paused and then gentled his voice. 

"Greg n-needs you. He l-loves-" his voice faded out for a moment before he ruthlessly pushed himself forward. He owed John this. 

"He l-loves you d-deeply. He loves you and he n-needs you-" oh it was _agony_ to say this for another soul, when he so desperately felt the same way, "you are not w-w-worthless. You have Gladstone and you c-can make a very comfortable, h-happy life, John." 

Even though he'd gone over the topic, John seemed to need more. 

"Y-You could have sh-shot me. I know. You protected me even when you were frightened. It sh-should be enough. B-But John...th-there is a d-difference between...I know that I...th-that you will be perfectly alright without m-me. L-Likely much better off. That you would e-even think of g-going back for me is indescribable-" it was horrific, is what it was. Not a testament of John's feelings for _him_ , rather a testament to John's feelings of worthlessness, "thank y-you for telling me th-that. I'll always have that to know. You...y-you can write in your blog about life with Greg. He fishes. Th-they always r-recommended you take up fishing." 

Sherlock's voice went out on him and he took another moment to breathe. "M-My voice...the sight of m-me...the w-way I smell...n-none of that...none of _me_..." his chest caved in on a sob, "it's n-not your fault and for the rest of my days I'll never blame you, John. I'll only remember you w-well. You were s-so brave when you were there and you are brave now. You don't...d-don't owe me anything. I only w-want to l-leave you with a g-good m-memory of me so that-" he lost his words, choking on his grief, "I j-just want you to have one g-good m-memory of me. That's...I j-just want...to l-leave you with s-something that d-doesn't m-make you-" 

He pulled the phone away and allowed himself a moment to break, taking a few seconds to get his breathing back. "If y-you would...j-just this one m-memory. I- you are a good man, John. Please...this one...one m-memory."

Just one? 

"Sherlock, I think you're more confused than you know," John said in a voice thick with crying. "Y-You aren't going to leave me with one happy memory. I've thousands. You... God, where do I start? Remember when... We were on a boat chase, a-and there was that damn midget! He had the dart thing and you'd done one of your brilliant deductions again and found out just what tribe or whatever he was from. There was treasure dumped in the river, and I know you loved the clues, but that chase! Do you remember? You insisted on being right at the bow. Looked like you were born for it." 

John had regained some composure that came from comfort found in a good story. 

"I've tons of good memories of you. Remember... Well, I shouldn't go through a story again, but... I just wanted you to know that. I do have good memories of you. And- oh, Jesus, I just remembered what an arse I was! With the woman! Remember? You had that damn text alert..." John shook his head. He'd still insisted she go back to him, though. He's thought it best at the time. 

"And Sherlock..." John breathed a long, slow sigh. "I love you. If you want this to be goodbye, I'll-" he screeched to a stop and his chest tightened. 

No. 

That was not what he wanted. 

Not from Sherlock. 

He didn't want to lose Sherlock. 

"If y-you w-want, if that's-" John dashed a hand across his eyes. He wasn't going to cry like a teenage girl being broken up with. Not him. He would have some ounce of dignity. 

"I-If y-you want, I-I'll s-stop calling. I thought I was... I thought it helped... Stupid. I'm sorry. I broke too easily, and I hurt you, I blamed you, and n-now I c-can't even m-manage to l-let go. I'm pathetic, I'm sorry. Y-You're r-right to go. I-I-I'm n-no g-good a-any-" Oh, no, he was not going to be strong. He broke down hard and pulled the blankets up over his head. 

Failed. Failed again. 

Sherlock was so washed in relief that John had more than just the one memory that he'd been nearly euphoric. He'd relaxed his muscles and allowed himself to float in the illusion that he'd have a calm, gentle goodbye with John. 

Suddenly it came crashing down. There was the hated _I love you_ and then John was saying he didn't want a goodbye. Worse yet, he was sobbing over the speaker and the moment was gone, it was gone and his gentle goodbye was being ground in his face as though he _wanted this_. 

"I-" his voice closed up on him. This had been a mistake, "you don't w-want me, John. You...it m-makes you angry that I...that I..." he felt an electric _pop_ and somehow, he immediately felt nothing whatsoever. His voice dropped flat and steady and he spoke in an oddly detached manner, his voice steady and his words calm. 

"I have a childish need to be w-wanted. You don't want me. I hurt you by existing, by speaking, by breathing, by having a scent. That's not your fault, it's mine. You tried to help me, but I'm a stupid, _stupid_ boy and I always want more, always want too much. I don't comfort you, much as I'd like to, I don't. You have a new home, and Greg, and a dog and your life and I...I can't give you cases or...anything. I can't give you _anything_ other than how I feel for you, and it's not enough. I don't want to say goodbye, I'm trying to do what is right by you. Please, John, forgive me I...I am trying to find a path, since My won't let me go. I cannot...I miss...I'd blot out the sun if it's what you needed, and what you need is for me to leave you alone. I am only trying..I'm...you don't want me."

The way Sherlock was speaking was shocking, concerning, and comforting in equal measure. While John was worried at the sudden loss of emotion in his tone, he was grateful it wasn't shouting, and that he had a clear thought to work with. 

"Sherlock... Please don't leave. Emotionally, I mean. Don't g-go and close off. I n-never liked... That always w-worried me. Can you... What is best f-for me isn't this. Y-you... You want what is best for me, and I want to help you, and..." John whined and pulled on Greg's shirt. He nestled down in his arms and held tightly to his shirt. "But I don't think I-I can help you. I'm too broken. I tried, I thought I was helping you b-but I wasn't, and it just hurt you m-more. The truth is..."

John took a deep gulp of air as if about to make a deep dive. 

"When I-I thought it was you... God, it's just... Imagine if it was me instead of him. If I had hurt you and... No, don't imagine. It's awful. I thought... And I just... It was easier to just d-decide we weren't friends than t-to hurt so bad! I-I... And n-now, now I remember that we were so... So close... And it makes..." John didn't wish to hurt Sherlock, but he deserved an explanation. "It makes the betrayal part h-hurt worse. It m-makes me feel so... so worthless I can't even describe it. My friend, doing that...

"It didn't happen. I know that. You're innocent and I know it was Moriarty. But I can't... I just wanted t-to help you, more than anything, but it w-was hurting and at the root of it..." 

He trailed off and clamped his hand over his mouth for a few moments before beginning again. "At the root of it I'm a coward. I love you, and it hurts. I need y-you and I know it. I'm just... I'm a broken coward. That's all that is left of me. Why should I-I try and make things good again if I'm worthless to you?"

If John had taken piping hot metal to him it would not have been so painful as this. He was trying to say goodbye for this very reason. 

"I h-have imagined it, John. This...this is why I am removing myself, or at least..I thought...." he paused, still very disconnected, nearly watching himself speaking on the phone to John from some other point in the room. 

"If...you are speaking in relation to how it feels to have believed I hurt you, and thus you are worthless to me...I do not know how to fix that. I...as you've said, that was not me. I...is that what you mean? Are you saying that you are w-worthless to me, because of what the hypothetical me did?"

John did not like the disconnected Sherlock, but it sure as hell did make it easier for him to explain. 

"You didn't do any of the hurting," John asserted confidently. 

"I know that. I was just confused. But... The betrayal still hurts, even if it didn't really happen. Paul said.. He said that was okay... I don't know. The more I remember how much I cared about you, the worse the betrayal f-feels. It's stupid and I'm a coward, and so... Sherlock, I am worthless to you! It's both! Both of those things! My good qualities... I was loyal. Right! Loyal!" 

John laughed without humor.

"And I was so loyal that I believed you to be the one hurting me! What else... What else... I was kind to you? I hurt you constantly now! What else? I made tea? Kept the house clean? I can't even go in the kitchen anymore. I can't help you. I am worthless except for emotional comfort. Like a pet. Always a pet." John spat the last words bitterly. "I want to have use. Worth. But I just don't anymore. Especially not to you. I hurt you. I didn't believe you. I pointed a loaded gun at you."

John's vitriol cut right through him. If that was how John assigned worth...

"Yet you did not pull the trigger," he said breathlessly, John's rage cutting through the disconnect and ripping him down off the ceiling, right back into himself. 

"If....if th-that is the measure..." he was going to faint. John's use of 'pet,' turned his stomach to lead and he was nearly ready to black out. "...if....if that's...you don't h-have to....h-help me that's what....what I've been...I w-was trying to tell y-you that you d-don't owe m-me anything...I- th-that's the m-measure of u-us, then? ...You are so f-far from w-w-worthless I..." he closed his eyes as his face washed cold, ears ringing. 

Very slowly he set the phone down, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

"I don't kn-know what to do I..." he reached down to pick up the phone and spoke as calmly as he could to John, his voice cracking. 

"I am s-sorry that...so m-much has...been t-taken from you John. I h-honestly am. I h-hate that you are suffering...this...is literally all I c-can offer to help ease that p-pain. I know I hurt you, j-just talking to me now hurts, I know that. Maybe it w-was s-selfish to try and...I wanted you to have a m-memory. I wanted...I'm s-sorry, John. I should have kn-known sooner, f-found you s-sooner, n-not failed you but I did. I did, and I...h-have been trying to h-help you since I picked you up and ran the hell away from them with you, whispering so m-my voice wouldn't..." he shook his head and cut off. 

"I...y-you would n-never be worthless to m-me. I'm...all of th-this John if it h-helps to bl-blame m-me...then do. Honestly do. Y-you can...can h-hand it to me and I'll...whatever I can take for you I will. I th-thought goodbye was...you don't want me so...so I thought..."

John was confused and had the compulsive urge to write all his thoughts down in order to organize them. He'd done something wrong and Sherlock's voice held pain again. 

"I don't w-want to say goodbye!" John cried like a child. 

"I d-don't want that! I don't! Please!" He coughed hard and put the phone down. For a moment he breathed slowly in on Greg's chest with a bit of his shirt held to his face. 

When he returned, nearly half a minute later, he was a bit calmer, but still thoroughly pained. "I w-was avoiding... I never avoided you! I n-never did! I always came when I could! Every time! I don't think you understand I-I can't leave! I had a panic attack just w-walking Gladstone! I want to come h-help you!" 

But he couldn't help, could he? John bowed his head and sniffled. "But I only h-hurt because I broke. Not loyal. Not kind. Not strong. I'm not even John. I'm not like I was. I d-don't know how you could l-love me after what I believed about you. A-Aren't you mad? Offended? You didn't break! You didn't believe their lies! Why would you w-want me?"

Penance. This was penance. 

Sherlock nodded slowly and spoke calmly again, detaching and stepping aside. 

"I...believed I shot you. He was...I lost hold of...I wasn't allowed sleep and he..." no, _no_ , he wasn't going to say it. 

"I l-listened to you all d-day and night. I thought you w-were really there after a while, forgot you were s-safe with Greg. And he...p-pepper spray in my eyes and my nose was too broken to sm-smell and...put a pistol in my h-hand, I'd listened to them hurt you all d-day and I couldn't m-make them stop, so...I sh-shot you when I had the ch-chance. I wake up n-now and I think...I think I killed you sometimes. Sometimes I th-think I hurt you there, that it w-was me that did all th-this to you. I b-broke so...so much f-faster than you." 

He drew in a pained, shuddering breath though his words remained detached. 

"I'm...I have nothing to offer y-you either. I know you came, and wh-when you came I h-hurt you by breathing. I hurt you when I spoke. I w-was tied to a bed and I t-terrified you. I know you came. I'm trying to...spare you from...John I don't understand. You don't want me. You have some...n-need to be needed, but _Greg needs you_. You c-can have purpose w-without me. Why...why are you...I'm trying to do wh-what is right by _y-you_. I can h-hardly breathe without you but that...that didn't m-matter before Africa and I d-don't understand why- I thought this is wh-what you wanted?" 

"Oh, _Sherlock_ ," John whined and his heart broke for him. He knew exactly what it was like to think the other was there, how real it could be. 

"You went through hell. I'm s-so sorry! I never meant for y-you to be hurt! I never wanted that. I... If that had b-been real, you would have done the r-right thing. I'm glad it wasn't. If y-you ever wake up thinking I'm dead, you c-can just call and- oh, _oh_ ," John remembered that this was supposed to be goodbye, and he began to cry again. 

"Why c-can't you c-come with Greg and I? Or let us go there? Why c-can't we all stay together? I d-don't want... I can't lose you! This isn't what's r-right! Please, d-don't make me say goodbye. I-I don't want to." 

His breath hitched on each inhale and he was starting to whimper on the exhale. "And if I d-don't want to say goodbye, c-can't that mean I want you? Look, it just h-hurts right now, okay? But it won't! It w-won't stay that way! I never w-wanted the other things I was afraid of, like water of food, but now I do! And I always w-wanted to not be afraid of you! Please! Please p-please! Let m-me call again. Just... O-Okay. Okay. I'll... I won't call... I won't call anymore... I'll just... I'll..." 

John was in tears, hardly able to speak, but he was aware that the longer he dragged this out, the worse it would be. 

"I'll not call. I'll l-leave you alone, I'll... Just, p-please, could... Could y-you maybe.. In a year or-" Oh, it was hell. "In a-a year or so c-could y-you just... Write a letter or... Or something so I know y-you're o-okay? I'm sorry... Y-you wanted t-to say goodbye and I-I'm... I'll go, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm s-sorry, I'll go... I'll go..." 

Sherlock listened to John while he stared up at the ceiling, his entire body shaking, face cold and fingers twitching. He registered the pain in his heart, the hard lump in his throat, the burn at the backs of his eyes, but at the moment, he felt nothing. He could see himself there on the bed next to Mycroft, the phone nearly crushed in his grip.

Oh, how he _wanted_ all of those things. But John was notorious now for saying one thing, and meaning another. It would be so stupid of him to fall for it, even if John meant the words now, he likely wasn't going to mean them in person. He felt his eyes fall closed as his mind offered him every single visit he could recall from John while in Mycroft's compound. 

"J-John," he breathed, doing his best to keep steady and even. If he fell apart, he'd make John scream again, "I'll n-not make you do anything you...don't w-want to do. I...I'm s-so very conf-fused r-right now and-" his voice broke and he shook his head, John didn't like him when he was weak, "I...it is...f-frankly t-t-terrifying for m-me to....to scare you. I n-never wanted them to m-m-make you come to me when I was th-there with you. I knew it would be th-the...that I would b-be in hospital w-with strange d-doctors-" he shuddered as his voice cracked, "but it...it s-saved you fr-from having to s-see m-m-me and I...I ch-chose to g-go there...to protect y-you and...I don't w-want to inflict myself on..." he exhaled a trembling breath. 

"I w-will not m-make you do anything you d-don't want to do. I'm j-just very...very confused, and th-that's quite...fr-frightening." 

When Sherlock didn't hang up, John almost lost himself in relief. 

"Oh, you're... That's what you associate, isn't it? My pain with yours? Or my fear? Or h-hurting me? I don't know, I just... I'm c-confused too. They never f-forced me to come. Once I came even though n-nobody wanted me to. Mycroft d-didn't know I was coming, and G-Greg didn't... I don't know if he liked it. I get scared easily. I'm not..." 

He was going to say that he wasn't hurting in order to calm Sherlock, but he was hurting. Everything hurt. His head throbbed, his throat had a lump, his chest was tight, his hands ached from being in fists, and his eyes burned. "Nobody is hurting me. I'm safe. I-I'm safe and you're safe. I... I'm sorry, I don't know what to do. Y-You wanted to say goodbye and-" his composure broke again and he put the phone down in the covers as he muffled his sobs against Greg's chest. 

"I'll l-let you say g-goodbye, but d-don't think y-you're doing what I want. I want t-to keep trying. I'm sorry I fail so much. Just... Just another chance, and I-I can help you. Let me try to come to you. Please." 

Sherlock pressed a freezing hand over his eyes, trembling hard on the bed. 

"You...y-you s-said you were...w-worthless because...you can't do those things. Does that n-not hold f-for me th-then as well?" 

His voice was very quiet as he asked, needing to hear from John what he wanted. "I...I c-can't...all of the r-reasons you...were my friend...g-gone...I'm...I n-never _wanted_ to s-say goodbye. I...w-was trying to b-be what you n-needed." 

John curled more fully against Greg for comfort. 

"No, no, no. You're not worthless. You're... You're my f-friend right? I'd like to have two friends. M-Most people have d-dozens but... But two is good. I don't want to say goodbye." 

The word pained him still and his tone reflected it. 

"Don't make this goodbye. It's not what I want, or what is good for me. Y-You and I can still be... We can see each other, and be friends. L-Let me try. If I-I'm still messing up, I'll stop. I swear."

_We can still see each other, we can be friends._

Already the offer to live together was taken away, replaced with the occasional pub visit, if Sherlock could ever make himself go out in public as a cripple, that was. 

He closed his eyes, holding his breath as he lay there trapped. Mycroft wouldn't let him die. John wouldn't let him leave. It was hell, utter hell. He no longer knew what to do. He'd been on such a clear path.   
"I...o-okay...if...f-friends...m-maybe I'll see you..." his voice broke and he could not hide the tears choking him, "and...and-d Greg...when...m-maybe when...you have time and...f-for a p-p-pint or..." it would hurt less not to have John at all. Being shoved aside, living in Mycroft's home without relief, counting the pathetic days for a visit...he ached for a gun. 

"You...you don't h-have to s-say goodbye." 

John wept with the phone turned away. "Oh, God, thank you. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'll d-do better, I'll do so much better and you won't be sad anymore. You can come here, or... I'll go there, but.. Hold on..." John put the phone down and tugged on Greg's shirt. 

"Greg, can Sherlock stay with us for a bit?" He whispered softly with wide, red rimmed, hopeful eyes. 

Greg looked down at John and chewed at the inside of his lip. Sherlock still clung to Mycroft as John did to him. He'd be alone most of the time, but that would be his own call to make. 

"Of course, however long he or you wants," Greg answered gently, worried about the promise that Sherlock would not be sad anymore. He would be sad, through no fault of John's, and what would that do to John?

Sherlock also caught that, shaking his head. "You...d-don't have to do..b-better....John I-" he stopped to breathe as the room began to spin, his legs curling in on themselves despite his effort to relax. "M-My," he breathed in fright, "I th-think...h-happening..." 

Urgently he spoke into the phone. "J-J-n...not....yer f-falt I...s-seizure I- th-think I-" he reached out, grabbing a fist full of Mycroft's clothes and whimpering in pain and fear, "I don't wa-n't...M-My h-help m-" his jaw locked up on him, and he set terrified eyes on his brother. 

 

"Seizure?" John looked to Greg in question of what to do and held the phone to his ear. "It's alright, you're safe. Mycroft! Mycroft!"

Mycroft hung up the phone and called for Miller. "It's okay, I've got you. I've got you." He eased Sherlock more towards the middle of the bed where he wouldn't fall off the edges or hit the headboard. 

Greg pulled John fully in his arms and wrapped around him when the line went dead. "He has a doctor there, Mycroft is going to help him. He's been having seizures he's going to be okay." 

Sherlock was fully seizing by the time Miller got there, less than twenty seconds later. He went right for the bag, looking for the valum to inject in an attempt to stop it. Sherlock had a history of long seizures, but this one calmed within two minutes, before Miller even got the medication into him. 

As he was being checked over for proper breathing, Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he immediately began to cry, still very disconnected from the chaotic electrical activity, frightened and in pain. 

John clung to Greg and wept in a mixture of fear for Sherlock, sadness of the call, and helplessness that he couldn't be there to help. "I should... I was his doctor, I was! I helped and..." He stopped speaking then and simply cried onto Greg. 

 

Mycroft kept Sherlock from hurting himself too badly while seizing and held him after. He drew Sherlock fully into his lap and judged that he would be alright with it based on the past hour of him willingly hanging on. "Shhh... It's alright. I've got you."

Miller handed Mycroft an oxygen mask to hold over Sherlock's face, while Sherlock rest limp in his brother's arms, intermittently quiet and crying. Miller went ahead and gave him a bit of an anticonvulsant and pain medication, knowing his body would likely be hurting. 

Slowly Sherlock became more aware of himself, though his language at the start made little sense. He was slurring heavily, one hand flailing up for Mycroft. 

"I don- f-l g-good," he tried to explain as his tongue began to work, "n-n- John-" the name seemed to snap him back, his eyes opening wide in panic. 

"J-HN! He! T-TALKING I-" he whimpered and shook his head, tapping his ear and shouting at Mycroft, "JOHN!" 

Mycroft was dismayed by Sherlock's confusion and slur, but he spoke as calmly as he ever had. 

"It's alright, yes, he called. The two of you spoke for over an hour. He was very kind and you were very sweet to him. He said he didn't want to say goodbye and you two decided that he will come visit you until you can live together permanently." 

He was hoping to put a happy outlook on the call. 

Sherlock lay there, alternating between panicked tugging at Mycroft and near unconsciousness, knowing only that John had been talking and now he was gone, and that Sherlock's body hurt terribly. Little groans and whimpers resonated from his chest and he periodically cried in fright.

Mycroft spoke softly and petted Sherlock's hair softly. 

"I'm here. I'm here. You're alright. I've got you. You're okay. Everything's alright. I've got you. Everything's alright. John is safe, and he wants to see you. He's happy with you. You're okay."

Miller kept close, making notes and emailing with neurology. He looked up from his tablet after a conversation with the head of the department. "Mycroft, he'll need an MRI to confirm, but this sounds like seizures induced from traumatic brain injury, which he very likely had given the state of his face when he was first brought in. Good news is they're harmless, other than being quite uncomfortable and distressing, obviously." 

Mycroft wanted to hear anything other than that. It was a punch to the gut, but not an unexpected one. “

Yes, of course... And MRI seems necessary. I would prefer him to be sedated for the car ride. It stressed him terribly last time and I don't want to have him go through it again."

 

Sherlock was staring up at his brother from where Mycroft cradled his head in the crook of his arm, the oxygen mask fogging with every breath. Slowly he reached up and pushed the thing away, not reacting to Miller's voice at all. 

"P-Please, brother..." he whispered, shivering terribly and curling in tighter, "m-m-may I call...c-call J-John?"  
Mycroft seriously doubted that a phone call would be productive for either of the trauma victims at this point. 

"What is it you'd like to tell John?" He spoke quietly and rocked him slowly. 

Sherlock's chin trembled and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. He curled his fingers in Mycroft's shirt and held tight, turning his face so that his forehead was right over Mycroft's heart. Tears burned at his eyes and he broke down, sobbing quietly, dampening the material of Mycroft's shirt. He was so exhausted that it pushed him down to that terrible, place Moran had kept him, where logic was gone and he was simply raw nerves and reaction. 

"I- I j-just..." he whispered, voice thick with tears, "I m-miss...miss h-him..." it sounded so deeply foolish, yet it was the truth. He missed him terribly, and speaking with him right as he had a medical crisis had flared back to life the old co-dependency he'd had with John. John would have cared for him. He'd rather John's hands than Miller's any day of the week. Mycroft was deeply soothing, comfortable and familiar, but it did nothing for how he ached once again for John. 

Mycroft feared a fallout, and while he did not understand what Sherlock could hope to gain with John after that conversation, he picked up his phone anyway. He'd give Greg a way out, he decided. He couldn't require this of John so soon after. 

"Alright, I'm calling. I'll make sure he's awake first. It's okay to miss him. You're alright."

He waited for the line to pick up, and before either of them spoke, asked; "Is John awake?" 

Hopefully, if John couldn't handle it, Greg would say no. 

Greg looked down at John and considered it. He'd been so upset after the conversation. Quietly he lowered the phone and whispered gently to John, "Hey, love, how are you feeling?" 

John looked up at the phone and whimpered before snatching it. He didn't want to have another conversation with Sherlock, but he had been seizing, and John had to hear him speak. 

"Sherlock? Oh, Mycroft. Can I talk to- yeah, thanks." 

He waited a moment, tears still drying on his face from where he'd broken down after the call. 

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock relaxed in Mycroft's arms, the tension slowly ebbing out of his muscles simply from hearing John speak. He sounded very small and afraid when he replied, "I h-had...a s-seizure," he whispered sadly, clutching the phone to his ear, pressing the damn thing down tight against his head as though he could draw comfort and assurance from the handset itself. 

John breathed a heavy sigh and briefly wished he was actually with Sherlock to help. 

"Okay, and you have a doctor there, right? And Mycroft kept you from getting hurt?" 

He sniffled and drew his knees up. "Are you feeling alright?"

Greg wrapped John in his arms, rocking him slowly as John sat tucked in a ball, quietly speaking to Sherlock. 

Sherlock was nodding, still clinging hard to his brother. He did not want one or the other, he very much needed them both. "M-My has m-me," he breathed, voice shaking. 

"Th-they f-fr-frighten m-me, I d-don't f-feel well," he confessed, his breath hitching on a sob. "I'm s-sorry I...I j-just m-miss...y-you and...I asked if-f I could c-call...I...I'm s-sorry." 

Light pulsed behind his eyes with the intense throbbing in his head, despite the morphine in his veins, and the shuddered hard before balling back up tight around Mycroft. 

This, at least, John understood. He understood fear, and pain, and knew from Greg what he could do to help it. 

"You're alright, Sherlock. You're alright. It's passed, and you made it through. Mycroft's got you nice and safe, and he won't let anything hurt you. Not ever. I know you miss me, and I'll be coming to help you soon. Just got to get used to cars. That's all." 

He squeezed his eyes shut and kept his voice even, despite the fact that he had his forehead pressed to his knees and his arms tucked in tight. 

Sherlock nodded, soaking in the sound of John's assurances. "Ok-kay," he breathed, taking the words at face value, "I...I kn-know you're t-tired," he said quietly, "thank y-you for...t-talking...t-talking to m-me again. I'll l-leave y-you alone." 

He bit at his lip and crushed the phone to his ear, terrified to hang up, "J-John?" He asked quietly, one last thing before he left. 

John was ashamed at his relief when Sherlock said he would leave him be. It was ugly of him to be so easily upset, but there was very little he could do about his own emotions, wrecked as they were. 

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock curled his shaking fingers to his lip and bit at the tips of them. John did not react to Sherlock assuring that he would leave him alone. 

His heart sank and twisted in on itself. Of course the conversation from earlier changed nothing. He was just going to have to wait it out until John was ready to allow him to say goodbye. 

"N-Nothing," he breathed around the painful lump in his throat, "nothing. I'll...g-give Greg m-my b-best. Goodbye." 

His voice cracked on the last word, and he was utterly unable to tear the phone away from his ear. Mycroft was going to have to take it. 

John didn't trust his goodbye. Not after their previous conversation where he'd practically begged not to have to say it. "I'll call tomorrow," he said softly. "And you can tell me what you were going to say." 

It seemed like the best way of saying that while he would say goodbye for now, he intended to talk again.

Sherlock found himself incapable of speaking, and instead lost hold of a brittle sound of heartache, nodding and shoving the phone away from his ear towards Mycroft. He clutched at his chest while he bit his fingers, rocking himself in Mycroft's arms. 

_You're okay, John says you're okay. John say's you're safe. You're okay. John...wants to be left alone. John wants to be left alone. You're okay, John says you're okay._

"Sherlock," John's tone was serious and only a little shaken. "I am going to call tomorrow, okay? I'm going to call and you'll answer and we'll talk. Do you understand? Please don't be upset with me, but I'm really tired. I'm exhausted. I don't want to say goodbye permanently, but I need to get some sleep, alright? I don't want to hurt you because I'm tired."

Sherlock nodded, "O-Okay," he stammered through tears he had no right to shed, his heart rolling in his chest. "B-bye John," he whispered, making himself look at the mobile to hang up, only remembering that he couldn't damn well focus on the screen. He managed the large red button on the touchscreen and then dropped the phone, pulling himself back to Mycroft's chest and falling apart, freely sobbing against his brother. 

John felt sick with guilt at having hurt Sherlock yet again, but he knew himself to be teetering on the edge of what he could handle in one day. He let himself cry for quite some time, until the action seemed pointless as it did nothing to lessen his grief. He lay silently after that, pressed against Greg, and prayed for sleep that wouldn't come.

Mycroft drew Sherlock in and put his phone away. "He's going to call you tomorrow. He was only tired, remember? He wasn't upset with you, or hurting or sad. Just tired. He'll call tomorrow. Probably at noon."

Sherlock pulled at his brother once, but otherwise soaked in his grief. It was such a small thing to be hurt over, but to Sherlock and his damaged mind, it spoke volumes more than any of John's other words. He felt lied to and deceived, forced to play a role he didn't understand. 

"H-He doesn't w-w-want m-me...b-but he w-won't...l-let me s-say goodbye! I don't...I d-don't understand wh-what he wants! I...it _h-hurts_ to th-think of n-never seeing him...h-him again but...I th-thought...it w-was for...he c-can't s-stand t-talking to me why-" he whimpered and pulled at Mycroft in acute distress, his breathing picking up in panic. 

Mycroft stroked Sherlock's hair gently and tried to make sense of it in a positive light. There didn't seem to be many options, but there was still a chance of hope. 

"John...is very confused. He is determined to stay with you, though, and I think that speaks measures. He loves you, I think. But the trauma is still with him. He's still suffering. The fact that he is making an effort shows that he will likely come to strongly desire a close friendship with you again."

Sherlock kept close to his brother, sobbing until it made his head hurt beyond what he could handle. "H-He...it m-makes...he s-said I m-make it worse! I m-make it...it h-hurt more! I c-can't take...I...wh-what am-m I to do? I h-have to p-pay...f-for crimes I d-did not commit? J-John...h-have I not p-paid en-enough! I- I w-want...why c-can't I-" he could not help but break down again, pain trailing down his back. 

Miller spoke quietly as Sherlock wept. "There is an MRI available now, it would be best to get this imaged fast." 

Mycroft didn't have an answer, which bothered him to his core. "He can't help it, Sherlock. You know he can't. I promise, once he's better things will be easier for you. I promise. He's still just a bit confused." He pressed Sherlock against his chest and looked to Miller. 

"I think that would be for the best."

Miller nodded, knowing that mean sedating the distraught man. He stood up and placed a call, requesting a car to take them. Sherlock looked over at Miller and then back up to Mycroft, his face washing pale, not understanding at all what was going on. His insecurities with John clashed hard with mention of hospital and he suddenly cried out, wrapping his arms tight around Mycroft's neck and speaking frantically. 

"Oh pl-please! Please! D-Don't s-s-send m-me back! Don't send me b-back! I'll...wait! I'm n-not ready! W-Wait! T-Tell him to st-stop I'll...I'll be easier, I'll...y-you're r-r-right he's...confused I- I'm h-happy see? I'm- I'll- n-not alone again please n-not alone again, M-My!" 

Mycroft shook his head and rocked Sherlock a little more swiftly. "No, no, just an MRI. You'll be back here before you wake up. Is that alright? I'll stay with you the entire time. You will never be alone. No more alone. I promise that." 

He gestured for Miller to come forward. If they waited for Sherlock to be calm, they might never get it done.

Sherlock screamed as Miller moved forward, openly and unabashedly begging. "MY! I- pl- please I'll- n-no wait, WAIT I'm- please I-" he gagged as Miller took his hand, wrenching it away, only to have his wrist caught and the needle fed into the line. He pinched his eyes shut, not wanting to see his brother's face as his heart slammed against his ribs, making him ill. 

"C-Come b-b-back for m-me? I'll...b-be b-better please...come b-back f-f-for me, don't...d-don't f-forget...." his lip trembled as his voice faded out, unconscious in under a minute. 

Miller tucked Sherlock's hand back to his chest and nodded to Mycroft. 

"There is a car outside. Do you need me to carry him?"

"No... I'll carry him." He already had Sherlock in his arms and scooted to the edge of the bed. 

The walk down the stairs was a bit awkward, with lots of turning and repositioning, but Sherlock was light, and Mycroft wouldn't put him down. 

The entire affair took nearly two hours to complete, of which Sherlock did not once stir. Miller kept him on a small, portable monitor and twice they had to stop to give him oxygen, but otherwise the process was smooth. Miller had ortho come down and check the pins in Sherlock's arm, going ahead and doing the adjustments they were behind on with Sherlock unconscious. 

He explained to Mycroft that radiology needed to look at the results, though it was clear to him that a TBI was the source of the seizures, which truly was good news given the other options. 

Passers by gave Mycroft curious glances due to the large bruising on his face, but otherwise they were left alone. It wasn't until they were well on their way back home that Sherlock began to stir, actively fighting the sedative as he always had done. 

Mycroft paced anxiously outside Sherlock's room, and now he rocked nervously on the way back. Every slight hiccup sent a stab of fear into him, and his nerves were standing on end by the time Sherlock began to move. 

"Hey, 'Lock. I'm here. My has you. You're alright." 

Miller was ready with another sedative if Sherlock needed it, reaching out and pressing his fingers to the inside of Sherlock's wrist, having to press harder than normal through the scar tissue to find a pulse. Sherlock keened with fear in response, wrenching his hand away and grabbing hold of Mycroft. 

"D-" he panted, eyes yet to open, fingers clawing at the material of Mycroft's shirt, "done-leave-m-me," he slurred in panic, using all his energy to ensure a tight grip on his only source of protection. 

Mycroft clutched Sherlock to assure that he knew he wasn't leaving. "I'm here. Right here. You're safe. I've got you." He wrapped his arms around him and clasped his hands together behind his back. 

"Nobody can take you away. Moran is dead. I had him killed. Dead. And you're safe. I love you so much. You're safe."

Sherlock whimpered in confusion, tossed right back to the conversation they'd been having when he was sedated the first time, unaware of the passage of time. In his mind they were headed to hospital, where he was going to be left for behaving poorly with John. He still had yet to find the strength to open his eyes, though he clung in fright to his brother. 

"B-Better...I'll be...b-better oh please don't l-leave m-m-me there! I w-want to go to b-bed, please brother, please j-just l-l-let me go home, let me go home! I d-don't want to g-go....d-doctors...and d-dark and...t-tie m-m-me down and-" his voice cracked apart, having gone very high pitched and breathless as he thought of the days that had scared him so horrifically his heart had literally stopped. He began to shiver as though freezing, teeth clenched as he wept in panic. 

Mycroft nodded as it suddenly agreeing with him. "No more hospital for today. You've already made it through. We're nearly home. Just a few more minutes. I never left you. I never left. I've got you now, and we can stay in bed for the rest of the day. Is that alright? Nice and peaceful. I won't leave you."

Sherlock began to relax as Mycroft assured him they were going home. "Pl-l-lease I...j-just w-want to g-go to b-bed!" He pulled at Mycroft, and then went quiet as the car drove down the road, Miller closely watching him. 

Sherlock's mind was a complete mess, heavy with the sedative and pain killers, drenched in tangled communication with John, blocked from reason by incredible fear. Mycroft had allowed him to be held and sedated, and now he was unsure of what was happening at all, loathing himself for having been so difficult. 

When the car arrived at their house, Mycroft informed the small staff to be out of the way and make sure all the doors leading to his room were open. 

"Sherlock, we're here. I'll carry you inside and you can go to sleep. Is that alright?" He looped one arm under Sherlock's knees. 

"I'll keep you safe. You can trust me."

Mycroft would not have been able to put Sherlock down it he'd tried. Sherlock glued himself to his brother, no longer crying, hardly breathing as he waited to see what would happen. Surely Mycroft would not lie about this. He kept his eyes pinched shut and buried his face against his brother's neck. 

Miller walked along with them, keeping close, worried that the stress would induce yet another seizure, as that seemed to be the trigger for them. He kept close enough that Mycroft could brace against him should he need to, lending as much support as was possible. 

Mycroft walked into the house quickly, while also trying to seem unrushed and calm. He whispered to Sherlock the entire time, nice things, calming things, all in a kind tone. 

When he was finally in his room, Mycroft sat down on his bed without attempting to put Sherlock down. "See? Home. Safe. Warm. We can go to bed now if you like."

Sherlock sobbed in relief, speaking swiftly to his brother. "I w-won't d...disappoint y-you...th-thank you, oh g-god thank...thank you," he repeated, over and over again. Miller took to helping Mycroft as he built pillows up around him to support Sherlock's slight weight. Sherlock buried his face against Mycroft's neck. 

"Pl-please f-forgive m-m-me I'm...I w-won't ag-again. Let m-me stay! Pl-please let m-me stay!" 

Mycroft leaned a bit of Sherlock's weight on the pillows, but brought his knees up to keep him close. "I'll never ask you to leave. Hell, I don't think I could handle it. You didn't do anything wrong. I've got you. It's alright. You're okay. Everything is fine. Would you like to sleep? You haven't disappointed me, 'Lock."

A quiet, keening sound of fear resonated from Sherlock's chest as he clung to his brother. He tried to focus on the feel of the blankets and the scent of the room, still yet to open his eyes. Sleep was pulling terribly on him and he knew he would soon be down. 

"S-stay w-with you, I w-want to st-stay...pl-please d-don't make m-me leave," he babbled, voice slowly growing quieter as he sank down into a deep, weary oblivion. 

"Oh, Sherlock, of course. You can stay with me. Do you understand? You can stay. You can stay. I love you." He bent down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head kindly. 

"Get some sleep. I'll be right here when you come back, okay?"

Miller ran a hand over his face and spoke quietly to Mycroft. "You've not had a proper meal in nearly a day. If you can't eat, will you drink something blended? I will make you something with high calories that is easy to digest. Also, would you like something for your nerves? If you have any questions for me, we can talk them over while you're eating."

Mycroft hadn't noticed how hungry he was, but he felt it as soon as Sherlock was still and Miller suggested it. "I would love that. Thank you. I'll call something in from the kitchen. I've a cook, bless her, she's not here all day but I'm sure she's around now. Probably thinks I'm on another strange diet." 

Mycroft pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took a moment of stillness. 

Miller picked up the anxiety pills from Mycroft's bedside and tipped out two, offering them with water. 

"Don't risk waking him, tell me what you'd like and I'll go tell them. You need a little bit to breathe, I know this is incredibly stressful." 

He did, however, tuck two fingers to the side of Sherlock's neck to assure himself Sherlock's vitals had come back to normal now that he wasn't in a panic. 

"I'm going to put him on the monitor, just for now. Don't like how he dipped at Bart's, though I suspect it was the sedative to blame." 

Mycroft held one hand under Sherlock's arm, where he could feel his pulse without being obvious and still keep hold of him. The faint feeling was reassuring, even if it was a bit covered by scar tissue. Had Moran carved under his arms as well? Mycroft shuddered. 

"Alright, thank you. He seems to be down pretty hard, but wakes randomly. I'm not sure if it has much to do with me at all."

The doctor nodded sadly as he attached Sherlock to a small, unobtrusive monitor. "That is likely the case. If you can rest, do so. You're very much like the parent of a newborn at the moment, when he sleeps, you should as well. Afraid there isn't much of a schedule to be kept right now. I'm going to get you food, do you need anything else?"

Mycroft took his pills and settled back down to Sherlock. He leaned his head back and shifted so he did not have to actively hold his brother, light as he was. "No, nothing else. I'll try and get some rest, but I still wish to talk."

Miller went downstairs and returned shortly after with a thick shake, powder added to up the calories and protein. He left the packets with the staff, encouraging them to add it to anything that was brought up for either of the men to eat. He pulled up a chair with his tablet in hand, prepared to take questions. 

"Alright, Mycroft, whenever you are ready." 

Mycroft started on the shake, which was a bit chalky but not entirely unpleasant. "My main question is about healing time. How long will the seizures last, how long will the therapy take... Those sort of things."

Miller nodded. Mycroft needed a plan. 

"The seizures are unknown at this point. He has clearly identifiable points of injury in his brain, we need to wait for a neurological specialist to take a look. I do know that these can spontaneously resolve, or they can be a lifelong affliction. We can manage them, if that's the case, vastly reducing the frequency." 

He looked down at Sherlock's legs and drew in a slow breath, nodding, "It really depends on a lot of factors. Within six months, I can reasonably see him mobile with the assistance of forearm crutches, no longer needing someone right at his side. His hands...it's all very difficult to say. I would like to put the figure of six months out there for him to be...mostly independent with mechanical support. Obviously there are many unforeseeable variables there, but that sounds like a fair figure." 

Mycroft nodded with sadness and understanding in equal measure, without a hint of surprise, but a prominent loss of hope. 

"Six months. In five my time off comes to an end, and either I go back, or quit permanently. I don't wish to leave him. Allow me to lead with that. But I need a source of income if I am going to keep him with me for the rest of his life. I have a substantial amount saved, but I'll likely need to support Greg and John as well. That will wear my account down considerably. But if he isn't ready, I won't leave. It is disappointing to hear the seizures might affect him his whole life. I do wish him to be free of it."

Miller took a moment to reply to all of that. Mycroft was in a very tight spot. 

"Were I in your shoes, I'd hire an aid right now, so that Sherlock has five months to build up sufficient trust. I do not envy your position. This may be out of my jurisdiction here, but I rather doubt John is going to be able to _live_ with Sherlock before you need to return to work. An aid seems to be the best option for all involved." 

"Sherlock would know he was being transferred over. It would kill him. He needs someone to hold him and love him. How can I pay someone to do that?" Mycroft breathed a slow sigh. 

"But I suppose you're right. It's the most logical thing to do. I wish one of his other friends... Well, Molly, I suppose, would help him. I don't know if she would be a suitable aid. I'll look into hiring someone."

Miller spoke softly in response. "Hopefully he will not be this...psychologically injured...by the time you need to return to work. He will have you available to him most evenings, will he not? If he needs love, he can still have it at the end of the day." 

It was one hell of a situation. "I'd encourage that we not get ahead of ourselves. There is a good deal of time between then and now. Perhaps in the end the person you hire can simply be dismissed. John may surprise us as well, and Greg can take on the job." 

It was unlikely, but the pair had been breaking expectations left and right already.

Mycroft hated the option of Sherlock having love only at the end of the day. It seemed cruel. 

"I had hoped John would be remembering his life with Sherlock by now. From what I can tell, he is remembering, and that makes it worse." He rubbed his temples. "That is unexpected and inconvenient. Perhaps he will get over it. From what I've heard, he wants to come here and help Sherlock, though he does not want Sherlock as a friend. That may be even more damaging to him, to have John but not as his friend. But John might get over that. I'm hoping he does. I'll hire an aid."

There wasn't much more to say for that. He fully agreed that it would be deeply painful for Sherlock were John to live with him, but shun him as anything more than a mercy project. No matter what the move was, a gamble was involved. 

"He's alive," Miller said quietly, "there is always hope where there is life, even when it seems bleak. He's alive." 

He slowly stood up, careful to be quiet. "I'm going to let you sleep. If you need anything, I'll be here." 

Mycroft nodded and tried to settle himself. There was so much more left. He'd gotten Sherlock out, but the damage done in just a short time would take years to correct. John was broken. He couldn't be fixed but he could be made to function. If John and Sherlock's relationship couldn't be fixed, it could be made to function. Just like Sherlock's hands. 

Mycroft fell into a light sleep an hour after Miller left. 

Greg kept an eye on John as the man slept. It had been more than five hours since the last call with Sherlock ended, leaving Greg feeling torn and sick. Sherlock had been making an effort at letting John go, of saying goodbye, and John had panicked. For a short time, that had been encouraging to him and he was determined to hold onto that hope. Sherlock was obviously deeply suffering. Greg had managed to convince himself that Sherlock was mostly okay, but that exchange had been brutal to hear. 

John had been so understanding and kind, that he'd made even Greg think that he was reaching out as a friend. Perhaps, in that specific moment, he had been. He'd offered Sherlock a place in their home, expressed a desire to live with him. To retract that now...Greg seriously doubted Sherlock would survive that. 

He watched John rest as his thoughts circled, desperate to find a solution for both men, that required sacrificing no one.

John was not asleep, though he attempted at it many times. He closed his eyes, slowed his breath, and tried to think of nothing.

Somehow, nothing always ended up with Sherlock screaming.

WHY DON'T YOU WANT ME? 

It shook him to his core. Sherlock had outwardly been the exact opposite of needy, while craving the attention internally. John flinched as the words assaulted him again. 

"Greg?" He raised his eyes. "Could you help me understand? I don't understand."

Greg shifted John in his arms, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his hairline. "I'll do my best," he said warmly, holding John as carefully as he could, wanting to make him feel safe and loved. 

"What don't you understand?"

John took comfort in the few things that he knew to be simply. Greg loved him, and Greg would always help him. "I don't know what to think. I love Sherlock, and I want to help him, but being around him just _hurts_. I know it won't always, and he doesn't scare me anymore, but it just hurts." 

Greg hummed as he pet his fingers through John's hair, rubbing lightly at John's scalp to soothe him. "That makes sense to me. You know that it wasn't him, but he still sounds like things that hurt and are scary. It makes sense, John, even if it's not...even if it hurts. You were very kind to him, I'm very proud of how you handled that." 

"I know it wasn't him and I'm glad it wasn't. But if I just think back, it's still him. Logically, I know it wasn't, but my emotions at the time were 'my best friend is torturing me and hasn't let me sleep in days'. And the more I remember how much I cared about him, the worse those hurts are. But that doesn't matter. I just need a way to hide that so I don't offend him. That, and I need to go outside today." John looked up to Greg sadly, but lovingly. "Thank you for everything you do."

Greg was already shaking his head. "No, John, not that's not what you need to do. Paul has said this again and again and we are going to listen to him. You have to work through the pain of that before you can heal, and you can't be his friend until you heal. I know it hurts, I can't even imagine how terribly, but pretending like it doesn't will do no good to anyone. Love, you've got to let yourself feel that." 

He rocked John slowly, bringing John's knuckles to his lips and gently kissing him. 

"I've no right to feel hurt by Sherlock," John protested and held on to Greg's hand. "He only ever protected me. He went through hell to save me. I owe it to him to at least try. I'm trying so hard. Existing is so difficult. I want to at least try outdoors today. Maybe I can just stand outside for a bit and desensitize. I hate outside, but if you went, I'd follow." 

John was quite certain he'd follow Greg back into a bloody warehouse if that's what Greg thought would help. 

Greg drew in a deep breath and nodded, "We can try outside, John, but it's not going to do you a bit of good to only learn how to get there, and not have worked through some of this. It's going to hurt him and you if it's the same as it was when we were all together. You have every right to feel how you feel, you can't help your emotions, other than to experience them and work through them."

John didn't agree with his answer, but he desperately wanted to believe anything and everything Greg said. "I'll work through it while I work on going outside. I can do both. I just have no idea how to work through it other than to suck it up and ignore it. Like with food or water. Just do it. I can't take that approach with Sherlock, because that's what I tried, and he can't stand seeing me in pain."

Greg understood that. "I know, that's why Paul is here. We've got to have you working more with Paul, if you want to keep on with Sherlock. John...you um, you seemed...panicked at the idea of Sherlock saying goodbye. Do...do you know why? I thought that would be a relief for you?"

John breathed a deep sigh and nuzzled his face against Greg's chest. "I don't know. It hurt. I've heard him say goodbye like that before and it ended badly. Two years of hell. I don't want to say goodbye to him. Not at all."

Greg's heart plunged all the way down to his toes. The shock was so acute that he felt his skin wash freezing cold, leaving his mouth dry and his ears ringing.

"Oh...oh god...John no that..."

He was going to be sick.

"John, that can't...no...god, please tell me there is another...another reason... you can't hold that against....it's been years and years. He was trying to do right by you today. John, he knows he hurts you and he's trying to stop. You told him...you offered to let him live here, it has to be more than that..."

He stopped talking for a moment, holding up a finger and breathing fast, needing a moment to get himself under control. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. John couldn’t be that cruel, even in this broken state, surely.

"John, love, if that's why then we can't call him anymore. I love you, I want to do everything I can to help you and keep you happy, but we are not going to do this to Sherlock. If you are only upset about the rooftop all those years ago, and that's honestly why you are so determined to keep in contact with him..." his mouth began to water as his eyes burned, trying to press through this, "we can't do that to him."

John looked down, then away, then turned over so his back was against Greg and his face was hidden by a pillow. 

"I don't want to not see him. I don't want to see him. I'm confused and hurting him. I don't want to say goodbye, but I don't want to talk to him. I do. I want to not be hurt when I think of him. I want to go on walks outside but I hate outside. I want to go have a pint at a pub but that sounds terrifying. I just want things to be normal. I want to not be hurt when I think about him. I know it's the only way, but I hate desensitizing. It's bad." 

John pressed his hands over his face. 

"Does he want me, or not? Does he want me to be his friend? From what I've gathered, he does, but everyone is telling me not to talk to him. You all want me to let him go! I don't want to! I want to do what he wants, and he said he misses me. But...If you think I should call him and s-say goodbye, I will. I'll...I'll do that...If you say it's what he wants. I just...I didn't think...He said he misses me, and he wants me there, but... don't you see I'm trying?" 

John sounded suddenly very offended and he turned back to look at Greg. "Can't you see I don't care what happens to me in the end of this? I don't! I can't help it when I have a reaction to things, but other than that, I've been doing what I can to help! I'm not good at it, and I do more damage than good, but I'm _trying_ , damn it!"

Greg reached out, slowly sweeping his fingers through John's hair, his vision blurred though his cheeks were dry. He gave John a tight smile and nodded as he kept his focus on the fingers gently tracing John's hairline.

"I know you are trying so hard. You fight against this every single day, John. I see that, I absolutely know you are trying so hard." His voice was gentle and calm, though very sad. 

"I know you are doing this for everyone else, John. I know. That's very...it speaks of the sort of man you are, that you are trying to do this."

He did not allow himself to pull John into his arms, not sure what John wanted just then. He took John's hand and gently held it. "He doesn't want to say goodbye, John. That's the last thing in the world he wants, he was just trying to do right by you."

"Well it isn't right for me to say goodbye to him," John retorted in a tone that was altogether far more harsh than he intended. 

"I just... I want to help him. That is what I want. Please just tell me what I should do to help. He needs me. He said so, I think. He wants me to want him and he wants me to be there. He misses me. It was hurting him to say goodbye. Clearly, that isn't what we are meant to do. If I am hurting him too much, I'll say goodbye. Until then, I'm going to keep trying. Let's try and go outside." 

John sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes. "I need to practice so I can go to him."

Greg nodded and got up with him, feeling ashamed for trying to dissuade John. His reasons were jumbled and unclear, but he obviously wanted to help and Greg did believe he loved Sherlock on some level. There were no guarantees in life, it was just going to be a risk the had to take.

"It's beautiful outside," Greg said gently, following John and otherwise keeping quiet, not wanting to further upset him. "I love you. I'm sorry."

John sat up as if he was going to get out of bed, then turned and laid back down on Greg's chest. "I'm sorry for being such a pain. I'm confused. If you ever catch me doing something that hurts you, or hurts Sherlock, please tell me. I probably don't even know I'm doing it. But...if I'm panicking it might not be the best time, and I'm sorry if I say harsh things when I'm scared or confused. It's not me."

Greg wrapped John up tight in his arms. "That's okay, John, at least with me. You have every right to be frustrated. I understand that this is deeply upsetting and confusing to you. I am worried about you both and I feel rather useless to help either of you, I'm sorry I'm so scattered, please forgive me."

He nuzzled down to the top of John's head. "Paul can help with this, he already has. You are capable of kindness towards Sherlock on the phone, so much so that he called you when he was scared, and you were wonderful with him. Let Paul help you with this."

John nodded and pressed his face against Greg. "Okay. I will. Can we do things today? Food, and outside... And then once I'm alright again, we can play Rummy and do nice things." 

John had already accepted that going outside would mean panicking, being in pain and being exhausted after, but he needed to practice. John was very determined when set on a job, and he was dead set on helping Sherlock.

Greg nodded, sliding his fingers through John's hair, holding him tight. "We can do all of that, John, absolutely. Your call how and when, okay? Do you want some tea and eggs?"

John nodded and sat up. He kept hold of Greg's hand while he stretched his tight muscles, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Yes, please. I'm getting hungrier as the days go on."

Greg smiled at that bit of highly welcome news. "That's fantastic, John! Let's go eat, you wait for me on the sofa, yeah? No kitchen today, please, just let me bring it to you. Besides, Gladstone needs brushing. You can do that for him while I make breakfast."

John sent Greg's smile right back at him and jumped out of bed. "Yes, I'd love that! I'll go find the brush. With his other things, right?" 

John was more than pleased to avoid the kitchen and stay with his dog. "Yes, you're brilliant. I love you. I'll go get it."

Making breakfast was a relief without John in the kitchen. Greg stood next to the boiling kettle, watching the water absently when his mind supplied him with the idea of someone taking water that hot and pouring it over John's small body. He shuddered and violently whisked the eggs, managing to grip the handle too low and burning his fingertip. He hissed as he let go, taking the eggs off the heat and killing the flame before flinging the icebox open and pressing his finger to the outer package of some frozen fruit. 

Christ, the things John had endured. The one little spot on his finger was enough to send pain up his arm, and he'd hardly managed to burn himself. 

_And here you are making demands and wanting answers. Fuck you, Greg._

He could hear John in the sitting room with the dog as he pressed a shaking hand over his eyes, breathing deep and slow, grief twisted around his ribs. He allowed himself a few minutes to gather his bearings and get control of his emotions before closing the freezer and plating the eggs. 

Soon he was walking into the sitting room with tea and eggs for the both of them, smiling down at John and Gladstone.

As it turned out, Gladstone loved being brushed. He set his chin on John's knee as he worked, then pointed his nose up to the ceiling when John brushed under his neck. His tail thumped against the ground happily and John smiled happily. 

"You're such a good boy, Gladstone!" _Thump thump thump._ John brushed behind his ears and down his side. _Thumpthumpthumpthump._ Clumps of hair stuck to the brush, and Gladstone was a perfect mix of trained, respectful stillness and happy, loving wiggling. 

John looked up to Greg and smiled amiably. "Thank you, love! Look how happy Gladstone is. I think he really likes it."

Greg had personally watched Gladstone tackle men larger than himself to the ground, fierce and deadly. It was comical to see him looking like such a goof, mouth agape and tongue hanging down, broad smile nearly like a Golden Retriever splitting his muzzle. Greg smiled and set the food down, picking up his tea and drinking it even as it was still a bit too hot. John's of course, had the ice in it, so there would be no such issue. 

"Good boy," Greg said low and warm, reaching out and scratching at the dog's large head, smiling over at John. "Think you're right, you've made him all goofy with that brush," he said with a laugh, patting Gladstone again and then leaning back to tuck into his food while he could. 

John finished brushing Gladstone a moment later. In truth, he had finished what was necessary quite some time ago, but it was amusing to watch the massive, intimidating dog turn into a puppy. John started on his food and occasionally reached out to pet Gladstone, who stayed nearby. 

"I'm so glad we got him," John said softly and sent an appreciative glance over to Greg. "He helps a lot. We still have time to go outside before I call. Should I call? I said I would."

Greg set his fork down and thought for a moment on that. 

"Well, I think that if you're going to call, you should build yourself up first. Let's go outside afterwards, okay?" Greg leaned back with his tea and went quiet for a few minutes before speaking again. 

"If Sherlock is having seizures...I had a good buddy as kid that would have them. He'd be all...fuzzy and confused after, really scared, a lot like Sherlock was when he called us back. He's...he sounds like he's still back where you were when you'd more regularly forget where you were or what had actually happened. John, I need you to hear this, okay? I think it's extremely likely that he's still very jumbled up in his mind, and that he's going to cry and be afraid, and that's not going to be your fault. Just like you get lost with me sometimes, it's not something I did, all I can do is sit through it with you. He has Mycroft for that, so you don't have to walk him through it, just..keep in mind that most of the time, it's not anything you've done or said that's upset him."

John nodded without agreeing.   
"You have a hard time knowing it's not your fault too, don't you?" 

He met Greg's eyes for a moment, then looked down. He knew, medically and logically, that he couldn't blame himself if Sherlock was upset after a seizure, but he couldn't help but think that Sherlock would panic less if he was there to calmly offer assistance. 

"Ah, well. I suppose it's easier to blame yourself than admit you've lost control." 

Those words hit a bit too close to home. Greg looked away, lacing his fingers between his knees. 

"Sometimes, the things I say hurt you. I don't mean for them to, but they do. Your situation with Sherlock is different than my situation with you." 

He spoke very quietly, feeling called to task. "I should know better, my mind- I wasn't- I don't get to make mistakes like that. But you, with him, there is a lot there that's not the fault of either of you." 

John put down his fork and turned to Greg.

He put his arms around him and was still for a moment in pensive silence. When he spoke, his voice was gentle and soft. 

"Have you ever done anything to intentionally hurt me, or said something you knew would make me panic?"

John's reaction took him by surprise. Greg looked over at him, making eye contact just for a moment before looking away. "Of course not, no," he whispered, staring down at his feet. At his toe was a little purple crayon mark from his youngest son. He fixed his eyes on the little reminder of his children and forced himself to breathe slower.

"I would never...that's never something I would do to you, John. How could I ever make you hurt more? I- the very idea of-" he trailed off, looking at the little burn on his finger and trying to pair that with the massive burn scars on John's body, "I would never hurt you on purpose."

John nodded as if satisfied and sat up. 

"Well, then that settles it. You are not to blame for anything that I have unexpectedly taken incorrectly. I hereby absolve you from it." 

He waved his hands over Greg and kissed him on the cheek. 

"In all seriousness, though, it isn't your fault. I'm afraid of food, Greg. Food! You're supposed to feed people as part of keeping them alive. But that scares me. The fact that you know how not to trigger it so well surprises me. Even I don't know as well as you. I just get scared and don't know why. But you?" He gave him a chaste kiss. "You always know, and you always help me, even when I'm difficult."

Greg smiled gently at John, grateful for the kindness. 

"You're rarely difficult, John, and when you are you have every right to be," he reached over and gave John's knee a light squeeze. "This is what I propose for the day, alright? We eat this food, and then we feed your birds. After that, we should just stay out on the balcony and play cards, see if you can't get a bit of juice down. Then, if you still feel up to it, we call at noon, and then rest until three or so with movies in the bed. At three-ish, we take Gladstone out. How does that sound? If you need to skip the call, then we skip the call."

John liked hearing his day all neatly planned and he put his scarred hand over Greg's. "I love you. That sounds wonderful. Yes. Let's do that." 

He started on his routine with the tea, which he only needed to do twice before drinking through his straw. He drew comfort from the routine, and was in fine spirits by the time he had finished his meal. 

"Last time I made the bird leave really fast. I didn't scare it though." John put his cup and plate on the tray and looked at the dirty dishes. "I'll be able to help wash up someday. I'm sure." 

Greg nodded as he stood up to clear away the dishes. "You will, but I won't let you. I intend to help you spend your life like a fat cat, John Watson, you've put in more than a lifetime's worth of work." He leaned down and kissed John's forehead, lingering there for a moment, "it's all birds and cream from here out," he said with a bit of a laugh, obviously trying to lighten the mood. 

He loaded the plates into the washer and then grabbed a stack of bread, walking back out to John. "Let's see how Gladstone is with them, yeah? He won't chase them if you put him in a down or a sit."

John reached up and brushed Greg's cheek with his fingertips. "You're too good to me, Greg. I'll get spoiled." He spoke with a smile in his voice and followed Greg outside. The birds flitted to the furthest end of the little deck at the dog's approach, but were not deterred completely from the feeder. "Gladstone, down."

The dog obeyed and laid down next to the bench where John had sat. "I'll have to get the bird used to Gladstone too."

Greg settled on the bench and watched the birds, very glad that they'd gone with the seasoned police dog and not a puppy. "John," he said after a moment, "would you be willing to use Gladstone like a therapy dog when we are outside? We can put on his vest and put your noise cancelling headphones there, and if you get panicked, you can always wrap up with him. I can teach you his commands, he's very sweet natured, but make no mistake, he's fantastic protection. I've worked with him, as I said before. He won't let anyone get near you, in fact that's one bit of training that is natural. We can use Paul and I'll show you what he'll do if someone were to approach you."

John looked down at Gladstone, who seemed to understand he was asked to be still and didn't thump his tail as he usually did when John looked over. "I'd like that. Outside is a bit nerve wracking, and Gladstone helps. I've seen police dogs at work. I'm sure he's a force when he's ordered to be." John tossed a bit of bread to the birds, but made no attempt to separate his starling. 

"It would help if I could see it, though. Like how I know my tea isn't hot, but it feels better if I've checked a few times."

Greg nodded, watching the little birds. "If you want to see him in action, I can get footage of an arrest. I don't want him pouncing poor Paul, and I don't have a bite suit. We can show you how he will keep a perimeter around you from other people, without being aggressive."

He looked over at the happy dog, who lay at John's feet with his eyes closed, mouth open, happily panting in the morning sun. He paid no mind to the birds at all, resting his muzzle on John's toes. 

John reached down to pat his head. "I'd love to see some of it. Mainly because I'd like to have that imagery when we walk. I'd love him to keep people away. I haven't seen anyone since the hospital staff, and I don't know how I'd react. I don't trust them, which is irrational but makes sense. I think it would help if people saw that I was afraid, and with a massive dog, and with headphones. They might leave me alone." 

He looked over to Greg with admiration, love and appreciation in his expression. "Thank you." 

Greg nodded, knowing that even if John looked bold, Gladstone would not let them near. He leaned over and gave John a hug from the side, kissing his temple before easing back, settling in comfortably while John took to his birds. The day was calm so far, and he wanted to soak in the quiet peace while he could.

John ended up with his head against Greg's shoulder and his eyes half open as he lazily watched the birds. They flitted about, occasionally went back to the feeder or the trees where John assumed there were nests, and in general provided a much needed distraction. He hummed absently and his eyes tracked his starling. 

"This is a good life for me."

Greg smiled genuinely at that. "I'm glad, but it's still going to get better, I promise you it will get better. I love you, that makes me very happy to hear."

He sent off a text asking for a very specific arrest where Gladstone did a wonderful takedown, but it was not overly violent and there were no weapons involved.

John reached over and absently rubbed Greg's shoulder. He was firmly attached to this man, deeply dependant on him, and saw absolutely nothing wrong with that. "Well, I'm glad I get to stay with you, things will get easier for you too."

Greg smiled as he leaned into John's touch, humming happily. "It's awesome to see you eating, it really is. I'm excited to help you find more things you like. Want to play cards? We have an hour.”

John sat up and stretched his legs. They got stiff easily, and his ankles were a bit tight. "Yeah, I managed toast with only a little trouble. I'm glad for that. Now that I have tea, I should be better with juice."

Greg nodded as he took John's shoulders and say him back down. "Let's play out here, it's nice outside and maybe it will help get you adjusted to the sounds."

He kissed John's temple and walked inside for the cards, nodding to Paul in the kitchen before returning to John.

John was sitting on the ground shortly after Greg left with Gladstone's massive head in his hands. His happy, open mouthed panting showed sharp teeth that made John feel much safer. "Good boy, Gladstone. Good boy."

Greg smiled and stepped over the massive dog, sitting down with his his back to the brick planter, savoring the cool contrast at his back.

"You want to deal?" He asked as he handed John the deck.

John dealt the cards and began the game. "Do you think that Gladstone will help me go into stores and such? I'd like to eventually be a normal man and go get shopping."  
Greg nodded as he looked at his hand, "Of course, he's being registered as an aid dog as we speak, should have the papers next week, already has his vest. He can go anywhere you go. You will eventually be able to function mostly as you had before, John, I honestly have no doubt about that." 

 

John began to play and started to consider what it would be like to go into a store full of people. "I'd like to... But God, imagine being... There's just so many people..." He shook his head. For now, I'm contented to just practice getting out of the flat without having an attack. 

Greg followed along with the hand, nodding. "That's not on the list right now, don't worry. We're not ready for crowds, not yet. Please don't dwell on it, that's not what I meant love. Only someday, you've more than enough on your plate already." 

"I'll keep getting better. And I'll always have you. So no matter what, I can handle it." John punctuated his kind remark with a particularly good set of cards. 

"And I'll always have someone's arse to kick at cards."

Greg shook his head with a smile, "Oi, you're cheating at this somehow, always handing me my arse. Totally ridiculous," he quipped, leaning over and scrubbing a hand over Gladstone's head. 

"Don't play Rummy with him, you'll lose," he said in a boisterous voice, earning him a heavy thump from the dog's tail. They had just under half an hour. 

John shook his head and held his cards close to his chest as if offended. "You just don't know when to pick up the deck! I always finish while you've got a full hand."

John shook his head and held his cards close to his chest as if offended. "You just don't know when to pick up the deck! I always finish while you've got a full hand."

John felt more like himself than he had in ages with the light banter. He smiled, a true John Watson smile, one that crinkled his eyes and brightened his entire face. 

"Well, maybe if you didn't discard all the wrong ones, you'd win for once."

Greg arranged his face in mock enlightenment, "Oh! Is that what I've been doing wrong all this time. Silly me, I'll just fix that right up." He scuffed a hand over John's head and played another round, keeping his eyes on John's face as he soaked in the rare display from him.

John nodded very gravely. "Yes, that's your problem. Honestly, most of the world's problems could be solved if people just realize they're being dumbasses. It would save the smart people a lot of time correcting them."

Greg openly laughed at that, long and hard, stomach aching pleasantly. "Oh Christ, John," he said through his amusement, sharply reminded of Sherlock, "What you brilliant men must suffer in such dull company." 

He beamed at John and leaned in, brushing a swift kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Bless you and your patience for putting up with the likes of me and my rubbish Rummy skills."

 

John tried to be serious, but the kiss planted a smile on his face that he had a difficult time keeping straight.   
"I'll have to manage," he said as disdainfully as he could. "Now play your turn so I can take advantage of another one of your oh so characteristically grievous errs." 

He lifted his chin and looked down the bridge of his nose with his cards held just under it, and would have been the picture of haughtiness if he didn't have the traces of a good humored smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. 

Greg smirked and made a show of closing his eyes, blindly choosing a card and dropping it down, breaking into peals of laughter when it happened to play higher than John's. "Oh for fuck's sake," he cackled, wrapping an arm around his stomach and nearly falling over, "I should play with my eyes closed, that's just mental." 

John laughed as well and tried to pretend as if it were all part of his plan, which was a bit difficult when he was nearly doubled over in laughter. 

"You should! Or, perhaps it's telling you that you've got no brain and shouldn't bother trying to use one to pick."

Greg dashed a hand across his eyes, laughter slowly dying down as he sat himself back up. "Don't need the deck to tell me that, I already know," he quipped back, though only half-joking. He grinned at John as his deeper insecurity twisted and pulled at him, and he did his best to ignore it. 

"Go on then, top my blind play." 

John couldn't top it, but he could match it. "Let's see if you can do that a second time. I doubt... Hmm... What are the chances? Mathematically? I don't have the brain for that sort. I'm sure the brothers would laugh at it."

Greg chose not to comment on John's nearly passive aggressive snip at Sherlock and Mycroft. Before all of this, that might have been the case, but it was difficult for Greg to pair the men as he knew them now, as the same men from before. 

He played another card without looking, failing to best the hand hilariously. "Ah well, that's that." 

John giggled and gathered the cards together. "Maybe next time, Greg. I think you're getting better!" He attempted to look sincere, but ended up laughing again. 

"Oh," John said suddenly, "I haven't missed noon, have I?"

Greg shook his head, "Five minutes till, I've been keeping an eye. Do you want to sit out here, or go inside? I think you'll find this easier today, John. You've conquered the morning really well." He spoke honestly as he packed the cards away, looking up so that John could see how perfectly serious he was. 

"Truly, just look at you. You've been doing spectacularly." 

"Yeah," John remarked with a blooming smile. "I did, didn't I? I've been happy, and maybe I can make him happy too. I'd like to go inside though, if that's okay. I handle things best in bed with you. It's a good place to be." 

He reached out and looped his arm around Greg's. 

Greg helped John to his feet and pulled him up slowly, aware that he'd likely be stiff. When John was in front of him, he wrapped him in a warm hug and spoke against the side of John's head. 

"Even if we can't help him today, it adds up, yeah? It adds up and it will eventually help him. You've done great, he's still just very fresh from all this. Let's go get in bed, I'm going to mute a movie and put it on where you can watch the screen in case you need a bit of a distraction, that sound good?"

John hummed softly when he was hugged and dropped his head to Greg's shoulder. "Okay. I'll try not to get sad about it. I get confused so often. I'll remember that, though. It's not my fault if he's sad, just like it's not your fault if I'm sad." 

He broke away then and led them to the bedroom, where he made the blankets and pillows into a nice little nest.

Greg put on an animated movie with plenty of color and muted the telly, toeing off his shoes and crawling up into the nest with John. He built the pillows up at his back and patted the bed for Gladstone to come join them, before pulling out his mobile and texting Mycroft. 

_John's about to call, he's doing much better._

Mycroft responded with seconds. 

_Give me a minute to talk to him._

With a soft nudge, Mycroft looked to Sherlock. "Hey, 'Lock, are you awake? John is going to call soon." 

Sherlock opened his eyes and tightened his grip on his own shirt over his chest. He managed to tamp down on the sound of distress and nodded without hesitation. 

_Be good, be good, be good._

"O-Okay," he breathed, very small and clearly trying not to sound afraid, "I'm...I'm a-awake."

Mycroft wrapped Sherlock up in his arms and a blanket before hitting accept and handing him the phone. 

John spoke first in an attempt to channel the day's gladness into his voice. "Hey, Sherlock! I've had the best day in months. I wanted to check up on you and see if you are alright."

Sherlock held the blanket in a white-knuckled grip and nodded his head, bringing the soft material to his lips, eyes pinched tightly closed. His heart twisted at the sound of John's happy voice, making the yawning distance between them seem just that much farther. Sherlock's mind provided for him an image of himself on a battered island, jagged rocks and raging seas, watching John approach a warm horizon in his own little boat, rowing away, leaving Sherlock at his back. 

He kept his eyes pinched shut, holding his breath for a moment. 

_Be good, just be good, be good._

"I'm al-alright," he answered in the same breathless voice he'd given his brother, a tear sliding down his cheek which he swiftly dashed away with the blanket, a shock of fear tearing through him that Mycroft had seen.   
"Th-thank you f-for calling," he added in hopes to appease them.

John tried to keep himself happy, to keep his sails full, but the sound of his distressed friend dragged him down a bit. 

"It's alright to not be alright," John said quietly. 

"I wasn't alright for months. And sometimes, alright is just not panicking. That's okay, but you'll be better. No rush. You'll get there. And I'll help you. I promise. I will not abandon you, even if it seems like I have. I've been having a rough time as well, but I'm almost ready to help you. Gladstone is a service dog now, so I'll get better at going outside. I'm going to go practice right after we call."

Sherlock pressed the corner of his blanket to his eyes with a desperately shaking hand, using most of his energy to keep from falling apart.

"Okay," he said with his best attempt at a smile in his voice, the tremble in his hands spreading up his arms and across his chest. He curled his toes at the sound of his voice, knowing it wasn't good enough. 

"Thanks J-John."

John whined low in his throat. _Not my fault. Not my fault._

"I swear," he began again, "I haven't abandoned you. I'm not with you, because... God, it's awful out there. It's like everywhere but this flat is a hospital or a warehouse or a cell. I know it's a nice little yard outside the flats. But... I'm coming. I'm practicing. Today I ate a meal without being afraid at all." 

John trailed off a bit towards the end and his eyes closed. "It's okay to be sad. I'm sad a lot too. I'll come help you."

Sherlock's gut twisted and he deeply wished he could speak to John alone. "I...I kn-know," he said with his voice shaking, opening his eyes for a moment to turn a pleading, apologetic look at his brother, seconds away from being Mycroft's mercy. 

"B-believe you...I..." terror got the best of him and he began to babble at his brother in panic, face away from the phone so that John wouldn’t hear. He was failing, and he’d be punished for it. Mycroft would send him back to hospital and he was doing a miserable job of behaving. 

"I'm s-sorry! T-trying pl-" he whimpered in open fear, color draining from his face, "please I- I c-can do...b-better...please d-don't be angry! Pl-" he shouted into his blanket, the sound muffled around his fist as he shoved the material in his mouth, overcome with panic, the call forgotten. 

"Please d-d-don't send m-me away! PLEASE! I'm s-sorry oh g-g-god please!"

Mycroft wrapped his arms around his shoulders and spoke softly to Sherlock. "I won't send you away. Not ever. I'll never do that. You deserve better and I will always take care of you. Always. You're my little 'Lock, and you are under my protection."

John was less calm. The color had drained from his face and he shut his eyes. Sherlock's voice dug into his mind and ripped at his heart.   
"Sherlock!" He shouted at the phone and held it to his mouth. "Nobody is sending you away! You're okay! Try to think! Remember that we love you!"

Sherlock lay in Mycroft's arms completely petrified, frozen in place and biting down hard on the corner of the blanket, not daring to look up at his brother. 

_Oh, you're upsetting Johnny boy, Sherlock. Hospital is a better place for you. They nearly left you yesterday, better cheer up before brother gets sick of it._

He choked on a sob and uncleached his jaw from around the blanket, opening his mouth to speak before closing it again, repeating the motion several times before whimpering and tucking his fingers into to his lip. He could hear John shouting through the speaker, making him sick at his stomach as his skin tingled in anticipation of pain that always followed the sound. 

_Listen to him, Sherlock, listen to what you've done._

"I'm s-s-" his throat closed and he choked, gagging as his stomach caved, "s-or-r-ry please- I- n-not trying to- pl-please I-" he pinched his eyes closed, hardly breathing, heart galloping in fear. 

_Screwing it up, Sherls, you're screwing it up. I'll keep you company when they ditch you at the nutter house._

John closed his eyes and held the phone a bit away. 

"I'm sorry. Sherlock, I'm coming for you. Please give me time. Give me time to practice. I'm coming to you as soon as I can. I love you, alright? I love you! Just try and listen to Mycroft. He's got you. We're alright, right? You and I? We're perfectly alright. We've got people who love us. We'll be alright." 

His voice was still gentle, but no longer happy. 

"I'm sorry. I'm here. Just listen to me. Ah... I... Do you remember that time that we... Ah..." He clawed for a happy memory. 

"Oh! The time when we were in that church and ended up with the confirmation group? I know you can memorize the responses after listening once, but I looked like an idiot! I suppose it was a bit embarrassing at the time, but oh how we laughed!"

Sherlock closed his eyes and recalled the fuzzy memory, plucking it out of the soaking mess of his mind. He could not recall more than the shape and smell of the church, much to his dismay.

"Th-they...all l-look like...id...idiots...ch-chasing fairytales...n-not....not you," he tried, gasping between words in fear. He glanced up at Mycroft to gauge how disappointed he was.

"You said your lines like a good little church boy! I was left up there like a babbling idiot, trying to remember what the last person said!" 

John had a pinch of amusement to his voice and snuggled next to Greg. "At least we had a laugh. I had my confirmation as a boy and that is quite enough for me. You're an actor though! You could have been, anyway."

Sherlock shrank back and pinched his eyes closed, dragging the blanket back to his mouth. 

"Y-you’re r-right...I...ok I...I d-don't re-m-member it r-right...I....s-orry...thank y-you I should...I....a-acting I..." stars burst along his vision, no idea if he'd upset John or made him happy, suddenly opening his eyes and looking over his shoulder to see if Miller was coming for him.

"Oh, don't be sorry. It was fun. I'm sure I was bright red, but it was hilarious once we got out." John sighed and grew more serious after a moment. 

"I know you're scared. I know how that is. Do you trust me? I mean honestly trust what I say, even if it goes against what you think?"

The question nearly pushed him into unconsciousness. No, he didn't trust anything any of them said. Mycroft got so far as putting him in the car to send away, Miller held him down and drugged him, John didn't want him but would not grant him the mercy of a goodbye.

"Y-yes," he lied, heart pounding hard enough to make him sick, desperate to appease them.

"Oh." John didn't know if he should be upset, or sad. What had he expected? He himself hadn't trusted anyone for months. He decided he would ignore Sherlock's shaking voice and blatant lie in order to keep things flowing. 

"Well... I... That's good. I just wanted you to know that it gets better. I am coming for you. Please believe those things, because I do. I've been where you are, and I can reach back to help you. You're going to be alright. Mycroft has you."

Sherlock broke down at that, shaking terribly and hiding his face. 

"N-Not if-f...if I'm t-trouble," he breathed, hardly making any sound at all, "I g-go b-b-back if I'm t-trouble. Pl-l-ease don't b-be an-angry w-w-with m-m-me...d-did...h-h-have I b-b-been..." his voice cracked just before he sobbed in fear and defeat, "I m-m-made you sad again! I- g-god I'm- p-please d-don't-" he'd tried to tell John that he trusted him, tried to make them all happy, but it wasn't enough. 

He kept the blanket over his face, pulling at it from the bottom for slack to chew on, doing his best to shield his IV port. "I...I t-t-trust you! Pl-please! I...oh pl-please I'm t-trying I'm _trying_ pl-l-lease I d-don't w-want to be al-alone! Ple-please I'm- I'm...wh-what sh-ould-d I say? What d-do you w-w-want m-me to s-say I'll s-say it! I'll s-say it! N-No more d-d-doctors I w-will be g-g-good I'm t-trying to be good please!" 

Mycroft intervened then. He wrapped both arms around Sherlock and gave him a tiny squeeze. "I won't send you away. You just had to go in for a bit. I stayed with you the entire time. I'm not making you leave if you're trouble. I never said that. I never told you I'd love you _if you were good._ I love you unconditionally. I always have and I always will. You're okay. I've got you."

John dropped the phone and put his hands over his ears. He whimpered pathetically and crossed his arms over his chest for comfort while trying to burrow closer to Greg. "I'm hurting him," he gasped.

Greg shook his head as he wrapped John up closer to him. "No you're not, his mind is hurting him, not you." He picked up the phone from the bed and held it to his ear as he rocked John, aching for both the men. Sherlock sounded like a terrified child and John was defeated. 

Sherlock sobbed in panic, waiting for the flood of drugs to knock him under. His mind rejected what Mycroft was saying, remembering only the way he'd upset John and the following struggle before the dark, waking in a car and begging mercy before being allowed home again. He clutched at the blankets with all his strength, determined not to be prized away. He would fight, oh how he would fight if it came down to that. 

Mycroft spoke louder and held Sherlock tighter when it was clear he wasn't responding. "You can stay! You will stay with me!" He wrapped him tighter in the blankets and kissed his forehead. "Stay with me. I've got you. You may stay with me."

John rocked himself anxiously and held onto his shirt to keep his arms in place. "I said... I said the wrong things... I should be comforting him... I'm making it worse."

Reluctantly Greg hung up the line. Mycroft sounded to have his hands full and there was little they could do from so far away. He set the phone aside and closed his hand over John's ear to calm him. 

"You said nothing wrong. He had to be taken to hospital yesterday and obviously he's confused about what happened. This isn't your fault, he's just frightened." 

He shifted so that John would be more comfortable against him. "I want you to listen to me John, please. I need you to trust me because I can see much more clearly than you, okay? He's confused and that's not your fault, it's not your fault. You told him a very funny story and you were very gentle with him. He's scared and it's nothing you did. Sometimes you get lost no matter what I say, right? He's just panicking, it's not you."

John reached for the phone as Greg hung up, but was obedient and listened to him after. 

"I don't... I hurt... I tried, and I said nice things, but he still... He needs me! Why me? Why does he need me? I just do this! I only do this! I... Okay... Okay... You see clearer but..." John's bottom lip trembled and he took a deep gulp of aid. 

"I don't know. I'm sad and-and I don't understand!" 

John let go of his own shirt and held into Greg's. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm confused... He's confused... I need to tell him I'm sorry! I should.. Will you text him? Can you ask him for another chance?"

Greg rocked John as he combed his fingers through his hair. "Let's take a few deep breaths, John. Sherlock did not hang up on you, Mycroft is trying to calm him down. Everything is okay, you didn't do this to him, yeah? If you did, he wouldn't have called you yesterday when he was scared. Remember he called you? He wanted _you_ when he was afraid, you calm him down. His mind is still getting the better of him but you help. Take a few breaths and let's get you steady again first."

John hitched on a sob and tried to ignore the stabbing grief in his chest. "I promised myself I wouldn't hurt him," he lamented, "that's what... You know how when things are bad, and you need to get through, it's easier to focus on one thing? One goal? I will not hurt Sherlock, I will not hurt Sherlock, I will not- But then I did! And I believed it! And... I couldn't just say; I won't believe Moriarty, because he was right! 'That water is dangerous.' Or 'Don't eat or you'll be in pain'. All true. So it's I will not hurt Sherlock. And now I am and it hurts and I want to make him feel better. And he was... Is? Is my friend? I... Yeah, I can't stand it when he's hurting."

Greg nodded and pulled the blankets up around John, speaking to him softly. "John...those head games were horrific, and you did not deserve them. Please hear that you did not deserve them. Sherlock is deeply, deeply confused and frightened right now. It sounded to me that he was afraid of Mycroft, really. Not you. I- listen, you typically want me to put myself in your shoes. Maybe it would be easier if you stepped out of your own feelings right now so that you can look at what's going on in his head. You would understand better than Mycroft and I, right? Maybe you could think of something we've missed so that you can help him? He had a seizure after a good conversation with you, and it left him scared, remember? He called you afraid. And then he was taken out of his bed and to hospital, and he hates going to hospital." 

He rocked John and gave him a few minutes to think, hoping this was the right tactic. 

John tried to step out of himself, which was difficult to do when his mind was like a steel cage.

"He'd be terrified. He said he would be good and wants to stay. Clearly he thinks he's going to be sent to the hospital again. He... I mean, he was never particularly welcomed into Mycroft's home before. He's not... He probably thinks he's back a lot. I hated that part." 

John let out another choked sob and fought to control himself. "I... he w-wants to go home," John said softly, "he said so before, so maybe... His robe? The blue one? Uhm... Maybe... He could have the Union Jack pillow? And... Oh.. I suppose he won't need his science things... Maybe Mycroft could read to him? Does he do that? Or... I should go, I need to go to him, I really really do." 

Greg shook his head. "Those are brilliant ideas, John, truly they are. I'll suggest to Mycroft that he get things from Baker Street for Sherlock. You'll get there eventually, you will. Right now though it's not a good idea to go to him, you're not ready and I don't know if he is either, frankly. He'd cling to you like you do to me. Allow yourself time to work through what happened." 

"Cling to me?" John's voice was hardly above a whisper and he seemed to shrink in size. 

"I don't want that." He curled up and pulled Greg's shirt over his nose and mouth for comfort. 

"I'm sorry, I just... I don't think I could handle that yet. What does he want? What exactly? I know he loves me, but how? He wants me to be there, but what does he expect of me?"

Greg pulled John closer and rocked him gently, rubbing his back. 

"I know you don't want that. It's understandable. I don't know what he wants, exactly. I imagine...I mean, from what Paul and Miller have said...he doesn't trust many people, John, and before this you were the only person he'd let near him when he was sick, so on and so forth. He...I mean, I get the impression that he...that he wants you like you...rely on me. That's not ah, not going to happen. I think it's best if we just...keep as we are. You're not even sure how you want _him_. I'll tell Mycroft to just get things from Baker Street and, if it's okay with you, I'll send Sherlock another of your shirts? It's alright if you rather I did not."

John didn't like the answers, by he knew they were correct. With a dejected sigh, he sat up and brought his knees to his chest. 

"I can't handle him clinging to me, or...holding on to me or grabbing me or being...over me or..." John could feel himself growing upset, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his palms to his temples as if struggling with a headache and rocked a bit frantically. 

"Can't think about that. It hurts to think of that. But... But I can hold him, I think. I could hold him and be kind. But... I don't want to be grabbed, or held down, and you lie down on your back and hold me like that and it's nice to rest on you but I couldn't be o-on my back because I-l-I-" 

John shook his head. A change of topic was desperately needed. 

"Something else. Something else."

Greg began to recount another of their nights out, just walking through London, nothing particularly interesting in his story other than rich detail of the temperature and the feel of the calm city as he texted Mycroft. 

_I don't think this is going to work. We may need to break contact for several months, at the least. I'm going to look for other funding sources, you are burdened enough._

John relaxed into Greg as the story went on. His expression slowly changed from stressed to serene, and he let his mind wander. If he were to help Sherlock, he would have to have parameters. He wouldn't be on his back. He wouldn't be held tight. He wouldn't be pinned in any way. He wouldn't be able to sleep near him, likely. But he would hold Sherlock, and rock him, and help him when he was upset. He would do everything in his power to help and to be Greg. He honestly had every desire to help, but doubted himself so severely. 

Mycroft responded a few minutes later. 

_Months? I don't understand your logic. Has something happened?_

Greg felt John relaxing and was highly encouraged by that. He carried on, going into one very quiet Christmas where nothing much happened, but had just been calm and enjoyable. He spoke of Mrs. Hudson's cooking, of the feel of the jumper she'd given John, the same she'd given Sherlock though he left that off, avoiding any talk of Sherlock at all. He spoke calm and steady, gently rocking him, curled protectively around his John. 

He took a few minutes before responding to Mycroft. 

_He can't be what Sherlock needs or wants, the thought is horrific to him, understandably. John's been through enough, this is too much. We are asking too much of him. I'm sorry he didn't give Sherlock his goodbye, I truly am._

John ended up relaxing against Greg's chest, which brought him pain, as he knew he could never be on his back to allow Sherlock the comfort of the position. 

Mycroft was upset. He knew he couldn't control John, or Greg, but he had some amount of financial control. 

_No. You're not taking John from Sherlock. He will get used to it. He doesn't have to be everything Sherlock wants right now. He can warm up to it. You don't have another financial option._

Greg clenched his jaw at the threat. He nearly tossed the phone across the room, instead shoving it down against the bed and wrapping that arm around John, cuddling him close and closing his eyes as he rocked him. He took the next half hour to come up with a plan, to sort through his options and find other solutions. They may not be ideal, but to say that he had no options was a decided mistake. 

His heart was aching as he responded to Mycroft. 

_I didn't take John from your brother. Moriarty did that. You asked that I care for and protect John, and that's what I'm doing. You feel free to explain to Sherlock how you pulled the plug, I'll find a way not to need you, if that's what this comes to. I'll tell Paul to leave tonight._

Mycroft practically hissed and clenched his jaw. This was not what was supposed to be happening. Not at all. 

_Greg, stop it. Stop this right now. You are being illogical! You said it yourself; John and Sherlock need each other. You are letting your protective emotions towards John hinder your judgment. You should remember that the goal is to help John AND Sherlock. Paul stays regardless of your ability to pay. I pay him. I won't deny you him._

Greg again ignored the message as he put all of his attention on John, sweeping his fingers through John's hair and whispering soft encouragement to him as he rocked him. He'd send Paul away when John was sleeping, and begin his task of finding alternate funds, one way or another he'd figure it out. John was not going to be held ransom, and if Mycroft was going to make that play, then he would remove what he now considered a threat. 

"I love you," he whispered to John, holding him tight and doing all he could to make him feel safe, "you are going to be just fine. I have you, and it's all alright." 

John looked up to Greg with sad eyes. "I want to be Sherlock's Greg, but I'm worried I will just hurt him. I can't do this," he gestured to their posture, with Greg on his back and John resting with his head on his chest. 

"I couldn't do certain things. I want to help him in any way I can, but what if I panic? I can't help him through all his panic attacks like you do with me." He leaned up and kissed Greg's cheek. "I'm lucky to have you. I'm so lucky you love me and you aren't...broken. Like me."

Greg carded his fingers through John's hair and pressed a lingering kiss to his hairline. 

"You're not going to be Sherlock's person, John. He has his brother, he's going to be just fine. Don't worry over it, okay? Don't worry. I'm going to take care of us, and we are going to be fine. I know you can't help him like this and it's not fair to ask you to try. It's okay, John, you're not going to have to do any of that." 

He cuddled him as warmly as he could and pressed another lingering kiss to the top of John's head, determined to keep him from this.

John scooted up so he was eye level with Greg. He rested his head on the pillow beside him and tried not to look as depressed as he felt. The small scars on his cheeks, forehead and chin from where he'd been hit, or fallen, combined with a few thin white lines left his face looking rough, even though the look in his eyes was soft and sad. 

"I want to help him. I really, really do. I want to go to him and help him but I will just mess it up. I'm afraid. Greg, I am so afraid of what I'm going to do with what is left of my life. I left seeking suicide behind a while ago. Then I thought I'd just wait to die while doing as little damage as possible. Now I see I've got two things. I have a life. And I need to help you and Sherlock. But I'm scared. I'm scared I'll cause more damage than I'm worth and end up hurting you."

Greg shook his head. "You are worth...far more than you believe. I know you want to help him, but I'm not going to think about that until you are much better off. You ate, and laughed, and kicked my arse at Rummy today. You'll have that tube out of your nose soon enough, and that drip line out of your hand. You'll be able to walk outside. You'll get there, John. One day at a time. Mycroft will help his brother. We need to set that aside right now. Sherlock hasn't fully accepted...he's trying, obviously, but he has to wait until he understands that he's not...he can wait, John. He was willing to say goodbye, he has Mycroft, let's get you living your life." 

"Set it aside?" John leaned away as if offended. "What the _fuck_ , Greg?" He sat up abruptly and pure, genuine anger showed clear in his features. "After what he went through - _for me_ \- I owe it to him to at least try! Even if I didn't know him I'd try! He deserves to have someone who loves him who he trusts! I can't just set it aside and get on with my life!"

John looked at Greg, met his warm brown eyes, and his anger shattered like brittle bone. "Sorry, I'm sorry." He drew the covers around himself and stared at his feet. "Sorry. I didn't mean to... I don't know what's wrongs it's me. Here I fucking go again, hurting everyone. Stupid _John_ hurting everyone again. Awful." He spoke his own name with spite and hate. 

Greg shook his head and pulled John right back to him. "Hey, stop it. You're allowed to be angry with me. You are _not awful_. I upset you and you've told me so, that's okay. You are allowed to me angry." 

He pinched his eyes closed and held on to John for as long as he'd allow it. 

"I... you don't owe this to him, John. You did not ask him to take your place, you did not ask him to do anything but keep away from you. He did this on his own, not because you requested it. And you said that you'd try like this even if you didn't know him, John that means you're doing this out of obligation, not because it's _Sherlock_. Let's get you feeling better before we decide if you want him back in your life." 

John closed his eyes tight and dipped his head to Greg's shoulder. 

"I can't leave him," he said in a devastated voice. "And I shouldn't be angry with you. I'm not. I was just angry. I'm never angry at you, love, I just get upset about some things." 

He pulled back just enough to kiss him sweetly. 

"I love you. I'm not angry with you. And... It's just... I love him, but not the way I love you. And I don't want him to be sad because I can't always hold him. I don't want to hurt him by hurting. Greg..." John dropped his head and held his hands over his eyes. 

"I need you to support me in this. Please. I know you don't like it, but he needs me to be there with him."

Greg held his breath for a moment and squeezed John tight. "I'm trying to protect the both of you. This makes you hate yourself every time."

"I know, love. I know. But it's something I need to do. I can't set him aside to figure it out on his own." John breathed deep and slow. 

"Please support me. I know you don't like me contacting Sherlock, but I need to."

Greg fought the knot in his chest. He held John tight, rocking him slowly.

"I..." He trailed off, defeated. How could he deny John anything? 

"I don't understand, and it's very...very hard to keep watching you attack yourself, and this hurts you, and you don't even...he's not someone you want around and-" he stopped and took a deep breath, "but...I'll just...if this is what you want then I'll...I hate this John, I hate it. If you really want to do this...he's never going to be able to let you go later. I'll support you though, if this is what you want. I’ll support you, I will."

John leaned in and pressed another lingering kiss to Greg's lips. 

"I don't mean to hurt you, and I know you hate this. But you care about Sherlock, right? Maybe if you explained why you don't like this we could talk about it."

Greg raked a hand through his hair and looked away from John. "I- of course I care about him. That's part of the reason- I care about both of you but I can't do anything for him, I've tried but I can't."

He stopped himself, forcing himself to breathe and close his eyes before defeat overwhelmed him. 

"You...He misses you as you both had been. He is still in love with you. He knows you don't want him as a friend, I can hear it in his voice. I've never...in all the years I've known him, never once saw him do something selfless. Him trying to say goodbye to you..." He stopped again, overwhelmed with emotion.

"I'm sorry, let me-" he said as he swallowed several times and tried to get himself controlled. Finally he cleared his throat and tried to carry on. 

"You are miserable after you talk to him and that hasn't changed since you came back. He's not...not...important to you, I know you're doing this to...to have a purpose or...something else that I'm not understanding but whatever it is it has nothing to do with Sherlock himself. You set yourself back and tear yourself apart and I watch this hurt you again and again and I-"

His voice cracked and he stopped to clear his throat. "I love you both and I can't save him, but I can save you. Only I lose you when...when we do this and...I...I can't save you both."

John listened to his Greg speak with his head bowed and his eyes down. He let the words sink in and didn't bother to raise any defenses against them. 

"I want to help him because I love him. That is the only logical reason, isn't it? I want to help him even though it makes me hate myself? It makes me want to carve open my own skin after I talk to him to make up for what I've done. I make myself punishments in my head when I hurt him!" 

John covered his face with his hand in genuine shame. 

"Why else would I want to help him? Listen, I..." What could he say? What Greg said was true, even though John felt like a terrible person for having it called to attention. His shoulders rolled down and he momentarily dug his fingernails into the flesh on his face to alleviate some of his guilt. 

"I don't want to be bad," he said in a broken whisper. "Sherlock was selfless and he went to hell to save me and he tried to say goodbye even though he didn't want to. All I've done is fear him, blame him, abandon him, and not want him! How can he love me? How can you stand to be in the same room as me? I'm a despicable human being!"

Greg reached out and took John's hands away from his face, speaking quietly to him. "You are not a despicable person, John. You've been tortured, methodically and horrifically, and taught to associate him with that pain, source him to that pain." 

He took a deep, slow breath, pressing John's hands to his lips and closing his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. "Maybe one day you can help him, if you still want to after some time has passed, but right now...punishments in your head? That doesn't help him and it is terrible to do to yourself! That's what...when you wanted a shower...that's what you were doing." He nodded slowly as he understood. 

"If you missed him...if he mattered to you...then this would be different, John. It's not your fault that you feel differently towards him, it's perfectly understandable. But what it means is that, I think, it's better for your health and your well being to leave it for right now. Maybe....I mean if you do love him...then maybe later you'll...feel differently. I will support you in what you want, god knows I want you and Sherlock back together, I want that desperately, but..." he shook his head and looked up at John, "I have to protect you and this...you hate this. You offered to let him _live here_ , and god, if he took that offer you'd never...it would kill you." 

John leaned forward and pressed his face into the side of Greg's neck. 

"Please, don't say he doesn't matter to me." He wrapped his arms around him and crawled back into his lap. 

"He does. And I can't help the way I feel, but I can h-help the way I act. I can't help getting angry, but I can help not hitting someone. That's how it works. We aren't so much responsible for our emotions, but more what we do with them, right? Like how if you're tempted to steal, you don't get in trouble for it unless you do it. Nobody goes to jail for wanting to kill someone. I can't control that...that he makes me sad. Not scared. Not anymore. Not with him all...broken. He makes me sad and depressed. But I can't help that! I can help what I do. It's right to help him, isn't it? If I didn't matter-" he stopped and drew back to look Greg seriously in the eyes, "-and just pretend for a moment that I do not, please tell me what would be best for _Sherlock_. Not me, but for Sherlock. Tell me what he needs. Does he need me to recover on my own so I stop hurting him? Should I get in the car right now and drive to Mycroft's? I don't care. Please, my love, don't lie. Just tell me honestly what is best for him."

Greg could not hold John's eye. He looked slightly over John's shoulder, feeling caught and trapped. 

"I don't know," he said quietly, "I...I have no idea what's best for him, I'm not with him much, it took me months to learn you and I...I tried my best to help him while you were in hospital and he couldn't be there and- and he still nearly-" he swallowed thick around the lump in his throat, "I...I've had to just...I can't save you both so...so I've...I've focused on you because I can't do anything for him other than to help you but I'm not doing that good of a job and-" he bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment. 

"I don't know how to pretend you don't matter, if I entertain that for a second you're going to vanish on me, since you already don't think that you do." 

John noticed for the first time in weeks how terribly damaged Greg really was. He always leaned on Greg for emotional and often physical support, and he was ashamed of himself for taking it as granted. 

"I"m sorry. I shouldn't have asked you that. Could you ask Paul, or Mycroft? Maybe both? I'm not going to leave you. I promise. I will do everything in my power to stay. I always do. I never try and leave you, and I know you know that. You've done a wonderful job. All those little mistakes you remember don't mean anything anymore, and you love me. That's what I need. Honestly, Greg, you're the only thing I am sure of. I don't know if I'll be helping Sherlock, or leaving him alone, but either way I'll have you, and maybe that's why I'm not so nervous about it."

The fading purple line around John's neck screamed much louder than John's words. Protectiveness flared across his chest as John suggested that he ask Mycroft or the man on Mycroft's payroll what would be better for Sherlock. Neither of them cared fuckall about John or what happened to him. 

He reached out for his mobile without another word, hands shaking, re-reading the text that Mycroft had last sent him and grinding his teeth together. He flicked his eyes up at John, dropping them without awareness to the bruise around John's neck. 

_Breathe, oh god please breathe!_

With a shaking, sharp exhalation he sent off a text to Mycroft. 

_John wants to know what would be best for Sherlock without thought to John's well-being. I imagine that won't be difficult for you to disregard._

John reached up and gingerly, as if he expected great pain, touched the bruise on his neck that was just under his chin. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm sorry that you were sad. I didn't want...I would _never_ make you feel that sort of pain when I'm me. I wasn't me. I was just...I was in a very bad place mentally and I couldn't see another way out. I thought I'd finally beaten him. I'm very, very sorry." 

_As it is, having John here would not be for the best. He would stress Sherlock more than he would help. If you can improve his ability to function with Sherlock, while I improve Sherlock's ability to stay calm, then it would be best if John came and lived here. With you, naturally._

Greg worked his jaw as he read the text, loathing that Mycroft was keeping up with the pretense. He looked up at John and shook his head, "I know, John, you don't need to apologize, I saw what was happening to you. You don't need to apologize for it." 

He read the text again, trying to decide what the fuck to do with it. He'd been trying to improve John's ability to function with Sherlock for months and months. 

_I obviously am not capable of doing that._

He sent the reply off with his ears ringing, wanting to pack up and run away with John to keep him safe from Mycroft. Only John wouldn't go with him, there was no way. He wouldn't be able to transport him, John would need medical care, he needed things that Greg could not provide and Mycroft had just threatened to tear away, leaving Greg feeling emasculated and vulnerable. 

_You got him from a screaming mess to able to make phone calls. He wants to make them now. That is progress. If it continues to be exponential, we should be able to bring them into the same home in a reasonable amount of time. Just so you are aware, I have a large home. The two of you could have your own room on the other side._

John shook his head. "I don't need to apologize, but I can still say that as a friend, I am sorry for what you went through. It sounds like hell. I wish it didn't happen to you and I am sorry it did. It's only been once recently though. I'm alright now. I'm here. I love you. Let's be happy while we can, alright? When I'm not afraid of things. Let's enjoy this time."  
Greg nearly crushed the mobile in his hand, furious beyond measure with Mycroft. He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. 

"What would you like to do?" He asked quietly, finally opening his eyes and looking at John, feeling trapped and caged. John didn't seem to care about the whole issue of Sherlock any longer, which spoke to Greg about John's seriousness. It was a passing phase of needing to do something positive, to hurt himself, to pay some penance he didn't owe. He'd have Paul out before the morning, and they'd move on from there.

John leaned back and stretched his arms. "Can we go outside to practice? What did Mycroft say?" 

He leaned over to read Greg's conversation, realized it was rude, then pulled back. There were few boundaries with them now, and John didn't have much concept of personal space when it came to Greg. 

Greg ground his teeth and forced his voice to be calm. "You _do_ matter, so...his hypothetical doesn't mean....you matter, John, and we can't just go off of what would be best for him without regard to you. If you want to go outside...then let's do that." _get that over with_. 

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and decided that he hated this plan, that they'd not even got the fucking tube out of his nose and John wasn't _bathing_ yet and they were talking about _Sherlock_ like that was something that should be focused on. 

John swung his legs off the edge of the bed and stood slowly. After a moment, he reached both hands to Greg to help him up. 

"I love you. I know that if I'm doing better, I'll be better at helping Sherlock." 

He gave a happy smile. That was the main reason he took care of himself at this point. He would help Greg and Sherlock, because they were good, and they mattered. 

Greg stood up with John and nodded, holding his hand and allowing John to direct where they went. Mycroft's threat and John's want to cast himself aside for a man he didn't care about anymore was far more than Greg could handle. Much as he wanted to encourage John, he found himself close to begging John not to carry on like that. He held his tongue, failed to reply to Mycroft, and did his best to put his focus back on John. 

John called Gladstone and brought his leash over. "Can he stay with me? And wear the vest? I want people to know that he's trained and such." 

He bounced up and down slightly and looked around the room in a neurotic sort of way. "God, I'm scared. It's okay though. Just outside. I'm not afraid of outside, not now, I'm afraid of how I'll feel after. But that's alright. Gotta practice."

Greg knelt down and put the vest on Gladstone, taking his time and trying to get himself together. He wasn't feeling particularly strong enough to pull John though another screaming, dangerous panic attack, but he was never part of the picture anyhow, it didn't matter. Slowly he stood up and handed John the leash, giving him his best smile and holding up a finger, walking away from the door. 

He was back moments later with earbuds to block out the sounds John would hear, handing them to him. "I'll get your attention if I need to," he offered, making his best attempt at being casual. This was fucking stupid, and it was going to wreck the progress they'd made, and god how he was tired of this.

John nodded and took Greg's arm. He couldn't bring himself to open the door, but the earbuds helped him with a bit of his nerves. 

"Whenever you're ready," he said quietly and clung to Greg as casually as he could manage. 

Greg just moved them outside as though it was nothing, one arm wrapped around John's back, Gladstone at John's side a few steps ahead. They moved down the little hallway and to the stairs, where Greg helped him down one step at a time until they made it to the grass. He swiftly moved them away from the street and into the courtyard where they could see Greg's balcony. There was an old woman at the far corner, but otherwise it was empty. 

John took tiny, shuffling steps as if unsure that the ground in front of him was solid. "I'm okay," he muttered occasionally. 

"I've got Greg. I've got Greg." He held onto his arm and his eyes darted around. John was doing relatively well until a car drove by, not particularly quickly, and not particularly loudly, but he saw it out of the corner of his eye and nearly came out of his skin with a sharp cry of fear. His heart skipped then galloped in his chest.

"Greg," he gasped with one hand over his heart. "Don't like it. Don't...Ah...Please, can we sit down, or...or go upstairs?"

Gladstone had not yet had a chance to relieve himself, so Greg set them down on a bench and pulled John close, watching Gladstone and praying the dog would be swift. He held John tight, and as they sat in the little yard out of view of the street, he pointed up at a tree where John's birds were. 

Gladstone handled his business relatively quickly, but Greg waited to see if John would calm, or if they needed to go right back up. 

John grabbed onto Greg's hand and pressed himself against him. He held his hands over his ears and closed his eyes tightly, trusting Greg to keep him safe. 

"I'm okay...I'm okay. I'm alright. I'm with Greg...With Greg..." He looked up and stared at the old woman nearby with fear and suspicion. That could be a disguise. He didn't know. He didn't care. John turned back and pressed his face on Greg's shoulder. 

"I'm okay. I'm alright. Could you talk to me? Just had a scare...I'm safe." 

Greg smiled to the old woman who looked deeply concerned, calling Gladstone to come sit directly in front of John. The dog settled down directly in front of John's knees, mouth closed and looking attentive. 

"When we get back upstairs, we will settle down on the sofa and watch a show, maybe play another round of cards. You're doing fine. There is nothing out here to hurt you. We can go back up whenever you are ready, but all we are doing is sitting a little lower than the balcony. What we are doing is normal, and it's fine. Just take a few breaths and try to relax your muscles. If there was any threat, Gladstone and I would handle it." 

"Right...You and Gladstone...You're strong, and you're used to fighting bad people...and Gladstone is strong too..I'm okay. I'm okay." He slowly pulled away and sat up, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. 

"Okay, I'm alright, I'm okay."

Greg kept his hand on the center of John's back so that he would feel him there, and relaxed his own posture in hopes that it would help relax John. "We're alright, look your birds are right up there. That woman is Mrs. Thompson from 1C, I don't know her well, but she's lived here for years. Used to feed my kids sweets if they'd fetch her paper for her." 

He gently rubbed John's back and turned his eyes down to the ever watchful Gladstone, allowing him to be the one to keep watch. 

"Mrs. Thompson, nice lady, okay. Alright." He grabbed hold of the leash with his spare hand. "Safe, safe, I'm safe." His chest felt tight and he took tiny steps as he did with the food, even though he was going back towards home. 

"I'm alright... I'm alright I'm alright I'm alright..." He made it to the stairs before he began to shake lightly, and he removed one of his earbuds. "Keep talking?"

Greg talked him all the way up the stairs, keeping John close to his side. Gladstone was doing exactly as he was trained to do out in front, and they got back up to Greg's door without a hitch. Soon enough they were back inside and Greg reached out and took the bud from John's ear, smiling at him. 

"You made it, good work." 

John was greatly affected by Greg's smile, and he reflected a bit of it back to him. "I'm okay," he said in question, as if unsure. "I'm scared. Scared. Can I have pills? I'm scared, really s-scared." 

He held his hands up and put them on his chest. "Scared." It was a nearly unnoticeable step that he had transferred from 'hurts' to 'scared', but it was there nonetheless. 

Greg called for Paul, who came into the entryway a few moments later. "If you'd give me his pills," Greg said to Paul in an easy tone that did not at all pair with the steely look he gave the man. 

Paul's eyebrows rose in surprise, though he said nothing, simply turning to go get them. Greg spoke to John calmly as they waited. "You're okay, everything is fine. Nothing happened. We took Gladstone out, and now we're back, that's all. I love you, you're okay." 

Paul came back with two pills, though Greg had clearly meant the bottle. Greg gave them to John, keeping John close to him. "Take these and let's go watch telly, yeah?"

John took his pills and pressed himself against Greg. 

"Help," he whispered, even though he was well aware Greg was doing just that. He shuffled with Greg over to the couch and curled up in a right ball on his lap. 

"J-Just scared, not hurt. Not h-hurt. I'm okay. I'm alright." 

_You're already failing him._

Greg wrapped John in his arms, knowing that by the time John was asking for 'help,' it was always too late. He rocked him slowly and whispered to him, "You're okay, everything's okay," without any hope of it working. It wasn't going to work. It never worked. He didn't have John's blanket on the sofa, so his arms were all he could wrap John in. 

Paul walked into the room and sat down, watching the pair of them. Greg shot him a look but said nothing as he tried to soothe John. 

John grit his teeth and fought against the swelling panic. He took deep, calming breaths and focused on the feeling of Greg's arms, his smell, his rocking, and the sound of his voice. He grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it to his face. 

"O-Okay. I'm here with Greg. Love... Love Greg. Greg loves me." 

He flinched, quite randomly, at all the things that could have happened while outside his safe house. "Could you s-say some n-nice things? W-Would help."

Greg drew in a slow breath and looked around the room, not sure what nice things John wanted to hear this time. So he started talking about Gladstone, and of the progress John had made. He desperately tried to pluck things out of the air, scrambling for anything positive to share with John. He started in about a documentary they'd been watching, trailing off a few minutes later, at a loss. 

John latched on to the sound of Greg's voice and used it as a rope to pull himself up out of the swirling chasm of panic he'd been slipping in to. He was still weighed down, weak, and the climb was vertical, but he made it to a stable place after nearly a quarter hour. 

"Greg?" He whispered, his voice shaking and weak. 

Greg kept on rocking John slowly, looking down at him as he called his name. "I'm right here, I have you," he said gently. He carded his fingers through John's hair, his own chest tight and pained.

John tried for a smile. Sweat shone on his forehead and exhaustion tore him down, but he wasn't panicking. The aftermath was painful, but he was sane. "That wasn't as bad as last time." 

Greg returned the weak smile and nodded, dragging his sleeve over John's forehead. 

"Not as bad as last time, no," he agreed, carrying on rocking John slowly to keep him grounded. They were pushing John too fast, too hard, he wasn't even eating and drinking, and bathing had to be addressed. Basic self care needed to happen but then this business with Sherlock began and it was off track. 

"You're alright."

John was weak, nearly limp, and let out a shuddering breath against Greg's shoulder.

"I'm sorry... I'm... I did better, I think. I saw a car, and a person, and I'm alright. I can do that. I can. I've got it. I'm tired now. I'm tired. Can I fall asleep? I need to sleep." 

He closed his eyes and nuzzled against Greg, who never denied him sleep. "You're good to me. Thank you."

Greg kept John close and as comfortable as he could make him, "You can sleep, just relax," he whispered, rubbing his fingers over John's scalp to soothe him. He rocked him slowly and waited until he was quite sure that John was asleep before looking up at Paul and whispering very softly. 

"I need to ask you to leave. Please leave out his medication where I can find it, and if you have it in you to write refillable prescriptions so that I can keep caring for him, it would be deeply appreciated." 

Paul tipped his head to the side in question, keeping his eyes on Greg. "Can I ask why you are having me leave?" 

Greg looked down at John, quiet another ten minutes and watching John very carefully the entire time to ensure that John was asleep. His reply was very soft, "I can't afford to have you here, and my financial stability is being threatened. I need you to leave. I'm sorry, Paul, but I'll not ask you again." 

Paul tapped a finger to his lip and stood up slowly. He was out of the room for nearly fifteen minutes before setting a bag down in front of Greg on the coffee table filled with John's meds. "There are script renewals in there for everything he needs. I wish you'd change your mind. Do feel free to call me if you decide you want me back." 

Greg ignored him, keeping his eyes down to John, gently carding his fingers through John's hair. Paul waited another minute before turning and quietly leaving, shutting the door gently behind him. He sent Mycroft a text on the way to his car. 

_Greg has had me leave. I can either come to you, or go home, whichever you prefer._

Mycroft swore under his breath. Things were getting out of hand. With a dejected sigh he pulled his baby brother closer and rested his head against him. He wouldn't give up. Sherlock needed John, and he would find a way to get them together. If Greg was kicking Paul out, it meant that he was trying to break away. Mycroft texted Paul back nearly twenty minutes later. 

_I'm sorry to hear that. For now, I suggest you go home. When you are refreshed, please come to my house so we can discuss this further._

He then texted Greg in hopes of opening the lines of communication.

_Talk to me. Please._

Greg laughed under his breath and shook his head. It was simply incredible. He read the text twice and then looked down at John, focusing on the ring of bruising around his neck and the tube in his nose. 

_You've made everything perfectly clear already, Mycroft._

Mycroft cradled his brother, who also bore the mark of an attempted suicide. 

_Yes, I have. I will not pull out my financial help just because you are not going with my plan. I do hope that even if you choose to keep them apart for now, that you consider them being together in the future. For now, please know that I won't stop paying for anything, including Paul._

Greg was grinding his teeth with such force that it was becoming painful. 

_That's an abrupt turnabout. You earlier informed me that I have no other financial options. This can't be doing Sherlock any good, and it's damned sure not helping John. I want them together, but I am beginning to see that the damage is likely too extensive, and while John feels...something for Sherlock, it's nothing at all as it used to be._

Mycroft brushed his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls before responding. 

_Please remember that I too am a human being. I am also negatively affected by this._

_I am not a factor like you, Sherlock, and John. I can not afford to be._

_If John is not yet able to help Sherlock, I understand. But work on it with him. I don't care if you hate me. I'm not asking for me. Sherlock is miserable, suicidal, rejected, feels unwanted, and wants nothing other to go home with 'his John'._

Greg did not gentle in his responses. 

_Neither of us are factors. Get off it._

_I know Sherlock is suffering and I can't do a damn thing about it. I can hardly keep John calm more than an hour. It kills me to hear John speak about how he feels of Sherlock but I can't change that either. You threatened us. I know you are hurt by this, but every time I've offered you kindness, you've shunned it. So, given all of that, the only thing I can do is help John. He wants to help Sherlock, for whatever that's worth to you, and, much as you like to believe isn't the case, so do I._

Mycroft’s reply was immediate. 

_We'll only call upon Sherlock's highest request. Other than that, I'd just like then occasional picture or letter to let Sherlock know he isn't being abandoned. Please continue to make progress with him. In will continue to provide all and any financial support you need._

Greg nearly pitched the phone across the room, stinging tears blurring his eyes as he shoved it away from him. Mycroft had been his only companion in all of this, and to lose that was truly devastating. He immediately broke apart, pulling John closer to him as bitter tears slid down his face. He held John tight as terrible isolation slid over him, leaving him empty and raw. 

He'd put in a request for his early pension tomorrow, anything to add a layer of protection as this severe vulnerability was used against him. Mycroft was a duplicitous liar, and John's health and sanity depended on financial stability. 

Mycroft set his phone down and nestled against Sherlock. His somber expression fit his mood and for a while he allowed himself to brood on how stubborn Greg was being. He wanted Greg on his side, to direct him where he was ignorant, and to be a help for him when he needed emotional support. He scowled. Ordinary people were irritating. 

He bent down to kiss Sherlock's forehead and whispered softly to him. "It'll be alright, little 'Lock. I'll make this alright for you."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had yet to take the blanket out of his mouth, fists held tight and secure to the center of his chest. He had no idea of the passage of time since he'd begged John for help and been left with nothing but a dead end, sobbing for mercy. He listened to his brother, whose words only served to confuse him. He could not understand this, pared next to waking in a car after Miller held him down despite his begging. 

He made a muffled sound of fearful confusion, looking up at his brother before swiftly flicking his eyes away.

Mycroft carded his fingers through his hair and rocked lightly. 

"I've got you. I won't make you leave. I love you, remember? I love you and you can always stay here with me. Always. You're wonderful. I love you." 

He vowed to himself that he would make Sherlock's life a good one, and while he was aware that he couldn't force John, he'd heard him beg not to say goodbye. That had to count for something. 

The tears began slowly at first. He looked back up at Mycroft and then scanned the room in obvious fear for Miller, pinching his eyes back closed when he did not find him. 

"I...s-s-sorry I m-m-made John c-cry! I- I t-tried," he whimpered in a small, shaking voice, "I- I've- t-tried and- I'm-m sorry, My! I'm s-sorry!" 

Mycroft shook his head and bundle up his baby brother. "Nothing to be sorry about. You did beautifully. I'm proud of you for trying to help him." 

Tears filled Mycroft's eyes and he hid them in Sherlock's hair. "Very brave," he repeated again, though his voice was rough.

Sherlock passed the next few hours in silence, dozing off at times only to startle himself awake. He kept his hands drawn in tight and chewed at the blanket, but otherwise remained quite motionless. He was dozing when Miller came into the room, speaking softly to Mycroft. 

"He needs his evening doses,' he whispered apologetically, knowing that he was not Sherlock's favored person at the moment.

Mycroft looked up at Miller with a morose expression, but nodded despite his wish to keep Sherlock free of stress. "Of course. Thank you." He repositioned Sherlock incredibly slowly so the port in his hand was accessible. 

"He's very depressed."

Miller quietly got the medications Sherlock regularly needed together as he nodded to Mycroft. "Yes, I'd imagine so. He's still confused over his trip to hospital as well. It's a very difficult situation." 

He reached out slowly and took Sherlock's hand, slowly giving him his medication, not daring to speak for fear of waking him. It was only when he was pushing the last of them that Sherlock startled awake, trying to jerk his hand back while Miller still had the needle in his port. 

"Easy," Miller whispered as he was forced to hold Sherlock's wrist to keep Sherlock from hurting himself. 

Sherlock turned frightened eyes on Miller before he simply began to cry, resigned that he could not do anything to protect himself. He pinched his eyes closed and huddled under the blanket, hiding his face as he cried out his fear. 

Mycroft took Sherlock's face in his hands and looked him in the eyes. "'Lock, it's me. I'm here. It's just some medicines. You're alright. Free medicines. It's all going to be alright. You can stay here with me for as long as you want, alright?" His heart was hammering in anticipation of a fallout. 

Sherlock stared up at his brother, blinking through clinging lashes and constant tears. "I don't w-want to g-go back," he breathed, looking over to Miller once again, "I'm-m sc-scared I...p-please-" 

Miller let his wrist go as he drew the needle back and Sherlock snatched his hand to his chest as though he'd been burned, rubbing over the port in an attempt to ease the pain that wasn't actually there, but his mind supplied anyhow. 

Mycroft nodded in agreement. "I know you're scared. I've got you, though. I've got you right here. You're going to be alright. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to, and you may stay here as long as you wish."

Sherlock clung to his own shirt and closed his eyes again. If they were going to move him, then so be it, but he wasn't going to watch. 

He did not open his eyes for another fifteen minutes, and when he did, he simply stared across the room, not speaking at all. 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft spoke gently and brushed his hand over his cheek. "I'm here. It's alright. I've got you." Fifteen minutes had passed slower than years. 

Sherlock slowly turned his eyes up at his brother, watching him for a few moments before looking back across the room quietly. 

"I d-don't understand wh-where I..." he trailed off, going very quiet again. 

Mycroft reached out and brushed his thumb over Sherlock's cheek. "My house. You're safe with me. You never have to leave. I want you to stay here, in my house, for as long as you want. Is that alright? Do you understand?"

Sherlock was unresponsive for a few minutes, reaching up and slowly touching his fingers to his lips, whimpering quietly as his mind did its best to race, though it was more of a jumbled slew of sloppy half-thoughts and a general feeling of malaise. 

He looked back up to his brother before his eyes skittered away, fingers between his lips as his other hand covered the port as though guarding an injury. 

Mycroft pulled the covers up over Sherlock so his hand was more covered. "Safe. You're very safe." He kept his face soft and eyes on Sherlock. 

"Do you know where you are?"

Sherlock nodded without looking at Mycroft. "Your home," he whispered, biting at the tips of his fingers.   
Miller stood up slowly to let himself out of the room in order to help Sherlock calm, but Sherlock jumped hard and sank a hand in his brother's shirt, pinching his eyes closed tight. 

"D-Don't t-take me," he begged, turning his face to Mycroft's chest as he clung desperately to him. 

"Miller, if you would leave I would greatly appreciate it." 

Mycroft spoke for Sherlock's benefit, as Miller was already leaving. "You're not being taken. I've got you. You're alright. It's all okay."

Miller slipped out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him, leaving Sherlock holding onto his brother with one hand and the bed with the either, as Mycroft himself had carried him out of the room earlier. 

"Please," he managed, arms shaking with the force of his grip, "please I- I d-don't underst-tand what...wh-what I'm doing wrong. I d-don't understand."

"You aren't doing anything wrong. You're just confused. I've got you, though. You're alright now. We did not go to the hospital as punishment. We only went to make sure you didn't have any problems with your brain. You've been a perfect little brother to me. I love you." 

He held Sherlock tightly to let him know he wouldn't let go.

Sherlock whimpered as he listened to Mycroft, shaking his head and burrowing closer. 

"I k-keep making....m-making him cry and- m-makes you mad and...and....h-he cries if-f I t-talk to him and if I d-don't talk to him and...said goodbye but he won't l-let me and...and....I s-s-said I believed him I said! I said what he aasked m-m-me to say I said it! Pl-please don't be angry! I..." he whimpered again and broke down, still gripping both Mycroft and the bed with all of his strength. 

"Hey, hey, I'm not angry. I'm not angry at all. You didn't hurt him. Moriarty hurt him and he's still hurting. It's not his fault, and it's not your fault. Sherlock..." Mycroft trailed off and dropped his head down. 

"It's okay for you to be angry with John."

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and shook his head, "N-no it's not! I c-can't...he...he n-never wanted me I-" he bit at his fingers and began to sob, wrung out and exhausted. 

"He n-never w-wanted me. I m-m-made him st-stay and then he...he l-left and I c-can't....be mad he...he's never wanted..." 

He trailed off as crushing defeat settled over him, the truth of his words more than he could stand. He'd never wanted to face that he loved John, but John never loved him in return. He'd always been a stop, a rung on a ladder that led John where he wanted to go. John had never planned to stay with him for long. Sherlock was a fleeting moment to him, while John himself was the sun in Sherlock's universe. 

He'd never allowed himself to think on it, taking each day as it came before all of this. "H-he was...was always going to leave me." 

"No, no, he wasn't. He wasn't ever going to leave you permanently. He explained that he wanted to go to Africa well before he met you. You didn't drive him away. You would never. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I only wish to say that it would be reasonable that you would be upset with him." 

Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and his eyes were kind, not accusing. 

Sherlock shouted against Mycroft's chest, a clipped sound of intense pain before speaking again. 

"I don't know w-where I st-stand! I- this is intolerable I- how am I- what am I to do!" He drew his knees up tighter and whimpered pathetically against his brother, "I cannot do r-right, there is only failure!"

"Heal! That is what you can do. Neither of you can function properly right now. He gets nervous, you think you're hurting him and get upset, he thinks he's hurting you, and gets even more upset... and it goes on and on from there. You could see, logically, that would be bad. If you simply take time to heal physically and emotionally, while he does the same, when you get back together things will be easier." 

As it was, that was their only option according to Greg anyway.

Sherlock pressed his shaking hands over his eyes and wept quietly. 

_Heal._

To him, it felt as though Mycroft were suggesting to simply pull the moon out of the heavens and hand it over, or to change the direction of the earth. 

He was quiet for nearly an hour, sobbing quietly, blanketed in hopelessness. _Heal_. It was impossible, and for what? What was the end goal? It would take, by his estimate, more than six months to be anywhere close to autonomous. Eating, bathing, and pushing himself about in a chair. What the hell good would he be to John then? To anyone? And so that was it. There was nothing more to do or say. He'd remain, and John would recover and forget him. Truly then, what his brother meant, must be _forget_ , as the outcome of healing would be nothing. 

Mycroft tried again to pull his brother up out of his grief. 

"I don't mean immediately. I know it will take time. I just want you to know that for now, the best thing you can do is focus on your own personal healing while Paul helps John. Soon you two will be together. He said..." Mycroft trailed off and looked at Sherlock closely. 

"He said he was going to practice going outside so he could come to you. Do you want that?"  
.   
Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips as he answered his brother. 

"Th-that is a cruel question," he whispered, keeping his eyes shut as his lip trembled. He wanted what he could not have and what John was so tortuously waving in front of him that he could not have. Saying things like _I love you_ , and _I'm coming for you_...worse still, the _Come stay with me and Greg._

But John didn't want him, or miss him, or particularly care about him at all. John felt guilt, and it was all to assuage his guilt. 

Mycroft’s heart squeezed and he dropped his head down. 

"I'm sorry," he gasped and cradled Sherlock. "You don't have to answer. I just don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I'm trying to help you with him, but I don't know if it's better for you to wait for him and hope, or move on. I just don't know. I'm trying, 'Lock, I promise." 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and allowed his brother to hold him close. He spent the next hour in silence, working his hardest to take the thoughts and images of John, and box them up tightly. In the end, he failed in his struggle to do so, thought he'd shoved him back behind bars. Mentally he could still hear and feel him, though he was otherwise restricted from touching. 

"I j-just wanted...why do I care s-s-so much of a goodbye? I just wanted a...to t-tell h-him...why do I w-want that so desperately?"

"You want a proper goodbye? Is that truly what you want?" 

He doubted he could get John to do anything he didn't want to, but if he could convince the broken man that Sherlock needed it, he we confident he would do it. 

"We could call him one last time, if that's what you want. Though I'm sure you'll see him again if you want to."

Sherlock shook his head, sobbing as he tried to explain. 

"I w-want John back! I want my...my...I want...god I...what am I without-" he could not carry on, breaking down hard and gasping through the searing pain of it, "but I can't e-ever have him back! I lost him and I j-just wanted...he'll fade a-away from me like this and...and I wanted to say goodbye! I wanted to s-say...he w-was angry when he left the last t-time and then-" 

He could not carry on, struggling to catch his breath as he fell apart. 

Mycroft couldn't think straight. He rocked Sherlock and was torn between letting him say goodbye and rekindling hope. He shot a text to Greg, meant with all sincerity, to try and gauge the situation.

_Sherlock wants John. He's weeping. He either wants his John back or he wants to say goodbye. I'm not for the later, but we need a plan. Perhaps allow them to heal for a month, then try again? Let him say goodbye for now?_

Greg read the text and frowned, still holding John in his arms. John wasn't going to go for that at all, not after his demands to be supported in this. 

_John's not going to go for that idea, I can tell you right now. He is determined to acclimate to Sherlock. I'll push it if that's what you want though._

Mycroft leaned to Sherlock and petted his hair, which needed to be cleaned. "Greg said that John is determined to come see you. Would it be alright if we waited just a bit while he got used to cars?"

_I would. I'd rather Sherlock have the option of talking to him. Honestly, I think it would be best if John spoke to Paul. I know you don't want to be under my care financially, but I want what is best. I think they both need Paul._

Greg replied swiftly looking for clarification. 

_You want me to push John to give him a goodbye, or to speak to Sherlock. I don't think them speaking together does anything but harm. I'm quite sure you're not overly concerned with John's needs, I'll figure something out._

Mycroft responded somewhat indignantly, but it was not out of hate for Greg. 

_I want you to figure out just how he feels about Sherlock. Actually, I wanted Paul to do that. Just please keep him talking about Sherlock. Speak favorably about my little brother. He's broken. He needs John._

Greg shifted John in his arms and responded to Mycroft. 

_Fine, send Paul. I always speak favorably of Sherlock, Mycroft. Believe it or not I am an ally that you've threatened. You can't threaten my ability to care for one of them and expect me not to react._

While Sherlock lay sobbing in crushing depression in his arms, Mycroft responded. 

_I know. I apologize. I have been over emotional recently and far too quick to defend Sherlock beyond what is needed. I am sorry. Please call Paul back. I'm sure he wouldn't go back if I told him to. John needs him, if he's anything like Sherlock._

Greg ground his teeth, not sure if this was honesty or manipulation. 

_I think your proposal of a month is wise, Mycroft. John needs to master basic self care before putting energy into the massive complexities surrounding Sherlock. I am so very sorry for Sherlock and have been since I picked him up out of the road all those months ago. He is my friend and I care deeply for him, but John...this isn't helping John's progress and if anything it's teaching John to guard himself against Sherlock._

Mycroft leaned over to Sherlock and kissed his forehead. "'Lock? Would it be alright if John and you took about a month off to try and sort things out individually? Greg and I were talking and we think it's a good idea. You can call and say goodbye for now." 

_One month. I'll ask Sherlock if that is acceptable. I am sorry I threatened you. I was under stress. Sherlock has been distressed._

Sherlock shook his head. "No. He w-won't let me and he'll tell me lies. I..I'll...I j-just can't have it. I don't deserve it. H-He means f-for me to never have..." he tucked his fingers into his mouth. One month meant four more weeks for John to forget him, more than he already had. 

"J-Just...tell G-Greg..." his voice broke and he shook his head, dragging the blanket up to mostly cover his face. 

"N-Nevermind. Nothing. I...no." 

Mycroft kept his disappointment and frustration in and in his voice replaced them with kindness. "Sherlock... I won't convince you to do something you don't want to, but John is very persistent on trying to see you. If we could take a month off, it might be easier to talk to each other after." 

Sherlock flicked his eyes up to his brother, unable to stop the tears that slid down his cheeks. "S-So...you...I can't just let him g-go I...I h-have to try _again_ to...y-you want me to talk him out of..." he closed his eyes as his chest buckled, grief ripping his mind to shreds. Already he did not want to see John go, and he was scared to try and attempt a goodbye again, and now he had to push John away forcibly? 

"Alright," he sobbed, his voice a complete mess of resigned loss, "I'll...ok-kay." 

"It's not goodbye forever," Mycroft stressed. "Just for a little while. Just enough time to let you two recover a bit more. You don't really have to say goodbye. Just...talk to you later." He tried for a smile, failed, and texted Greg.

_Please get John on board so Sherlock doesn't have to explain._

Greg dragged a hand over his face, looking down at John. He'd been asleep for a few hours now, it would be alright to wake him and Sherlock needed this apparently. 

"John, will you wake up for me please?" 

He slid his fingers through John's hair and tried to rouse him. 

John rolled over sleepily and caught Greg's hand. He pulled it to his lips and kissed it lazily before opening his eyes, which were hazy with sleep. "Hmm?" With a long yawn he stretched his arms above his head and his legs out beneath him. 

"What is it?"

Greg smiled at him, hoping this would be relief for John. "I've been thinking while you've been napping. I want to talk to you about an idea that I've had, and I've discussed it with Mycroft. Can I talk to you about it?"

John sent Greg's smile right back at him, though his own was a bit bleary, and he didn't know what he was smiling for. "Okay," he said on another yawn. 

"What is it?" He still had Greg's hand in his, and he kept it to his face. 

Greg kept his voice as happy as he could, honestly believing this the most ideal solution   
"Well...communication with Sherlock is a bit much right now, and we have other things that really need focusing on. So, how about we just work on the pair of you healing a bit more for the next month, and then see how much easier it is for you to talk?" 

He held his breath, hoping that was the right spin. 

John pouted a bit in concentration. Greg was speaking so calmly, as if this was ordinary, and John knew that he couldn't trust his own judgment. 

"Has...Is Sherlock okay with this? Is this good for him? Because it has to be good for him or I won't do it." 

Greg had to take this with a bit more caution.   
"He's...been willing to say goodbye to you, John. This is for the both of you to heal, I'm...I'm sure he's going to be okay with it. He might be sad, but truly this is for the best. You and I can work very hard on things like your own personal care, and then we can focus just on Sherlock, alright?" 

John kept his expression controlled, which he rarely bothered to do. "I'm... Worried. I'd like to talk to him about it. As soon as possible." 

Greg kept the mood as calm as he could, giving John a small smile. "Sure, John. That's fine. Would you please tell me your concerns first? Let's talk about it together before Sherlock, okay? He's still pretty lost.”

"Oh, oh, right. Okay." J

ohn nodded and kept Greg's hand trapped between his own. He no longer noticed it, as Greg was at a level of familiarity where he would notice his absence stronger than he was consciously aware of his presence. One isn't always aware of one's heart, but if it were to be taken away, it would be recognized. 

"I'm worried he doesn't want that. Or that he's not on board with it. Or that he is only agreeing because he wants to help me."

Greg hummed and brushed his thumb along the side of John's hand. 

"It will help you though, won't it? And the turnabout of that is your ability to help him better? I'm not sure he understands much of what is happening around him just yet, but John, I don't think he's wrong in asserting that him being away from you will help you." 

"You said that before! You said that I was helping him by getting better and the whole time he thought I had abandoned him!" 

John spoke with pain, not anger. He hated being tricked, but was more than used to it. Mental games and trickery had been such a part of his life that he came to expect them and sometimes fabricate them. 

"Hey, hey, easy John, easy. I was being truthful before. You would never have been able to talk to him at all if you'd not healed a bit more than you had been. The issue was that Sherlock did not have an understanding of the situation. He was recalling the last time he saw you and combining it with your absence and his mind told him you were gone. You were helping, that was not a lie or a trick. Can you see that the progress you've made so far has enabled you to even _want_ to help him?" 

He spoke soft and calm, sliding his fingers through John's hair. 

"I know you like to help people, John, and we can do that later, but right now you've got to help yourself and talking to him...it never makes you feel proud or fulfilled, it makes you hate yourself and punish yourself. He's not good for you right now, much as you don't like to hear me say it."

John nodded and took a few long pulls of air to calm himself. His former stoic control of himself, which in no way rivaled Sherlock but was still admirable, was torn to shreds. What he felt, he acted upon now, and it was concerning to him.   
"I punish myself..." he echoed in a hollow voice and touched the back of his head where he'd bloodied himself. It hadn't been the punishment he'd intended, which was water, but he had managed to hurt himself none the less. The spot was still tender. He pressed on it. 

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure this is what is right? I...I'm sorry, I shouldn't question you.... I don't know things. But...Are you sure?"

Greg took John's hand away from the back of his head. 

"Yes," he said without a doubt, it was the best thing for John without question, and so that would be how he operated, he did not know what would be best for Sherlock, but John constantly falling into panic and then punishing himself after talking to him was unacceptable. If he could present it this way to John, and perhaps, much as he hated the idea, slowly coax John away from thoughts of Sherlock, he could get him healed up much faster. "Yes this is what's right. You don't even have to talk to him, we can just decide to call him in several weeks."

John nodded, but did not agree completely. 

"I'll call," he said in a voice that was not harsh, but made his intention very clear. 

"It would be harsh and unfair for me to suddenly stop calling after I've made it a point to be regular. I need him to trust me in that area, at least." He leaned over and kissed Greg's cheek. 

"I'll be alright. Short call, no panic. I'm a bit drained from the walk anyway."

John's level of calm was encouraging and he texted Mycroft back. 

_I think I have him calm and on-board with this. It would be a good time to call._

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and nestled closer to him. "Would you like to call now? John is ready and would like to speak to you."

Sherlock was making clipped little sounds in his effort to stop crying, nodding to his brother as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. 

"Ok-k-kay," he managed to get out, swallowing hard and gritting his teeth before relaxing his face as much as he could. 

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Mycroft had the phone dialed, and was waiting for it to pick up. "I can hang up if you want."

No, he was not ready for this, not at all. Though he never would be. He gripped hold of his shirt over his own heart and ran his thumb over the scar he could feel through his shirt where the pacemaker had one. 

Greg answered the line quietly. "Mycroft? John would like to talk to Sherlock."

Mycroft looked down to Sherlock and handed him the phone. "If anything goes wrong, I'll take it, alright?"

John held the phone in front of his face, as if he would see Sherlock appear on screen, and waited. 

Sherlock immediately reached up, biting a knuckle between his teeth. "John," he whispered in question before shoving the knuckle back in his mouth, rocking himself suddenly to try and quell his panic. 

John tried to force a smile into his voice. 

"Hey, Sherlock. Guess what I did today!" He didn't wait. 

"I went outside. All the way to a bench and sat down. There was another person, but it was just a nice lady. I told you I'd practice."

Sherlock clutched at the phone and listened to John speaking, nodding his head. "That's... that's g-good...John w-well...d-done." 

"Thanks. I was...I heard about the one month plan."

John tried to keep emotion out of his voice. He wanted to see what Sherlock's opinion was before taking a side.

Sherlock grit his teeth and swallowed around the twisting panic in his chest. 

"I...it's....it's ok-kay," he whispered, trying his best to keep steady like Mycroft wanted. He was to give John permission to go, that's what his brother had asked of him. 

John took one long, deep breath, then began. 

"Listen, Sherlock, this sucks. All of it. What happened to us, what is happening, and what will continue to happen. It all sucks. But we're strong, yeah? We made it through with our sanity. We're recovering. I want to help you, but as it is, my calls are...they hurt you more than they help. But if you want me to keep calling, I will. I'm trying to do what is best for you, and I just don't know what that is."

John speaking so... like _John_ , made Sherlock want to crawl through the phone and into his lap with such vicious ferocity that he was forced to hold his breath and give himself several moments to quill that intense desire. When he’d been in pain before, John always made it right, John had always saved him from it. 

"I know I...m-make you...s-s-sad," he breathed, his fingers blanched on the handset. 

"It's...y-you should...just be...happy things and...G-Greg and..." he swallowed around the burning tears, losing a few that raced down his cheeks, "m-maybe...m-maybe someday you'll...want me to visit and I will. I'll...I..." 

He had to suddenly suck down a sharp breath and hold it again as his chest caved and he was desperately fighting the blinding pain of it. "If y-you...th-think of me later and...and w-want..." oh he could not do this, he could not _do this_. 

"T-time away f-f-from me...h-helps. If you w-want to...t-talk to m-me again sometime, I'll b-be here." He clutched the phone painfully, joints singing in electric pain as silent tears flooded down his cheeks. 

"No, no, _no_. That isn't the point. Yes, Sherlock, you make me sad. But it isn't you. Don't let that hurt you, please. I am sad about my own things going on in my own head about things that happened to me. Nothing to do with you. It's between me and Moriarty. Talking to you helps. It gets easier each time. I don't..."   
John grit his teeth and kept himself as distant from the swirling chasm of emotion below him as he possibly could. 

"I _do_ want you to visit. Hell, I went outside today to practice coming to visit you! Greg said you can live here someday. I'd like that. I'm not good enough to help you yet, but I will be. Please, tell me if this is what _you_ want."

Sherlock dropped the phone to his chest, holding it there a moment as he grit his teeth and quietly allowed his chest to cave with silently, wracking grief. He pressed his free hand over his eyes and held it there, wishing that _this John_ could be with him. He pulled the phone back up to his ear a short time later and spoke quietly. 

"I d-don't...w-want you to...b-be s-s-sad," he responded honestly as his best option of reply. 

John pressed his face against Greg's shoulder and regulated his breathing carefully. 

_Don't fuck it up don't fuck it up don't fuck it up don't fuck it up-_

"I don't want to be sad either. But hurting you makes me the most sad. So, by that logic, if you're still all about that stuff, you should tell me what you actually want so I can make you happy, so I can be happy." 

John leaned and pressed his back against Greg so he could speak without being muffled and still be touching him.

Sherlock could not help losing a muffled sob. He looked up to Mycroft in desperation. Was this a trick? 

"I..I w-want th-things I c-c-can't have. I-" he dragged in a few shaking breaths to try and calm himself, "pl-please I'm..t-t-trying to l-let you...l-let you go. It hurts, John! I...I w-want what I can't have but I'm doing my best to...t-to-" he stopped talking as he viciously bit down on his fingers, feeling the skin giving without really registering the pain of it in comparison.

"I d-don't want...want to be without you but...but it-t would be worse to...be with you and know y-you don't want me. Please, I don't know wh-what else to do." 

John gnawed at the inside of his cheek as Sherlock spoke, and flinched every so often. "I...I don't know what..."

Apparently, if he went to Sherlock but didn't do a good enough job of wanting him, it would hurt him. But if he didn't go, he would hurt him. 

"Give me two weeks," John began to bargain immediately. "Please. Two weeks and I'll come to you. I'll...I don't know if Mycroft wants me to visit, or if I'll stay, of if you'll come here, but I'll see you. Please...I don't...I want to do what is good for you but I don't...I don't know what it is."

Sherlock swallowed hard and breathed a few times to get himself under control. 

"M-My says...s-says a m-month and then...th-then we would-talk again. Please d-don't...d-don't c-cry I'm....I d-didn't mean-" his chin trembled and he was just on the edge of falling apart. "I'm supposed....to s-say g-goodbye."

"Supposed?" 

John's tone had a bit of a bite in it that was not at all intended for Sherlock. 

"If anyone is asking you to say these things because of me then don't listen. You just do what you want. You do exactly what you want and what you hope for. Tell me what you w-want." 

John's voice broke at the end and he clamped a hand over his mouth.

Sherlock pulled in on himself, no idea what to do or say. John was angry, and his voice was breaking, and Sherlock was supposed to be talking John into this idea not making him cry. 

He glanced up at Mycroft before his eyes shot to the other side of the room, expecting Miller. "I..." he could not hold himself together any longer, dropping one hand to the bedding to keep himself anchored in preparation of a fight to keep from being taken. 

"I w-want my John b-back! I want _home_ and Mrs. Hudson and G-Greg and-" he could not keep speaking, mention of the things that ached so horrifically he could hardly breathe pulling him under, "I'm s-s-sorry you- n-nevermind I...I'm stupid and selfish and I...I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry! You don't want an-any of that...b-but you asked m-m-me what...wh-what I..." 

John's composure broke suddenly and without warning and he was openly crying into Greg's shoulder. 

_My John._

He shook, opened his mouth to speak, and fell silent. 

His John. 

His. 

John thought, in a fleeting way, that there might have been a time when he would liked to have heard that. 

"Then I-I'll do that," John responded once he had the composure to do so. 

"I'll w-work on it and we'll g-get t-to all b-be together and things w-will be happy and good. I'll...Should I go there? O-Or you come...I don't know..I don't...I want to help you. I'll come to you. I'll h-help you and we can b-be close again and things w-will be happy."

Sherlock could not take that yet again he'd stripped the calm from John and left him reeling. He shook his head and began to very gently pedal his feet in anticipation of pain. 

"K-ay, I'll t-talk...t-talk to y-y-you...l-later. G-Goodbye, J-John," he forced the breathless words out. 

"O-Okay," John swallowed hard and nodded to himself. 

"Okay. I'll do that. I'll w-work on leaving the house s-so I can come to you. I'll...I'll talk to you in...a month? Two weeks. I say two weeks. I'll talk t-to you in two w-weeks from today. Goodbye, Sherlock." 

He didn't hang up, but instead stayed on the line just in case there was something else to be said.   
Sherlock was fully sobbing as he took the phone from his ear, struggling to find where to hang up the call as his breathing fell apart and he dropped the phone into Mycroft's hand, crying out his heartache. He had his goodbye, at the least. He had that, he'd be able to know that. It's what he'd wanted, right? 

He could not for the life of him understand why it felt as though his heart had torn open, leaving him openly caving to his grief. 

John waited until he heard the phone ring off to speak. He was slightly pale, with wide watery eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. He closed his eyes and handed the phone back to Greg without looking. 

"I'd like a sedative, please."

Greg reached forward, leaning over John, and grabbed the bottle. He tapped out two of them and handed them over. 

"I'm sorry that went that way," he said honestly, "you did very well." 

John took the pills, swallowed, turned, and landed face down in a pillow. He did not move, speak, or even breathe for as long as he could, then grabbed it out from under him and pulled it over his head. 

He desperately wanted to go to Sherlock now. He did not want to go at all. He wanted to call back, and he wanted to disconnect the phone. He felt terrible for not loving Sherlock as he used to, and he was still proud that he'd managed to get this far. John began to cry into the sheets in bitter pain and confusion as he waited for the medicine to take hold.

Greg did not dare speak, not without knowing what John was thinking. So he simply lay down next to John and trailed his fingers over John's back, trying his best to soothe him. The call had ended with the men at least saying goodbye for the while, and while that hurt Sherlock, it was sure to do his John so much good. 

He hummed softly and did his best to soothe as he lay beside John. 

John wept with emotions he could not identify and brought one arm in to cover his face, even though he had a pillow over his head. 

"I d-d-didn't want t-t-to s-say goodbye," he lamented and reached out to loop his arm over Greg. 

Greg wasn't entirely sure what this was all about. He pulled John to him, shifting so that he could hold him in the pocket of his chest. 

"It's alright, John, it's okay. You're going to feel so much better soon. It's okay. Just breathe, try to relax."

"I feel WORSE!" John's voice cracked in the middle and he pressed his lips together. 

"I feel w-worse," he added in a softer tone. "I don't l-like saying goodbye to him. He...I have two w-weeks. Am I g-going to him, or is h-he coming here? H-how long would I stay there?"

Greg kept John in his arms and spoke very softly, "Let's figure all that out when you're a little bit calmer, John. Just breathe for me, slow down. You have as much time as you need, okay? You have time, let's try to breathe.”

John sat up a bit and turned over so his back was to Greg, then pulled his arm around his waist. "I'm sorry I'm b-being d-difficult," he whimpered and pulled the covers up almost over his face. 

Greg pulled John back against his chest and held him tight, very gently rocking him. "You are not being difficult, John. You're allowed to have feelings. Will you talk to me about what you're thinking?"

John was sleepy, but nodded anyway. "I want to make him h-happy more than I want to b-be happy. But when I talk to him I feel sad. I keep hurting him no matter what I-I do."

Greg pressed a slow kiss to the back of John's head and closed his eyes. 

"We are taking a break though, we are going to focus on you...and...and if you need a reason to keep getting better, I know I'm not...him, but...it...helps me very much to help you and-"

He closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. It was entirely unfair of him to feel this way. Sherlock needed John, Sherlock and John were meant to be with one another. He was a stand-in, his purpose to get John well enough to make his own choices, it shouldn't _hurt_ that John only was motivated by his help he gave to Sherlock. 

"I just want to help you."

John twisted in Greg's arms so he could face him and pressed a kiss to his lips. "Love, I'm motivated by you to do all sorts of things like eating and drinking and being calm. Please don't feel sad. I love you. You know that, right? I don't want this with Sherlock." 

He nestled closer and nuzzled Greg. "This is just for us. I love being with you. That won't change when I've got Sherlock."

Greg tipped his forehead to John's and hummed quietly. 

"It can be whatever it becomes if and when that happens. I just want us to focus on right now. I know you're upset with yourself, but I hope you'll allow yourself a break so that you can heal a bit more. Eating, drinking, and bathing need to be our primary focus without distraction, and if you still want to work on outside, that's okay too, but we don't have room right now for anything else."

John studied Greg's beautiful face and shifted around just to feel the touch of his arms. "I'll focus on those things. I promise. And then after we can talk about Sherlock." His eyes fluttered shut and he blindly kissed Greg once more. 

"Thank you. I'm going to sleep now." 

Greg held him close and smiled warmly. "Go to sleep, love, I've got you." 

He breathed slowly for a few minutes and then nodded to himself, picking up his mobile and texting Mycroft. 

_I've got John settled, I very much believe this is the right course of action._

John muttered his love back, though it was a big jumbled and trailed off at the end. He dropped to sleep readily.

 

Mycroft rocked Sherlock and whispered to him that things would be alright. 

_I hope it is._

Sherlock slept the majority of that day, after Miller gave him a sedative to help him calm. 

Slowly he sank into a deep depression, spending many hours of his day shut up in his mind, doing his best to repair what damage he could while evading Moran. He'd come back to his brother screaming every now and again, caught by the madness and lost from reality. Twice more he seized, triggered into it after being trapped deep in his mind with Moran for longer than he could handle. 

He refused food, forcing Mycroft or Miller to care for that, and had become so unstable in remaining present that Mycroft was forced to physically restrain him when Miller needed to adjust his pins. 

Not once did he ask after John. The few requests he made, in the rare moments of sobbing lucidity, were for Mycroft to read to him or for music. 

Miller began as much physical therapy with Sherlock as was possible with the man so uncooperative.Mostly stretching and range of motion, as Sherlock's active help was required for strengthening exercises. Sherlock would cry through the process of having his limbs manipulated, but stopped fighting him after the first few days. 

By the fourth week, Sherlock was nearly completely mute, spending the majority of his days shut up in his mind. 

John tried to drop the topic of Sherlock, and for the most part, he did. It was only occasionally, when he was tired or stressed or confused, that he would as for assurance that he was doing the right thing. 

He began to improve, and he improved in two parts. 

First was the concrete. He was eating more, twice a day instead of just the mornings, and he'd added toast and juice to his permanent menu while continuing to experiment with other things. He was able to walk outside just a bit more each day, and only twice did he have a full blown panic attack from it. Such milestones could be written on paper, observed by others, and used as hard evidence. 

The second part of his improvement was not as visible, but just as important. While nightmares still plagued him and he still broke down occasionally, his sense of complete and utter worthlessness that he'd learned from abuse began to ease off his shoulders. 

By the fourth week, he was able to throw Gladstone's ball for him while they were outside, providing he had his medication and Greg was holding him close.

Greg watched as the happy dog brought the ball back to John. Paul was not outside with them today as he normally was, and it was almost as though they were on a normal outing. The heat was up as Summer took hold, and the daily bit of sun, even though they were not out long, was helping John's color. 

"That arm is getting stronger," he remarked with a warm smile, watching John take it and pitch the ball again. 

John looked at how far he's thrown it and beamed up at Greg. The first time he'd been so pitifully weak he might as well have flicked it off his hand. The muscles in his arm were slowly warming up to the action, coordinating themselves, and growing stronger. 

"Yeah, it is," he said with a smile and took the ball again. It was much easier to stay outside when there was something pleasant to do, and the lightning speed that Gladstone ran with was a bit of a comfort to John. 

"Greg? Is today the end of the month?" He knew damn well it was, but wanted to open the topic. 

Greg drew in a slow breath as he nodded, "Yes, it is. Miller is going to come today to see if we can take the tube out, since you are eating well enough to match what you get through there!" 

He had yet to address water with John, and had been mostly out of communication with Mycroft. It was a bit nerve-wracking to think of contacting Sherlock when he and John had truly had the best few weeks in a row since his return.

John smiled once more and touched the tube in his nose. "It will be good to have it out. I'll feel like a proper person again." 

Mrs. Thompson walked by, and John gave a small smile. She waved pleasantly, and continued on her way. "Bless her," John muttered. "For not ever coming over, I mean. Not that I don't like her. She seems nice. But...Ah, you understand." 

He leaned his head on Greg's shoulder. "Have we decided if I'm going there or if he's coming here?"

Greg smiled at the woman as he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to John's temple. "No, not yet. We haven't decided much of anything regarding him, John." 

He tipped the side of his head against John's and closed his eyes, enjoying the sun. "I bet we can get that drip port out of your hand too. You've not needed fluids or anything injectable all month. I'm so proud of you. Miller will be here soon, that will be good, yeah?" 

John nodded and tossed the ball for Gladstone again, who seemed to appreciate the exercise. "I should go there. But if I leave, which going for a visit would imply, he'll be sad again. I don't want to go there then make him think I'm leaving him. But I'm used to it here. Last time we moved I was terrified for two days. Moving from place to place was usually...traumatic."

Greg was quiet for a few minutes as he carefully considered his phrasing. He cleared his throat, watching the happy dog, and spoke as calm and casually as he could to John. 

"You're getting a little ahead of yourself, John. We said we'd see about calling again after a month. Just calling. A move is a bit of a rush, we've not really worked on how you feel about him with Paul. You've made remarkable progress in the last few weeks and I am so proud of you! Let's keep at it before we talk about anyone moving.

"Oh. Alright. I'll call him then. Is Mycroft okay with it? Do we have a time?" 

Gladstone brought the ball back and panted happily. John gave him a bit of a break and the dog laid his head down on John's knee. The two had become increasingly attached, which had been partly responsible for John being able to leave the flat so easily.  
Greg kissed John's temple and nodded up toward the flat. "Let's go home and you and I talk about it while we wait for Miller, okay? We've not really talked about him and I need to see if Mycroft is ready for us. Is that alright?" 

He stood up and turned to offer John a hand, keeping close enough that their knees were touching, always in physical contact with John while out of doors. 

John took his hand and pulled himself up. 

"Okay. Great. Thanks. I'll do that. Could you text Mycroft and ask him how Sherlock is doing?" John had tried very hard to drop the subject of Sherlock for the past month, but the man's well being had still been a nagging worry in his mind. 

Greg hugged John to him for a moment, gently rubbing his back. "Absolutely," he assured with a warm smile, brushing his fingers along John's jawline. 

When they'd made it back up to the flat, and Greg had Gladstone with a full water bowl, he pulled John over to the sofa and sat down with him, pulling out his mobile and texting Mycroft. 

_John is eager to call Sherlock. What are your thoughts?_

Mycroft brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair and spoke in the same weary voice he'd fallen to after hours, days, then weeks of Sherlock being shut up inside his mind. 

"'Lock? Could you look at me? Please?" He sighed and dropped his head down. 

"John wants to call. Do you want to talk to John?"

Sherlock had made a point, after one particularly bad day when he came back up and found his brother pale with tears streaking down his cheeks, to react to his brother on some level. He'd been down deep, doing his best to set up a space where Redbeard would be comfortable in hopes that his dog would come back. It took him nearly ten minutes before he drew in a deeper breath and sluggishly turned his eyes on his brother. 

"What," he whispered in gentle question, not sure what his brother had said.

Mycroft nodded encouragingly and held Sherlock's face in his hands. "John wants to call you. Do you think you could talk to him?" 

If Sherlock wasn't going to hold a conversation with his brother, perhaps he'd respond to John better. 

Sherlock blinked at him several times, eyes blank and unfocused. 

_John wants to talk to you._

Slowly his brows came together, licking his lip and turning his focus around the room as though ensuring himself of where he was. 

_John wants to talk to you._

"W-Watson?" 

He asked as though there may be another John, and he was mistaking what Mycroft was saying. His voice was rough with disuse, eyes glassy and distant. What his brother was saying made no sense to him, "t-to m-me?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded again. "Yes, John Watson. He wants to talk to you. He wants to call. Is that alright?" 

He practically held his breath and waited to judge his reaction.

Sherlock watched his brother and then turned his focus away for a moment, raising up both his hands and staring at his palms, studying them like a book. In his mind palace, he used his hands to remind him where he was. In his head, they were not mangled, but the same strong, elegant forms of their past. He brushed the pads of his thumbs over the pads of his fingers. He looked back to Mycroft, a lump forming in his throat. 

"J-John?" 

He again looked around the room, struggling with orienting himself. "W-wants to c-call me?" He nodded slowly as he touched his fingers to his lips, "John?"

"Yes, he very much wants to call you. He has been waiting for a time he could call. Is now alright?" Mycroft held up his phone and looked hopefully at his brother. 

"It would be nice to talk to him, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock nodded again, fingers to his lips, eyes slowly focusing as he worked hard at pulling himself fully from his mind and back into the worthless body he was in. 

"Y-Yes," he breathed, nodding again, becoming more aware of the constant, creeping pain that seemed to always be with him. 

Mycroft texted Greg. 

_Be ready, I'm calling. Sherlock is a bit confused, but calm._

He called just a minute later and handed the phone to Sherlock.

Greg offered the phone to John. "Mycroft says he's confused but calm, it's them calling for you." 

He held his breath, deeply worried about how this would go. 

John took a long pull of air and pressed accept. 

"Hey, Sherlock." His voice was steadier than it had been before, with more of his own tones and less of the submissive fear he had learned. 

The sound of John's voice set off a firestorm of activity in Sherlock's mind, forcing him to reach out and clutch at Mycroft's shirt as his heart rolled in his chest. He swallowed twice, knuckles blanched on the frame of the phone. 

"J-John," he breathed in open relief. 

"Yeah, Sherlock. It's me. I'm here. Are you doing alright? I've been doing pretty good recently. I can go outside and eat more and all those things...How are you?" 

He sounded casual and relaxed, using the month of preparation and rehearsed lines to keep himself easy and calm. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly, utterly unsure how to answer that. "I...I'm..." 

He looked up to his brother, eyes wide and lost. He swallowed and tried for anything that sounded anywhere close to coherent. 

"Is...is it pl-pleasant...outs-side?" 

"Yeah! Well, sort of. It's nice unless I start to think about it. If I keep my eyes on Greg, or Gladstone, or something like a bird or a bug, it's nice. It's only if I start to look around and see how open things are that I get nervous. But I'm learning. I told you I would. I spent nearly a half hour outside today on the bench." 

John fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock was quiet for a beat too long, his eyes sliding unfocused as he used John's description of outside to bolster the exterior of his mind palace, a term he could not shake though it in no way was an apt description any longer. His eyes slid unfocused and he was back in his mind in a matter of seconds, finding it much easier to be there despite Moran being there. 

He startled and then rapidly responded. "Y-yeah." 

"Okay," John began, and his voice didn't shake. 

"I've been thinking, Sherlock, and I would like to visit. Now, I know that might not sound very good at the moment, but hear me out. We stress each other. I get upset because you sound like you're in pain, and I blame myself irrationally. I can't help it. I've tried. Then I get upset, and you get upset, and it snowballs. I would like to come stay with you and Mycroft, if he'll have me, for a bit until we figure out what to do from there."

Sherlock could not understand what John was saying. He looked up at his brother and then down at his hand, across the room where Miller typically sat but was presently absent, to the little telly they sometimes watched. 

"I...I d-don't...don't underst-tand," he said in a wavering voice, looking back to Mycroft with unfocused, watery eyes. 

John began again, slowly, with as much patience as he could. "I would like to come visit you. You and I tend to make each other nervous, as you take blame when I get upset, and I take blame when you get upset. We snowball. But I would like to come visit to make sure you are alright. I know you might not like the sound of 'visit' but I do intend on living with you someday, Sherlock, and we have to test it out to make sure we don't need more time to heal individually." 

John looked over to Greg and shot him a questioning look. "Is that alright?" he whispered and held the phone away.  
Greg nodded, having been leaned in close to hear what was going on. If John wanted a visit, it would be difficult but they'd do it. 

Sherlock faded back into his mind, sitting down on the thin, sprouting grass, arms wrapped tight around his legs and chin on his knee. He could see himself holding the phone, shaking and confused. John's words no longer registered in letters on a screen in his mind, but rather dipping colors and twisting shapes. He was saying that he wanted to come see Sherlock. How long had it been since they spoke on the phone? John sounded so much different than he had before, nothing like the screaming man in the corner of his mind. 

He dropped the phone as his disconnect from his body became more pronounced, trying to solve what seemed to be a puzzle in the quiet of his mind. The feel of it hitting his ribs startled him back to himself. Nearly three minutes had passed. 

"Y-You're...c-coming here? To...to M-My's house? H-Here?" John had given him far too much information to process, but he caught at least the 'come to visit,' aspect. 

John was worried by now. He cast nervous glances to Greg and tried to get a grip on what was happening. Sherlock did not sound better. He sounded worse. He sounded like he did when he'd be lost in thought, when John would ask a question and Sherlock would answer an hour later as if no time had passed. 

"Yes. I would like to come to My's house, if that is alright with him." John tried to keep himself calm, but worry was beginning to cloud him. Had he done the right thing? Had this month been all for nothing? 

Mycroft spoke up then, looking first to Sherlock for approval. "I'd be perfectly alright with that, if Sherlock is."

Sherlock nodded before thinking on it, casting his eyes around the room in honest expectation of the walls fading away, revealing him to be stuck in some game with Moran yet again. 

"I'm...y-yes that...w-will you b-bring your d-dog?" 

John hadn't considered that leaving Gladstone was even an option, and the question froze him. "I...I don't...I mean, if Mycroft..."

Mycroft jumped in before John had a chance to stress himself. "Gladstone is welcome in the house, John. You can bring him with you. I'll have a room set up down the hall from Sherlock when you arrive."

John looked back to Greg. "Can we?"

Greg looked to John and spoke calmly, "Yes, but let's let Miller look you over first and give me some time to plan this with Mycroft, okay? How long did you want to visit? An hour or so?" 

Sherlock closed his eyes again and dug about in his mind for the picture of the dog, coming up with images of Redbeard again and again. He'd locked John and John's things away in a corner behind bars that protected him from trying to think on the man, having expected never to hear from John again. He went slowly lax in Mycroft's arms, eyes half-lidded a few moments later, clearly not present as he had been. 

John shook his head. "A day. Or two. I'd like to be able to go there and have time to calm down from... Oh, God, the car ride..." John closed his eyes and shuddered. "Yeah. I'll need time to calm down from that." 

He took the phone again. "Sherlock?"  
Sherlock startled back to himself as John called his name. 

"H-Here," he responded absently. His heart was galloping in his chest, all of this so deeply unexpected that he was not sure what to do. John had been talking about the car as though he dreaded it. Sherlock could not blame him. 

"Y-You...you'll...c-c-come h-here and th-then..." immediately images of his last efforts at seeing John came to sharp focus and he grit his teeth, shivering and losing some of his color. 

"I'm more...I'm less bad at this now, I think," John responded gently. "I can do this. I know it. Please let me come over." He sounded a bit like a child at the last line, but was still very sincere. 

Sherlock held his breath as he nodded. "Ok-kay, I-" he looked up at Mycroft in question, "th-that's...if y-you w-want to c-come I...that's...okay J-John."

John looked to Greg questioningly. "I...I thought you might want me to come," he stated in open confusion. “If you want to come? That's okay? I mean...it's alright if you don't... I just thought you did."

Sherlock nearly exploded into a panic, his entire body language and tone shifting. 

"I'm s-sorry! I- j-just conf-fused please, I...I..." he swallowed and began trying to speak before he caught his breath, "I- y-yes I w-want to see- I...I d-didn't m-mean...mean an-anything by..." by what? What had he done? He burst into tears, covering his eyes with a shaking hand, "pl-lease I'm s-sorry." 

"Sorry! Sorry!" John cringed and softened his tone despite his confusion. 

_Stupid John. Messing things up again. You never could get anything right, could you?_

"I'd like to come see you. Is that alright? I can introduce you to Gladstone. You'll love him. He's really protective of me."

Sherlock could not understand. He'd said yes, only to have John pull back from him. 

"Y-yes," he breathed again, whimpering around his fingers as he shoved them between his lips, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks, "pl-please." 

"O-Okay. I'll come. I'll...tomorrow? Can I come tomorrow?" John had a now desperate need to check on Sherlock, who sounded far too distant. "Tell Mycroft. Tell him I'll be there in the morning."

Sherlock made a small sound and then spoke again, "T-Tomorrow," he agreed, "I'll...I'll s-see you...t-tomorrow." The words sounded utterly impossible. He'd not seen John in months, never expected to see him ever again, and here he was saying _tomorrow._

"Okay. Okay. Tomorrow. Uhm...Bye." John hung up abruptly and put the phone down. He dropped his head into his hands and clenched his jaw. 

"I hurt him already. Not on purpose. But I scared him." 

Greg ran a hand through his hair as as his mind raced. "John..." he trailed off, not sure how to address this. There was a knock at the door and Paul stood up, "That's Miller," he said to calm John before going and letting the doctor in. 

Greg was glad of the distraction, needing time to think. He sent Mycroft a text as the doctor came, calm and smiling gently, into the room. 

_I think John may have reacted in haste._

Miller moved to sit down in front of John, setting his bag on the coffee table beside him. "Hello, John! You've gained a bit of weight, that's wonderful! How are you feeling?"

John looked up with his hands folded in his lap and gave a small smile. "I'm alright. Just called Sherlock, so..." He trailed off and made a vague gesture with his hands. 

"What do I have to do today?" His voice was still a bit small, but he was commanding more than he had when previously speaking to the doctor.

Miller smiled at John in gentle understanding. "Well, I'd like to give you a little once-over. You can stay right here as you are. With your permission, I'll listen to your chest, fell the glands under your jaw and along your neck, check your reflexes and your pupils, and measure your pulse and blood pressure. I've been in contact with Greg and Paul about your caloric intake, and if I can get you to add another egg, or a banana to your day, we can get that feeding tube out. I'm going to take the port from your hand as well, and it's up to you if I replace it." 

John did not like the idea of the man's fingers near his neck, but he wasn't going to be difficult. 

"Okay. Thank you. I'll eat a bit more." 

He looked down at his knees, which were much less knobby, and to his hands, which were still scarred, but not as bony. 

"I'm going to Sherlock's tomorrow. Well, Mycroft's, I suppose it is."

Miller glanced over at Paul with a brow arched, swiftly returning his focus to John. 

"Did you manage to get him talking," he asked in warm curiosity, slipping the buds of his stethoscope into his ears. He showed John the drum before pointing to where he was going to place it, very slowly and gently leaning in to listen to him, hoping he would talk as he listened. 

John nodded and stayed as still as possible while Miller listened to his chest. 

"Sort of. He was all...It was like after a case when he'd think for hours and take a while to answer. But he spoke. I'm assuming that means he hasn't been, if you're asking."

Miller drew the scope back when he was done, setting it aside. 

"Lungs sound fine," he said warmly before touching his own throat to show John what he planned to do, reaching out with only two fingers of one hand, which would take longer than using two but would be far less threatening.   
"He doesn't speak very often, no," he said calmly, feeling along the left side of John's neck. 

"Paul says you've been throwing a ball for your handsome dog here, that's wonderful," he kept his voice very calm and warm, smiling as he switched sides on John's neck, feeling very gently and then taking his hand away. 

"Glands are good." 

He held out two fingers on both hands in front of John like handlebars, "Can you squeeze my fingers for me, hard as you can?"

John leaned away a but when Miller touched his neck, but stayed still after. He had a tight grip on Greg's hand, and reluctantly relinquished it to squeeze Miller's fingers. The little finger on his left hand didn't close all the way, and two on his right had a range that they became weak in, but he managed fine. 

"Yeah, Gladstone's a good dog." The shepherd lifted it's head at it's name and continued to watch Miller and John's interaction, which was comforting to John.

Miller smiled at John, moving his hands away to indicate he could let go. He reached into his bag, pulling out the BP cuff as he spoke. 

"If you got Sherlock talking at all, you should be proud. It's kind of you to have called. Do you feel up to travel?" 

He asked the questions as he went about putting the cuff around John's bicep, using the arm closer to Greg to help John feel more relaxed. 

He smiled down at the massive dog and made a friendly clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "Hi there, massive beast, you," he said warmly, looking back to John to get a response about travel. 

John stiffened when the cuff was placed around his bicep and he stifled a whimper. He was clearly doing his best to control himself, and while he was doing well, the cuff was still stressing him. 

"I...Travel...not really. I hate cars. But I'll be alright. Greg will hold me and it'll be alright." 

He was still as death, as if movement would cause some unseen needle or barb in the cuff to jab him. 

Miller was swift, and John's blood pressure was elevated, but otherwise he looked better than he ever had before medically speaking. He removed the cuff and leaned back, hands up with a warm smile. 

"Sorry about all that, John, Sherlock doesn't like it either. You did very well and I'm done. You're looking more healthy than I've ever seen you. Really well done, eating and moving has helped quite a bit, I can tell you've been working hard." 

He tapped his own nose. "Would you like me to take that out now? It will feel a bit weird, but it's not painful. You'll feel loads better soon after. If you need a few minutes before we do that, it's perfectly fine."

John laughed in relief when it was over and leaned on Greg. He knew he shouldn't have been so scared in the first place, but he was ever so slightly proud he hadn't panicked. He'd responded less like someone faced with impending torture and more like someone with a fear of heights on a plane.   
"Oh, yeah," he said and remembered his tube. "Can...let's just do it now." 

He reached out and latched onto Greg's arm and tried to appear brave, but was sure he could feel the light tremor in his hands. 

Greg wrapped his free arm around John and held him close to his side, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "Brave," he whispered warmly, "so brave. Proud of you." 

Miller nodded and spoke warmly, "Alright, I'm going to get the bin over here and Paul, will you get him a drink so he can clear his throat after if he wants?" 

Paul smiled and went to go grab John a pouch of juice, which John had recently begun to accept. He didn't have to see the liquid inside, there was a small straw, and it was cold and sweet. Miller moved about, sliding on gloves and grabbing the bin.

"Won't feel that thing at the back of your throat anymore, it's going to feel so much better," Miller said happily, pulling a syringe with no needle out of his bag. 

"Remember how this is done? I'm going to attach this to the end to deflate that little balloon, count to three, and we'll have it right out. No needle, see?" He held it up at a distance and showed both hands, "Greg would knock my lights out," he said with a laugh, waiting for permission from John to start.  
John let out a small whimper, but nodded.

"I...okay. Okay. I'm alright." He was tempted to clamp both hands over his nose and run Ito the other room with Gladstone behind him. "I'm alright. I'm-" he swallowed hard and stared at the needleless syringe that was nonetheless threatening. 

"Let's get it over with, yeah? I'm..." He looked over to Greg and leaned further into him. "Scared," he whispered, just so he knew. 

Miller nodded and spoke softly to Greg. "You've seen this before, just attach this to that small secondary line that's capped off and draw back all the way. John, you won't feel anything Greg is doing, then I'll pull it. Okay? That way I'm not very close to you, my bit is over in a second." 

He moved the bin so that if it did make John sick, he could simply lean forward, though he hoped it wouldn't. "Might make you gag as I pull it, but I'll be very fast," he explained as Greg reached up, attaching the syringe to the small little port they never used, pressing kisses over John's temple. 

"I love you, you're safe, you're doing such an incredible job. Hey, do you remember when I dropped that entire beer on Gladstone's head? He'd never been so happy, looked like a complete doofus," he said as he moved his hands away, having followed Miller's instruction. 

Miller reached forward as Greg was speaking, calling out a quiet count under the story so John would know. Greg carried on talking, "That beast of yours lapped up half of it before I could even grab a towel," he carried on as he rest John's temple against his chest, other hand over John's cheek opposite. 

Miller got to three, and two seconds later the entire tube was out, dropped in the bin, a dry towel being pushed into Greg's hands to hold under John's chin so that John could reach up and wipe off his damp nose. Greg spoke immediately, "That's it! Done, it's done, John, it's done," as Miller moved away to allow John a moment to calm down.   
John whimpered throughout the story and clutched Greg's shirt. He cried out in pain and fear as it was taken, and let out a clipped scream once it was out. Immediately he began to cry and scrambled to press himself against Greg. Tears flooded his eyes and he whined on each exhale. 

"Scared," he gasped and crawled fully into Greg's lap. "I don't want it, I-I don't want it! I-I don't want it!" He clamped both hands over his nose and mouth once Greg had him, and it was another ten minutes before he began to calm. 

Greg thanked Paul quietly as Paul handed over John's blanket, which he fetched from their room. They fanned it over John's back and Greg held it tight around John, rocking him and speaking softly to him. "It's done, you're okay love, I know that was scary. You did very well, it's over, no more. It's over, it's all done, everything's alright." 

He carried on quietly speaking to him, very glad the entire affair was over.

John wept onto Greg's shoulder. The fear was gone, and he no longer felt the spiral drag of panic, but he had been frightened, felt something unnatural, and he'd gagged, all of which hurt him mentally. John grabbed the corner of his blanket and held it just under his nose. 

"I didn't like that," he lamented with a heavy shudder. "It didn't feel good." It had been terribly easy to knock him back into a childish form of whimpering. 

Greg rubbed at his back while he cried. "I know, I'm sorry, but it's done now. Try swallowing, it should feel so much better now. Take a deep breath through your nose, it was uncomfortable but it's better now. I'm sorry it frightened you, but you made it, it's over." He rocked him slowly, pressing a kiss to the side of John's head. 

John whimpered on each exhale, but his heart ceased it's thundering. After a moment, he calmed s enough to sit up a bit and wipe the tears from his eyes. He took a deep breath in through his nose, swallowed, and turned his head side to side. "It feels better," he said quietly and kept himself sitting on Greg's lap. 

Greg slid his fingers through John's hair and kept him close, giving John all the time he needed. "You're okay, love," he kept repeating, needing John to remember that nothing bad had happened. His reaction to simply having Miller close was enough to make Greg seriously doubt the odds of a successful visit with Sherlock tomorrow. 

"I've got you, everything is okay."

John was over it another fifteen minutes later, and he sat up. "Thank you," he muttered and made no move to sit elsewhere. He was heavier now, but his mind was still a bit behind his body, and he still needed to be held. "I'm sorry I took it badly." He sniffled and wiped tears from his eyes. "I don't like that."

Miller spoke up quietly, "No one likes it, mate, you did just fine. I'm sorry that was unpleasant." 

Greg adjusted John so that he would be more comfortable on Greg's lap and kissed the side of his head again. "You're alright, you did great. That kind of thing is scary. How are you feeling, want a bit of juice?"

John leaned in to the affection and held his blanket to his chest, but no longer covered his mouth. "Thanks, Miller," he said quietly and offered a small smile. 

To Greg he turned once more and rested his head on his shoulder. "I'd like that, yeah."  
Miller smiled at that response and handed Greg the juice so that he could pass it on to John. He carried on rocking John slowly, whispering calmly to him as John drank. "You're doing a great job of keeping calm, I'm so proud of you. Maybe we'll leave the port for a little while longer? Can we leave it, Miller?" 

The doctor drew in a slow breath and hummed. "To the end of the week, but it's really been in too long and needs to at least be relocated if you both want to keep it. I'll leave it up to John."

John held his juice pouch with both hands for a moment to test the temperature. "I can't do it right now," John said quickly and hid his hand between himself and Greg. "Please, don't. I'll do it when I get back from Sherlock's. I promise. I can't. Needles." He offered no other explanation and turned his back on the room, though not out of defiance. He knew his limit, and wasn't ready to have the port out just yet.

Miller nodded, "Okay, John, I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to. There don't have to be needles, I don't think you need another port. If you still want one later, we'll have to start a new one. But I'm not going to do anything you don't want." He kept himself at a further distance and looked to Paul. 

Greg held John tight and soothed him. "Relax, just relax, everything is okay."

John didn't realize that his chest was heaving with anticipation of a struggle until Greg told him to relax. He took a second to collect himself. He didn't have to fight Miller to not have needles. s long as he was reasonable, he could choose when. 

"Okay... I'm sorry." He looked up to Miller, well aware of what it was like to have difficult patients. "Thank you. I'll come back from Sherlock's and rest, then we can take it out."

Miller smiled at him. "That's perfectly fine. If you don't need anything else, I'm going to go back to Sherlock and Mycroft."

Greg shook his head, thanking him quietly before looking to John. "Any questions for him?"

John thought for a moment, then looked up. "Is there any chance I can be sedated for the car ride? I know I've been working, but I don't want to show up at Mycroft's screaming and crying."

Miller paused for a moment before responding. "Yes, you've still got the meds for that. I don't see any reason why not."

John breathed a sigh of relief and found himself far less worried about the next day. "Good. Thank you. You'd been very helpful to me."

Miller smiled and nodded, turning to leave. He paused at the door though, one hand on the handle, and closed his eyes. After a moment, he turned back and returned to the sitting room. 

"John, this isn't my job, and I apologize in advance if I'm out of line. I'm just concerned for you in this idea of going to see him. He's not...as well as he could be, and I'm worried this will be deeply upsetting to you. Please do talk to Paul and Greg before you make up your mind." 

John looked at him steadily, even though his resolve was shaken to it's core. It was an easy thing to do with him, and he struggled against it. "Yes, I know. He's disconnected. I could hear it. But..." John trailed off and searched for a logical argument. "You said it yourself. He spoke to me. He responded. He clearly needs me."

Miller smiled at him and nodded, "Alright, fair enough. I didn't want you going in blind. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow then, John. You've made astounding progress, very well done." 

Greg rubbed gently at John's back as Miller left, rocking him slowly and leaning in to hug him. "Paul, give us a little bit, will you," he asked quietly, smiling at the man as he left them on their own, settling into the peace of the room. 

John collapsed onto Greg as soon as everyone was out of the room and pressed his face to the side of his neck. "I'm sorry if I'm being difficult," he muttered and kissed his cheek. "It's still all kinda difficult. I get muddled. I have to actively work to stay clear." He rubbed at his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. "It's exhausting."

 

Greg wrapped up around John and hugged him close, rocking him. He kept the blanket tight around John's back and held one hand to the back of John's head. 

"I love you, you're not being difficult," he replied, whispering softly. He wasn't going to bring up his doubts about the next day just yet.

John let himself relax against Greg and the worries of speaking clearly and acting normally faded when he knew he had no responsibility. "Thank you for loving me," John whispered against his shoulder. There was no other word for the constant comfort and physical and emotional care that Greg provided him with.

Greg hummed warmly in response, watching as Gladstone came and rest his head beside Greg's thigh and looked up at John. They were quiet for a long while, simply giving John time to come down from the trauma, constantly rubbing his back and rocking him in an effort to make everything just a little bit better for the man.

John didn't move even after he felt calm. He stayed curled up on Greg's lap, silent and appreciative, until a good bit of time had passed and he felt that he might become a nuisance. 

"Is there anything you'd like to do today, love?"

Greg shook his head and shifted back slightly. "We need to talk about tomorrow, John. I know you have your mind set but we really, really need to talk about it."

John nodded and gave himself another moment of calm before replying, like staying in the heat of a warm building before facing the cold outdoors. "Okay. I'm confident I can help, but I don't know how long. I think it would be best if I went in for a few minutes, then took some time to calm down, then went again."

Greg nodded, forcing himself not to suggest that John not go. "Okay, that's a good place to start. Do you want me to sedate you an hour before we go, so that you'll be near waking by the time we get there. It usually keeps you down an hour and a half. Also...I need you to tell me that you will be able to do this without tearing yourself apart if he's...if this is hard for him."

"An hour sounds good. And...I honestly don't know." 

John took a long moment to think. He felt good. Not perfect, and he still had moments of crushing defeat, or explosions of grief and anger over his horrible abuse, but for the most part, his life was on an upswing. He knew just how he felt when he spoke with Sherlock. It called to mind his torture, even if John was able to mentally separate Sherlock from it. It made him feel useless and awful. But John was willing to do it anyway, if it did even the slightest bit of good. 

"I love him. I need to go to him. I know that I love him because I'm willing to go. I want to help him. I'm calmer now. I can think better."

Greg leaned back just enough to see John's face. "I'm going to be honest, I was a bit shocked when you made plans to _go_. I thought we might consider making calls again, and I'm just going to be forward and tell you that I'm really not a big fan of this idea. I think you've made some amazing progress, but I don't know that you are ready for a very large house that is unfamiliar, and face-to-face interaction with Sherlock way from places you feel safe. I won't go so far as to _tell you_ not to do this...but I am going to ask you. If you wait another month, at least, and start working with Paul more on how you feel about Sherlock and what it's like to talk to him, so on and so forth, you are likely to be much better equipped to help him." 

He spoke very gently, not wanting to upset John while still very concerned. 

John shook his head. "I've already made plans. I want to be steady. I want to say one thing and mean it. God knows he needs that." 

He reached up and brushed the tips of his fingers over Greg's cheek and gave him a light smile.

"I love you, dear. I really do. And I know that you want me safe and well. But I've got to try. Please, let's just get a plan going now so when I get there I'm not running blind."

Greg nodded and responded to him quietly. "Let me find out what's going on," he said as he picked up his phone. Oh, how he hated this. To Mycroft, he texted:

_Can you update me in regards to Sherlock's condition?_

Mycroft leaned over and gently touched Sherlock. 

"'Lock? Are you there?" He didn't need to ask if he was awake. He knew Sherlock was awake. What he didn't know was if he was currently residing in Mycroft's home, or if he was in his mind palace. 

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock jumped at the light touch and was abruptly jerked from the exterior of the dilapidated home to Mycroft's bed from the spiking adrenalin. He looked at Mycroft and then across the room. Typically he was not easily torn from his palace, but the conversation with John had been...new, unexpected, momentarily relieving and then woefully upsetting. 

"Is...is h-he here?" 

Mycroft blinked. "He, no, he...It's not been more than two hours...He's coming tomorrow, first thing. I was just wondering if you are alright." 

He had dark circles under his eyes from staying up at night in hopes Sherlock would try and communicate. The first two weeks had been the worst, but now he was used to the oppressive silence and the feeling of being alone while holding another person in his arms.

Sherlock's fingers found their way back to his lips, perpetually raw and chapped now. Miller had mostly given up on them, simply keeping Sherlock's hands clean and using food-grade oils to keep the skin moisturized as best he could. 

For the first time in many days, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Mycroft's shirt with a trembling hand, pulling himself as close to his brother as he could. "I c-c-can't do it," he breathed, pressing his face to Mycroft's shoulder as he lay there shaking. 

Mycroft pulled him in and dropped his head down. For a moment he allowed himself to simply relish the feeling of Sherlock willingly clinging to him as it sent waves of relief through him. 

"You can," he whispered, "but I won't make you. If you don't want John to come over, I'll tell him now."

Sherlock peddled his legs slowly in an effort to move, drawing his knees up and pressing his face to the side of Mycroft's neck under his chin, holding as tight as he could. He did not respond for several minutes, trembling in Mycroft's arms. 

"M-My," he breathed, folding his elbows in close to get himself better protected, "I...I th-thought he w-was gone...He's....he s-sounded...w-why would h-he come? Why? Wh-why would he bother to..." he shuddered and jumped very suddenly as a chill raced up his back, feeling of freezing fingers and stale brandy. 

"D-Don't leave m-me." 

Mycroft hugged Sherlock and petted his hair lovingly. "He's coming because he cares about you. He loves you. He's willing to come despite the fact that cars scare him. Isn't that good of him?" 

He tried to make Sherlock feel loved, but felt himself failing miserably. "It will be good to see Greg too, won't it?"

Sherlock's mind was against him as always. "I...I d-didn't ask...ask h-him to c-come! I didn't a-ask! I- I-" panic grabbed his tongue and twisted violently, stealing his words. He began to cry as he lay there, holding to his brother with the very limited strength he had. 

"He...h-he's...g-going to sc-scream! I can't- Not...not...w-we don't sc-scream h-here and-" he was doing his best to seemingly fuse with his brother, never close enough. Sure, Sherlock had screamed when woken from a night terror or the many times he'd mistaken Miller, or a house aid, or once, Mycroft himself, as Moran, but for the most part he associated Mycroft's room with a steady, quiet calm. 

"If the c-car scares h-him and I- I- I- scare him...I don't want to w-watch h-him remember h-he hates me!" 

"Hey, hey, it's alright. It's alright." Mycroft pressed Sherlock against his chest and rubbed his back. 

"I won't let anything bad happen. We can meet him in his room, if you want. Neutral ground, if you will. I love you, 'Lock. I think this is for the best." 

He smiled down at Sherlock and tried to appear far more confident than he was. 

Sherlock forced himself to slow down. The one thing he'd managed to learn in the last few weeks was to _listen_ to Mycroft when he was lucid enough to do so. He held tight as his already exhausted muscles shook and breathed as slowly as he could, groaning as he'd allow himself to exhale, deeply afraid and confused, though putting his trust in Mycroft. 

"I...h-how m-many times....do I h-have...h-have to lose him?" 

It felt like an endless cycle, a constant punishment for his failure that would never, ever end. He could not stop himself from feeling hope anyhow, despite knowing better. 

Mycroft paused and thought. Sherlock had spent two years without John, then had to watch him get married, then lost him to Africa, then lost him to Moriarty, now lost him once more. 

"I won't let you lose him again," he whispered. "John doesn't want to go away."

Sherlock whined in pained defeat and nodded against his brother's neck in an indication that he wasn't going to fight. 

It would be what it would be. 

His muscles began to fail him already, underused and overtaxed just from that small bit of activity, as he'd allowed himself to waste despite Mycroft's diligent efforts along with Miller. He'd given up, and had been hopeful that he would die before Mycroft lost his work. It was the only way he knew how to save his brother. 

"I'm...I'm s-sorry."

Mycroft cuddled Sherlock closer. "I love you. I love you so much. If I didn't think this was for the best I wouldn't be doing it. Please trust me. I really think John is ready for this. He spoke so clearly today, didn't he?"

Sherlock nodded, "H-He sounded....l-like _John_ ," he breathed, his voice cracking, "and th-then I st-started talking..." he grit his teeth while trying and failing to get closer to Mycroft, the lancing pain of knowing that John had to prepare for interaction with him as one would build themselves up to face a bear, "th-then I t-talked to h-him..." 

"And then he sounded like a sad John. Still John. He was still your John. Remember...Well, maybe you weren't there for this bit, since it was inside, but he spoke at your funeral. Did you watch that? He sounded nothing like he usually did. Grief is normal, and it is allowed. Or at Mary's funeral. Today he didn't sound like someone else, just sad. Maybe he was sad because he wanted to help you." Mycroft couldn't hold Sherlock any closer than he already was.

Sherlock's arms gave out, leaving his entire weight to Mycroft. He pulled his fingers back to his lips and thought of that, of what Mycroft was saying, though it sounded far too good to be true. 

"He...b-but I m-m-made him sad. L-Like I m-make you s-sad. I...I'm n-no g-good I...he's made progress and...and..." he slipped out of his train of thought, effortlessly and unconsciously sliding back into his mind to try and pick at the shapes of John's words, the actual quote lost to him. 

The past month of stagnation had been maddening for Mycroft, who had seen it as a time for them both to heal. Now John was far ahead of Sherlock, who had almost gotten worse.   
"He was sad because you were hurting. When John was still in the hospital and you couldn't help, you were hurting. But that wasn't his fault, was it? Not at all. Just like it isn't your fault that he is sad you aren't feeling better."

That seemed to make sense to him, though John's reactions to him in recent past made it hard to embrace. He did not argue, though he did not answer either. John was now a sharply double-edged sword and while he missed him more than he could explain, the idea of seeing him again was utterly terrifying. He nodded slowly, though did not speak. 

"Tomorrow, you'll see." Mycroft hoped very much that things went according to plan. He texted Greg once more. 

_Keep John stable as much as you can. Sherlock is very nervous. Please ask John to inform him that his fear is not his fault._

Greg read the text and looked up at John. 

"He's scared," he said gently, "Mycroft asks that you tell him that it's not his fault if you become scared. Our plan needs to be ways to keep you stable around him as much as possible." 

The words were gentle but the weight of them heavy. 

John nodded gravely. "I will do everything in my power to remain calm, but I can't always control it. I think if I need to step out, he might interpret it as leaving. I could make an excuse like using the lav, but he might not buy it. This is Sherlock Holmes, after all."

Greg nodded, "I know...I think our best bet here is to simply...tell him the truth. Unless you are willing to wait, I can't see any alternative to just telling him the truth of what's going on in your mind, as calmly as you can. Is it alright with you if, after I sedate you tomorrow, I clean you up a bit again? You felt so much better the last time, and it might help you keep steady. I'll do whatever I can to help you stay steady." 

John felt the scruff on his face. It was alright with him now, though he did want it off. "I'd like to look as much like myself as I can," he said with a nod. 

"Thank you for that, love. I know it can't be pleasant." He looked down at his scarred arms. No, that couldn't be pleasant at all. "I'll tell him the truth, then. But it still confuses me."

Greg knew that, which was why he'd so wanted to delay this. "John, what if we go see him tomorrow, but then keep it just to the phone until you've worked with Paul? I know it confuses you, and I'm not sure how you are going to simply...push past it without sorting it out. That's...going to take some work."

John huffed. "I know I need to work with Paul. I should have done it this past month." He dropped his head. "I guess my stuff is important too, but I feel bad. I'll go visit, then work with Paul and stick to calling for a while. But I'm not telling Sherlock that."

Silence hung for a moment as Greg considered how that could be. "Eh...alright, John...you don't have to tell him. And yes, your _stuff_ is extremely important. That's why we are working on it first. Self-care is paramount and I know you're just frustrated, but I still am going to remind you. I love you, and I care deeply for Sherlock. You've done the right thing this month. We should have talked more before you got on the phone, but that's okay, we will work with what we have, and what we have now is much, much more than we had a month ago."

John could feel himself getting worked up, and decided it wasn't best to talk about this right now. 

"Okay. Can we have a nice day now? I love living with you. Can we have some nice time, and then talk about Sherlock after?" He gave a pleading smile. 

"I promise we'll go back to it. I just want...I don't know. We went outside, and I talked to Sherlock, and the tube all so close together."

Greg shook his head. "It won't let up tomorrow. We have to figure out how to cope with you being stressed. I love you and I'm sorry but we are not going to do this blind, John. I'll sit here and play Rummy with you, but we are going to keep chatting about this because if we go tomorrow and it's...and I don't..." he took a deep breath and blew out swiftly, "test run, this is a test run."

John pouted, but didn't go against what Greg said was going to happen. "Okay. Let's plan, then. He asks if I am leaving that day. I say yes, but not until the end. He asks if I'll come back, and I say yes, but we'll have to go back to calling for a bit." 

John wrinkled his nose. He did not like that. "That sounds cruel."

Greg hummed and shifted so that they were more comfortable, his own legs getting stiff. 

"When you say it, it won't be. You're irritated with me, and so you're saying it with irritation. When you say it to him, I doubt it will sound that way. What I'm more interested in is how you're planning on handling it if he starts to cry, or if it feels as though you can't do anything to fix him."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not irritated with you, I'm just...irritated. And scared. Sad. Worried." 

He focused on his hands. 

"If he cries...or if I am hurting him...I'll just...I'll hold him? That's what you do, isn't it? I'll hug him, and tell him it's alright, that I'll stay with him as long as I can, and that I love him? Is that...Can I do that?"

Greg pulled John in closer and rocked him slowly, "John, you're allowed to be irritated with me, I'm not hurt, it's completely alright. And yes, you can do that if it won't hurt you, you absolutely can do that. It doesn't sound like he's... been very communicative and if he's having trouble, there's a good chance he's going to react...strongly very often. Just as you did in the beginning, yeah? So...I need you to remember that when you're with him."

"So if he starts to panic, it isn't my fault." It was a question. He was absolutely not sure of this. He was so sure it was his fault that he was more afraid of damaging Sherlock than he was of actually panicking. 

"I won't remember that very easily. Will you remind me?"

Greg leaned back and took John's face in his hands, looking him directly in the eye. "Is it my fault when you panic because you don't understand or your mind won't let you see clearly?" 

John kept his eyes on Greg's, which was very comforting. "No, it isn't. I understand that...I guess...but...But you're not broken! You can follow rules and you don't mess up."

Greg held John's eye and spoke very, very softly. "John, I've been broken for a long time. There are no rules here, and I mess up constantly, all the time. God, so many times. I love you dearly, but you're so wrong in this. There are not rules, just...just the best we can do and that's it, and it's _frightening_ , but we've already been doing it for months, right?"

John nodded, but his expression was still somber. "I want there to be rules," he lamented. "I want rules for us to follow. Easy ones. _Clear_ ones. It would be better like that." He reached up and ran his fingers through Greg's hair. 

"Things are too confusing like this."

Greg knew those feelings very, very well. 

"God, John, if there were rules I'd gladly tell you and save you the mistakes you'll make, and save him the mistakes he'll make, I would. I want there to be rules too, flying blind is scary, but...but you love him, and want good things for him, and so long as your motives are pure, which they are, you both will get through it."

John looked up at that. "You promise? You promise that as long as my motives are out of love, he'll be alright with it?" It sounded correct, but utterly impossible at the same time. It applied to Greg in that no matter what he did, if it was out of love, John would understand and accept it. "I want that."

Greg nodded swiftly, "Just like you, he might not see right away, but yes, eventually he'll be alright, I promise. I promise that, John. It has to be so, why wouldn't it? He might not be alright the same day, or the same week, just like sometimes you weren't, but he'll get there he will." 

John felt a warmth in his chest. Or rather, he felt the perceived warmth of one who has had ice taken off of their skin, or who has stepped out of cold water. "Thank you. I understand." 

Greg hugged him close and showed mercy, allowing them to spend the rest of the evening watching shows and playing cards. He even pulled the paper back out and tried sketching with him again while calm music played in the background. When it was closer to bedtime, he settled John with the telly on and began to pack up a bag for the next day, setting his watch to alarm every four hours so that he could give John his medication without fail, regardless of if he was asking for it or not.

"It's so good to see you with the tube out. How does it feel," he asked as he pulled on a loose-fit night top. 

John moved his head side to side, up and down, swallowed, and otherwise texted the strange lack of something down his nose. "I like it much better. I got used to it. It's good to be free. I didn't think I'd ever get here, honestly."

Greg smiled at him and clicked off the main light. and crawled into bed beside John, gathering him close, leaving the table light on. "You're stronger than you know."

John cuddled up against him. "And you're a better man than you know." He hadn't slept with someone in his arms this consistently since marriage, and the comfort was abundantly comforting.

Greg hummed and closed his eyes. It was a bit earlier than they typically slept, but he was exhausted and wanted very much to simply check out, hoping that being as rested as possible would help ease the day tomorrow. He hooked his leg over John's to get them as closely wrapped up as possible and gave him a gentle smile as he waited for sleep. 

John was very content in his life with Greg. As he grew more physically independent, able to eat and drink, he still clung to him for every second he could. The kind touch helped wash away the pain from the malicious, and while John still couldn't accept that he was someone deserving of love, he knew very well that he was loved by Greg. He fell asleep quickly and his face was peaceful.

Greg woke before John, nearly an hour before it was time to go. He eased out of bed and went to the kitchen, making breakfast and adding the powder packets to the eggs that Miller had left. He returned to John with a tray heavy with eggs, toast, and a sliced banana, along with his cooled tea. He sat down on the side of the bed with the tray on the little night table and smiled at John, brushing his fingers along his hairline. 

"Goodmorning."

John smiled as soon as he woke and turned his head in towards Greg's hand. "Morning, love." 

He stretched and blinked his bleary eyes. When he saw the tray of food, his eyes lit up. 

"You're too good to me," he remarked and sat up. Once he did, however, his expression clouded with worry. He was going to have a very difficult day.

Greg shook his head as soon as he saw the worry on John's face. "None of that, we have a plan, yeah? We are going to get through this day just fine. You, me, and Gladstone. Right now, all we are doing is eating. Come on, up with you, it's this and Saturday morning cartoons and I don't want to hear about how old we are." 

He was in good spirits, having talked himself out of his dread while making breakfast. They were doing this, so there was no sense doubting. It was going to be fine, no matter, and he was bound and determined to be an unwavering rock for John to lean against for the duration of the day. 

John looked to Greg with admiration and trust that he held for no other individual. "Okay. That sounds good. Thank you." He stretched his arms once more then started on his meal. 

"The plan is to just be as kind and gentle as I can, right? But also honest?"

 

Greg hummed as he moved to sit flush against John's side, his own posture held as he normally would do, tucking into his eggs and coffee for himself. 

"Yes," he said after swallowing a bite, "that's all we are going to do. And your primary job, John, is to remember that so long as you are acting from the heart, his negative reactions to you or the situation are not your fault. You're going to talk to yourself today the way that you would talk to me. So, if you tell him say...that you need to step out for a moment to keep calm, and he starts to panic to tell you how sorry he is...you are going to mentally speak to yourself the way you'd speak to me in that situation. Sound good?" 

"So, if I have to step out, and he starts to...to beg... God, that sounds so strange. Sherlock begging. If he does, then I say I'll be back and step out anyway. It sounds simple in theory."   
But, as John well knew, in theory, theory is equal to practice, but in practice it is not.   
"That will be hard to do. But I can be more helpful if I leave for a bit. The problem is...he doesn't really scare me anymore, you know? I get sad, and then I start hurting and scaring him. That's the worst part of it. Not that I'm scared he'll hurt me, but I'm scared I'll hurt him."

Greg nodded as he nudged John's arm to try and get him to eat. "Believe me, John, I know this is hard. The best way to practice at this is to promise to try and talk to yourself the way you'd talk to me. So...if you think you're failing, you wouldn't say to me 'Jesus Greg you are such a failure,' would you?" 

He leaned over and planted a kiss on John's temple before tucking back into his food. 

John was appalled that those words could even exist without causing a natural disaster or causing the universe to rip apart at the wrongness of it. 

"No, no, I would never say that," John said and picked up a piece of toast. "Never ever. You're the most wonderful thing in the entire world. I guess... Okay, I should just blame Moran, then?"

Greg nodded as he chewed, swallowing and going for his coffee before answering. "Yes, that's right, it's Moran." He nodded to John. "You just talk to yourself like you talk to me, and it will all fall into place. That's the only rule. You talk to yourself like you would talk to me."

John let out a laugh. "I don't know if I love myself enough to talk like I do to you. But I'll try. It's not much longer until we leave. I'm a bit nervous about this. Very nervous. You'll remind me if I forget, right?" 

Greg nodded, "I'll remind you. If you can't do it because you love yourself, do it for me because I love you and you will be helping me more than you know. You...that's the best thing you could do for me, it try your hardest to be kind to yourself. You wanted rules, yeah? So that's the rule. You are not allowed to beat yourself up or punish yourself, period. Okay? Be nice to my John." 

He smiled broadly and kissed John again. 

"Now eat up and then you can have a nice nap." 

John nodded very seriously as he was given his rule to follow. "Be nice to your John," he echoed. It was, by far, the nicest rule he'd ever been given, and John viewed it as a luxurious gift. "I will. I'll be as nice as I can. And I'll be nice to Sherlock, too, because he is a good man, and you care about him too. I'll be nice to the people you care about." 

Now that it was an external motive, things were easier for John, and he tucked away the rest of his food. Banana slices were still a bit new, and he went very slowly, but they fit nicely with his other food and John didn't feel overly threatened. 

Greg got up as John was finishing his food, going for the syringes and then digging in the drawers. He pulled out the smallest pair of jeans and one of John's button-downs, fresh pants, socks, and an undershirt. He held up the jeans and the pale blue shirt. "This okay?

John nodded with a mouthful of toast. He would look more like himself in those clothes. "Yeah, perfect. Do you think you could get rid of this, too?" 

He touched his face were lack of shaving had made him scruffy. "He said something once...ah, it's stupid. I'd just like to look like myself."  
Greg nodded, laying out the clothes to the side and moving to sit beside John again, the syringe next to him for when John was ready. 

"Yep, was already on the list. I'm really proud of you, John, you're doing...just....mate, truly, a fantastic job of remaining calm. Really you are." He beamed at John and ran his fingers through John's hair, which was now only slightly longer than he typically kept it. It was quite flattering, honestly. 

John caught Greg's hand and kept it to his face. "Thank you for helping me. I love you. Really, I do." He looked at the syringe and his heart fluttered just a bit. 

"You'll keep me safe while I'm under, right?" It wasn't a question born of doubt, but he still wished to be reassured. 

Greg pulled John into a tight hug and spoke to him softly. "Just me, I'll keep you safe. I have you. When you wake up, you'll be wrapped in your blanket with me and Gladstone and we will take our time until you are ready to see Sherlock. When you wake up, you'll just be with me. No one else. I love you, I'll be the only person who touches you." 

John gradually relaxed and put his hand with the port out for Greg. "Can I wake up somewhere safe? Maybe not a car, but just...a place. Like a couch or a bed or a small room?" 

Greg took John's hand and kissed him very gently. "Mycroft promised that you'd have a room set up. You're going to wake up in my arms, no matter where that is, okay?" 

John hated the idea of being sedated and waking up somewhere he'd never been. "Okay. You should do it now, before I get more scared." 

His heart had already begun to trot lively in his chest and he knew if he dwelled on what was happening he would panic.

Greg carefully pulled John onto his lap and pushed the sedative, rocking him slowly as the drug began to take effect, speaking softly. "I love you, you're with me and I love you." 

He kept hold of him, a gentle smile on his face, doing what he could to keep John calm. 

John began to whimper towards the end, while his eyes were closing, and his hands curled into protective fists. 

"You'll hold me," was the last thing he said before dropping off to sleep. 

Greg held John for another ten minutes before undertaking the task of getting him properly bathed, shaved, and overall groomed. He dressed him with Gladstone right at his side, and then double checked the backpack for everything he was likely to need. Finally he called Paul, waiting as he arranged the car. 

An hour later, just as planned, they were en route. He held John in his lap, Gladstone with his vest on sitting next to the man, and texted Mycroft. 

_ETA 15 minutes. John is sedated, likely for another half hour._

Mycroft leaned over and gently touched Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, 'Lock? John is going to be here in about a half hour. Are you there?" 

The moment Mycroft touched him, Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed hold of his wrist, pulling so that Mycroft's arm was just across his chin, clutching to him before even opening his eyes. 

"D-Don't l-leave me," he whispered in a raw, cracking voice.

Mycroft startled and briefly worried that Sherlock was confused and violent, but his request pacified that fear. 

"I would never leave you. Never ever. John is coming to visit. Isn't that nice?"

Sherlock turned to his side with a pained whimper and buried his face against Mycroft's hip, not responding to the specific question. He kept hold of Mycroft's arm and neither rejected, nor embraced the idea of a visit from John. 

Mycroft stroked Sherlock's hair with his free hand and rocked as best he could. 

"I know you're worried, but if you try to enjoy his presence, things will go smoother. Just try and be friends like you were. I know it sounds impossible, but John is doing much better now. You're calmer, too." 

That was only partially true, as he was calm only in the way that he wasn't actively struggling. It was by no means a step in the right direction. 

Sherlock kept his face pressed to Mycroft's side as he allowed himself to slide back into his mind. 

_'Oh, Sherlock, what work you've done in the garden,' Moran said as he crunched through the tended grass and overall wrecked havoc, smoking as he moved. He made no deviation to approach him, leaning down over a box of memories Sherlock had been able to scrape together like fallen leaves, jumbled but accessible._

_'He used to smile at you, look!' He held up a picture of John at Greg's birthday, grinning and a bit pink with the brews he'd enjoyed. Sherlock wandered over, much more accustomed to the Moran in his mind, knowing he was likely to bite but having no way of avoiding it unless he was to stay out of his palace. He reached out with an unblemished hand and took the picture, staring at it._

_Moran's arms were suddenly around his belly, the man at his back, chin on Sherlock's shoulder. "Cute, the pair of you. He's on his way. Won't look like that though. Imagine, even if he's made progress, you haven't, poppet. He'll be so disgusted with the state of you. I'm going to take loads of pictures when the disappointment crosses his face, and we'll paint the house with them. It's going to be beautiful.'_

Against Mycroft's hip, Sherlock quietly began to cry. 

Mycroft spent the time Sherlock was in distress in an attempt to comfort him while battling with himself. "It's alright, Sherlock. John will be here to comfort you soon." 

Greg texted Mycroft again as they arrived, already feeling John beginning to stir. 

_We are here, your people are showing us in._

He carried John wrapped gently in his blanket, warm and shielded from the lights, Gladstone beside them as they walked down halls Greg was entirely unfamiliar with and were let into the guest suite as promised. Paul let Greg know he'd wait outside, so that he and John could be shown into Mycroft's room when all parties were ready. Greg walked to the sofa with John in arms and settled down with him warm and secure on his lap, Gladstone up on the sofa beside them with his head resting on John's foot.

John woke up ten minutes later and blinked blearily at his surroundings. He noted Greg and Gladstone, which were comforting until he focused enough to see that they were no longer in his safe shell of their flat. He cried out in confusion and curled up tighter in Greg's lap. It took a minute, but he eventually registered that they must be at Mycroft's. But seeing as Mycroft's was unfamiliar, it did little to comfort him. 

Greg pulled him up closer and spoke softly against the side of John's head. 

"Take a few slow breaths. You are with me, safe, you know where you are. Everything is alright. Calm, John, let's go for calm. Breathe. You are in control of this, remember? We are working with your plan. You're not in danger. I've got you," he assured calmly, keeping a tight hold of him. 

John took deep gulps of air that did nothing to calm his galloping heart. He wanted to turn his face away from the room and it's threatening lack of familiarity, but he could not bring himself to look away from a possible danger. 

"I don't like it," he whimpered and pulled on Greg's shirt. 

"I don't-oh, oh." John froze and looked around. "Sherlock's here, isn't he?"

Greg carried on slowly and calmly rocking John. "He's down the hall, yes," he answered quietly, "keep breathing, you're safe. If you truly can't calm down, we'll go, but let's give it a try first, okay?" 

John looked around the room again and his eyes filled with tears. He did not like change. Not at all. He liked his Greg and his flat and his couch and his porch with birds. This was alien and threatening despite the lovely interior decorating. But Sherlock was nearby and hurting, a fact John could not overlook. He pressed his face against Greg's shoulder and willed himself to calm. 

"I've got to go see him."

Greg held John close and slid his fingers through John's freshly washed hair. "Think back, John. You've been here before. You know this place. I know you can calm down, this is all part of the plan. When you're ready, I've got your pills. You're safe," he encouraged, still keeping his tone steady and even. 

"Not in this room," he protested as if this was some secret dungeon that would hurt him. "I'd like my pills. Then I'll calm down and we can go see Sherlock." 

A sense of dread was already beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach, slick like oil. 

Greg handed over the pills and exhaled slowly, looking up at the clock. He'd give John a half hour, and then he'd call it. It was too soon to have acted on this want of his. If he was having this much trouble in one silent little room, how were they to move down the hall? And once they'd moved down the hall, it would just be a new room equally as scary, only containing _Sherlock_ as well. 

"No, not in this room, and likely not in Sherlock's either. We don't have to see him today, John. It would be better to- just take your pills and let's see how you feel in a few minutes."

"We weren't allowed upstairs," John commented and sniffled as he looked around. 

Greg was there with him, and he had his pills, which made things much easier, but he still had an impending sense of dread in a room he did not know. He set to looking at everything. He scanned the room in a deliberate, organized way that allowed him to fully analyze everything in it. It took ten minutes, but once he was finished, there was nothing to frighten him out of the corner of his eye. 

"Okay," he said at the end. "I'm alright. I can go see him now."

Greg kept hold of John, speaking quietly to him. "Do you want to open that for first and see how you feel? Walking into his room in a panic won't be ideal."

John slowly eased himself out of Greg's arms and stood on the soft carpet as gently as if it were a bed of nails. He walked cautiously as if broken glass had been strewn about, with one hand in Greg's and the other down where he could reach for Gladstone. He stopped at the door and looked to Greg. 

"This is Mycroft's, right? Safe?" 

Greg hummed, nodding to John. "Totally safe," he said absently, texting Mycroft. 

_John's trying to make his way there now._

He did not give too much attention to John's fear, not wanting to entertain it in hopes that it would calm him faster. 

John shuffled forward and out the door. "Okay. Okay. I'm alright. I'm alright." John made it out the door and to Paul, who directed them to Mycroft's bedroom. 

Mycroft heard them approach and gently nudged Sherlock. "That's John. John is here."

Sherlock did not dare to open his eyes. He clung to his brother, face pressed tight against Mycroft's hip. He was breathing overly fast, his knuckles blanched white in his grip. 

_'Oh, go on, open your eyes. We've got to catch the moment, Sherlock. Come on now, I want to see his face when he sees what he came all this way for.'_

_Sherlock tipped his face up towards the sky, searching for the colors of John's earlier words, met only with a churning darkness. He pulled his fingers to his lips, even in his mind, sitting down on the ground and whimpering in fear. Moran stood over the box of memory piled up like leaves, poking through it, lighting off clips of sound; John's laugh over some joke Sherlock missed, the sound of him firing off his weapon through the shattering glass, whispering 'brilliant,' calling his name…_

His fingers burned as the bit at the ends of them, unable to keep his eyes shut tight with the promise of seeing John again, heart working overtime in anticipation of the sound of John's screams. 

John took a deep breath as if preparing to go underwater, then opened the door. "Hey, Sherlock," he began and took a step forward. Sherlock did not look well at all. He was far too pale, even for his usual fair complexion, and his eyes had dark circles under them. "I told you I'd come." 

Sherlock still had one foot in his mind, feeling as though he was watching John through a window that he could shut at any moment. It was not a conscious move on his part, in fact he was quite incapable of becoming fully present just yet. His eyes touched on John, no where near his typical efficiency with details. John was not as thin as he'd been before, and the tube was gone from his nose. He was clean-shaven and dressed much as Sherlock remembered in the past. 

He was also deeply afraid, keeping hold of Greg's hand as though sure he was to be torn away were John to let off. He had a massive dog at his side, a sight that made Sherlock's heart twist, deeply missing his own. 

His lungs began to burn in a reminder that he still needed to breathe. He inhaled slowly, eyes sluggish as he watched the two men, feeling completely out of their understanding. He pulled his focus to John's eyes, holding them as long as John would allow. 

_Not yours, Sherlock. Shuttered. Not yours. Gone. Shifted. Altered. Changed. Distant. Guarded._

_Look, but don't touch._

He pulled his eyes away first, dropping them down to where the beautiful dog was standing, speaking very quietly. "H-Hello."

John shuffled closer when Sherlock did not panic. "I...yes, Sherlock, this is Gladstone." The dog looked up at his name and John ruffled his fur happily. "He's friendly, and smart." John met Sherlock's eyes and found something missing, though he couldn't bring it up. Certainly he looked different as well. 

John pulled at the hem of his shirt and walked to the edge of Sherlock's bed. "It's been a long month," he said sadly and reached out his hand. Gently he placed it on Sherlock's shoulder and held his breath as he waited for some sort of screaming, as if his touch would burn those he cared for. 

The skin of his shoulder became brilliantly sensitive, flooding warmth across his chest, racing down his arms, blooming up the side of his neck. There was still a disconnect, though the tactile evidence that John was indeed there bridged the distance somewhat. Sherlock began to lean into John's fingers before stopping himself, his gut twisting as his stomach dropped out. 

_Don't touch him, don't touch, don't touch._

He kept his chapped fingers to his lips and scrambled to catalog the way this sort of warmth felt. He looked to the dog and put his focus there. "'s...b-beautif-ful dog," he whispered. 

John smiled even though he already felt like crying. _Oh, Sherlock, what did he do to you?_ "He's wonderful. He's incredibly fast, strong, and clever. You can pet him, if you want." 

John called Gladstone over and had him sit just by the edge of the bed, where Sherlock could reach out and touch his head. 

John looked nervously to his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Is that alright? Is it alright that I've got my hand on you? If it isn't, just tell me. I know some things can hurt. I don't want to hurt you."  
"It's f-fine," he said so fast that he cringed, a spike of fear tearing through him that he'd frighten John away. He did not dare look at John, not trusting himself to keep himself calm and controlled. He left one hand at his lips as the other moved slowly towards the dog. His palm rested on the dog's wide head and his fingers sank into the soft fur. 

His eyes slid unfocused as he was thrown back into the deeper levels of his palace, the empty rooms where Redbeard should be, his heart racing in his throat as his eyes burned.

_No! Not here, not here...out...get back out, get out, get out._

_He began to run for the stairs, tearing away from the sense of sucking emptiness, running like hell with the hair at the back of his neck standing on end, fear ripping through him._

He nearly screamed out John's name, managing to make it back to the upper levels where he again could interact with the room around him. Outwardly he'd remained silent, though his breathing had shifted and a single tear had snaked down his cheek. He spoke very quietly, his voice wrecked. 

"I...I h-had...had a d-dog once." His fingers curled as he scratched at Gladstone's head, vision blurring as his eyes stung. "h-he's gone...gone n-now." 

John watched Sherlock struggle and grief settled deep in him like an aching cold. He very desperately wanted Sherlock to be okay. 

"What was your dog like?" 

It was clear that Sherlock wanted to be touched, judging by his hasty approval, and John reached up and gently brushed Sherlock's hair back from his face. That was what he could do. If he kept fucking it up with words, he could at least offer Sherlock physical comfort. God knows he would need it. John sank his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls and smiled warmly at him. 

So far, he wasn't failing, but he wasn't succeeding either. John was a ball of raw nerves, and waited on the edge of the cliff for the eventual fallout. 

Sherlock's lips turned up in a very small, shadowed smile. He kept his eyes to Gladstone as he failed to keep himself from leaning into John's touch. 

_Redbeard! Here boy!_

"H-He..." Sherlock began, heavy tears rolling gently down his cheeks, no panic in him at the moment, "he w-was...was m-my friend," and likely Mycroft was rolling his eyes, but Sherlock had loved that dog more deeply than any person since his brother. 

"B-big...c-compared to m-me. I...w-was sm-small and he...b-beautiful s-setter...soft...k-kind..." he trailed off as he pulled very gently on Gladstone's ear as he had Redbeard's when he was distraught. 

His chin trembled for just a moment, a thick lump formed in his throat. "I c-can't find him. He...h-he's g-gone too," the words soft and quiet, resigned, slowly accepting the staggering loss.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I understand."   
John ran his fingers back through Sherlock's hair gently and tried to be like Greg. 

"I know that hurts. I know it all hurts. But you're strong. You'll make it through. I know you will." 

He felt as if he were holding a delicate figurine made of spun sugar, and each move he made threatened to damage it. 

"You're alright now. It's okay. I've got you. I'm here for you. I won't go away. I won't ever be gone."

Sherlock swallowed thickly around the incredible lump in his throat, flicking his eyes up to look at John before turning them away before he could see his face. He looked back to the dog, keeping his fingers buried in his fur. He knew John was lying to him, knew there was little truth behind the words, but oh, how he wanted them anyhow. He grabbed at the letters, twisting in shimmering color that slipped through his fingers, refusing to be captured and collected. 

Rainbows in puddles of oil. 

John's fingers felt like a benediction, pulling him from his mind gently and forcing him to work in order to keep the distance between them. How he wanted to cling to John, bury his face against John's chest and never let him go. He bit at his fingertips, looking down at Greg before allowing himself to turn his focus to the bit of John he could see peripherally. "I...I'm n-not...st-strong as..." his voice wavered and he stopped himself, closing his eyes. 

"I n-never...thought I'd...s-see you again." 

John closed his eyes and centered himself. There was a little space at the edge of the bed that he could get one hip on, but he didn't want to tower over him. John dropped down to his knees to better be on eye level, then decided that it was a bit of a stressful position for him, and stood back up. He kept one hand in Sherlock's hair, gently, and ended up sitting down with his legs crossed. He was a bit lower now, but he was so used to the height difference he hardly noticed. John laid his head down on the edge of the bed, by Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I know. You've been very brave. I want you to know that I will not abandon you. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get here. I've been working hard though. It's not easy for me either, but it's much better now than it was. I am glad I get to see you."

Sherlock pulled his hand away from the dog as John shifted in the way he was standing and positioning, his nervous energy making Sherlock's heart race. When John finally settled, some of the building tension eased off, and Sherlock reached automatically to touch John's head. His fingers stopped just before touching John's hair, curling back in on themselves. 

_Not yours._

He brought them back to his lips, saying nothing for several minutes. "I...kn-know it's...n-not easy f-f-for...I w-wasn't..." he whimpered as he felt the balance tipping, "I w-wasn't...I...I..." he swallowed and closed his eyes.

"It's alright," John said a bit hastily. "Just trying to get comfortable. My legs give me trouble every once in awhile. It's nothing you did." 

He reached out and held his hand open in indication that he wanted to hold Sherlock's, which was being nervously bitten at. 

"I'm here for you. I'm not afraid."

Sherlock looked at John's open hand, looking from his fingers to John's face. He didn't look afraid. 

He didn't look afraid. 

He _didn't look afraid._

The clocks stopped ticking, and the world ceased its rotation. The moment stretched on for a brilliant, breathless eternity and all too quickly passed, leaving Sherlock to very haltingly reach for John's hand. Their palms joined and Sherlock had to pinch his eyes closed as his chest heaved and he nearly fell apart. 

John held Sherlock's hand and for one glorious moment he felt he was doing right by Sherlock. 

"It's okay," he whispered and brought his hand to where he rested his head. John pulled it close enough so Sherlock's fingers brushed his cheek, and kept them there. 

"It's okay. I'm here now. I'm helping you now. I'm here. I'm here. We're together, and you'll be alright."

Sherlock very slowly shifted so that he was on his side facing John, staring at him as he cautiously flexed his fingers. He did not speak as tears very slowly rolled down his cheeks, wanting to say so many things. Instead he simply held John's hand and breathed as slow and steady as he could make himself, his ribs catching occasionally, incredulous at the gift he was being given. He wondered how long he had, when he was going to have to watch John, Greg, and the beautiful dog leave. His eyes flicked over to Greg to see if he was preparing to move them. 

Greg moved over to the side of the bed as he caught Sherlock looking at him. He settled down near Sherlock's bent knees, reaching out and very lightly resting his hand on Sherlock's hip. 

Sherlock jumped and sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing down on John's hand and shifting back towards his brother with a trembling "M-My," nauseous as the color drained from his face. Greg pulled his hand away, nearly falling off the bed as he put distance between them. 

"I'm sorry, oh Sherlock, I'm sorry I- I forgot I'm- it's okay, it's okay." 

"Shhh....shhh..." John reached out and put one hand on Sherlock's cheek. We're he not so wrapped up in comforting Sherlock, he might have been frightened by the tight grip on his hand. As it was, it was a distant and unimportant trifle. 

"It's alright. I'm here. I've got you. It's just Greg. He's our friend. He brought me here to see you." 

Mycroft leaned over and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."

John looked over to Greg and offered a small smile. "Maybe it would be best to treat him like to did me when I was at this stage."

Greg backed away and sat in a chair near John, but at a distance from Sherlock, feeling like a complete fool. 

Sherlock grabbed hold of his brother as his eyes slid unfocused and the room suddenly smelled of smoke and fear. He whined quietly as he forced himself to focus enough to ease his grip on John's hand, tears dripping off his chin. 

"S-sorry," he breathed, "I'm-m...I'm s-s-sorry." 

He swallowed hard and turned shamed eyes up at John, lip trembling, expecting John to leave.

John's heart rate elevated and he repeated Greg's words in his mind. He needed to be Greg, and talk to himself as if he were Greg. 

"I'm here, Sherlock. Could you listen for just a moment?" 

He paused and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair down to the nape of his neck. 

"I'm right here. I won' leave just because you get scared. You can't do anything wrong to drive me away. I'm strong now. I'll stay with you."

Sherlock watched John's face, looking for deception or the qualifying ' _but_ ,' which did not seem forthcoming. He leaned into John's touch, greatly soothed by it. 

"I...j-just not m-my...my hips please I-" he swallowed hard and turned a faint shade of green, looking away and looking at the dog, breathing deep and slow as he could make himself. 

"H-He's a..a...g-good dog," he tried, still whining slightly on exhale, fear wrapped around his spine.

John's heart squeezed and he felt a strange urge to wrap Sherlock up in his arms and threaten anyone who came close with disembowelment. Seeing as that would likely not be the healthiest option, John opted for a gentler approach. 

"It's okay. Nobody will touch your hips without your permission. Not ever again." 

Cautiously he reached one arm over Sherlock's shoulder in what could be an embrace, were he a bit closer. 

"Is it alright if I hugged you?"

Sherlock's expression crumpled as John pushed at his rickety walls and he nodded, biting his lip, reaching slowly out for John without touching him. He knew he wasn't allowed to do this, so he maintained as much as he could and just held his breath and waited, wanting nothing more in the world than for John to hold onto him. 

John cautiously wrapped both arms around Sherlock in much the same manner he had approached his bird. 

"It's alright, I'm here. You're okay. I've got you. I'm not afraid anymore, remember?" 

He was very, very afraid, but not of Sherlock hurting him. 

"Just tell me if I'm hurting you and I'll stop."

Sherlock allowed his hands to rest at the sides of John's elbows, not daring to wrap his arms around him. He turned his face to John's bicep, trying to relax as he wanted, though deeply afraid that he'd set John off. His fingers brushed just lightly against John's sleeves, hardly making contact, and he breathed in slow and deep, his chin dipping as he considered allowing himself to grieve with the only person alive likely to understand. 

_Not yours_ , he reminded himself, unable to stop the slow slide of tears, though keeping as firm of a grip on himself as possible. 

John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and let out a long sigh. 

"I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry you had to watch me be hurt, and I'm sorry you were hurt so badly. I love you, yeah? I love you. Do you know what that means? It means I will always come to you when you need me and be here for you." 

Sherlock's eyes slowly closed as ice encased his heart, freezing him from the inside, pushing away the warmth he'd felt for a few precious minutes. 

_He's not staying._

_Of fucking course he's not staying, you idiot._

_It's...he...not the way you love him._

_Never has been, Sherlock, never has been._

He forced himself to hold back the sob that was scratching for release in his chest. 

_'Oh, Sherlock, this is fantastic material, thank you for this pet, just more than I could have asked for. You thought he was what? Back? Like you'd always wanted that's never existed?' Moran broke into peals of laughter, kicking over the box of memories he kept in the lawn. Sherlock stood there, shoulders curled down like Atlas, watching as the kicking winds swept them up and spun them about, scattering them to the tops of the tree and across the spotty lawn._

_'He'll come, but he's never going to stay. Maybe he'll have tea with you, and you can watch he and Greg hold hands while you pretend it's not shredding you apart. I can't wait."_

He forced himself to speak around the terrible swelling in his throat. "I...I w-won't...w-won't a-ask too o-often," he breathed, grief weighing his words down, "I p-promise I...w-won't take....t-t-take advantage."

John closed his eyes and felt Sherlock stiffen. 

"I'm sorry I'm hurting you, Sherlock. I love you. I really don't want to hurt you. Come live with Greg and I. Oh....well, they want me to work with Paul a bit first, but I don't think that will take too long. I'll be with you as much as I can for as long as I live. That is what I want. If you'd allow me, I'd like to stay with you." 

Insecurity swelled around him and he drew in a breath. 

"That is...if you want me. I understand if you don't. You can send me away if I start to hurt you too much." His own feelings didn't matter much anymore. He was willing to die if Greg wanted him gone, to live if he wanted him to, to stay with Sherlock, to leave Sherlock... His own opinion simply was not a concern of his anymore.  
Sherlock whimpered as he wrapped his hand in the material of John's sleeve at his shoulder and pulled gently. 

"D-Don't be...an i-idiot," he whispered as gently as he could, calling back to their old banter. Of course he wanted John, all he wanted in the world was John, but John...John was never going to want him in the same way. 

"I...of course I...but I...y-you and Greg...y-your lives...I'll..." he grit his teeth and for a swift moment, he broke, losing his restraint and desperately wrapping his arms around John and burying his face against his chest, cracking a brittle sob as he clutched the material at John's back, his own arms shaking terribly. 

"I...I just want you. I w-want you-" his voice cracked and he forced himself to let John go, pulling his fingers to his lips and biting down on them. 

"I kn-know that's not...n-not wh-what you...but I..." he broke down, forcing himself to look at John through the blur of tears. 

"Y-You and Greg h-have a l-life that I w-would only r-ruin." 

_Breathe. Breathe. He isn't holding you down, just holding you. This is safe._ John took a moment to collect himself and gently ran his hands up and down Sherlock's back, though he kept high and avoided anything remotely close to his hips. 

"Oh, now stop it. Just because I'm not as smart as you doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot. Saved your life enough times." He tried for humor, as Sherlock had, then fell to seriousness again. 

"You wouldn't be ruining our lives. I came in and turned Greg's life upside down. He had a stable job before this. Lots of exercise. Lots of people. Now he stays with me all day. We'd be happy to have you with us, if it would make you happy." 

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach back out for John, though he kept his hands to himself. "I..." he looked to Greg, and then to the dog, and tried to call up the flat. 

"Th-they...they are t-telling m-me..." his lip trembled and he stopped breathing for a moment. Saying it aloud would make it that much more real. He whined softly and looked away in shame. 

"I'm...th-that I w-won't..." his voice cracked and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, dragging in a pained breath. 

"I won't...won't w-walk again. I won't walk ag-again. I c-can't r-read. I can't f-f-feed m-myself because I c-can't hold...h-hold a f-fork. I...I can't p-play for you when...when you n-need..." he cried out pathetically and sank his fingers into his hair, pulling hard, "I'm _nothing_ , J-John. I'm nothing." 

John slowly stood, keeping both arms wrapped protectively around Sherlock. He breathed through his mouth as he did not dare test to see if he was used to Sherlock's scent or not. 

"You aren't nothing. If you are, then so am I. I can't protect you anymore. I couldn't hold a gun. I couldn't shoot. I couldn't fight. I'm not comforting to you anymore. I'm not a good friend. I'm not loyal. I shouldn't have- how could I think that you hurt me? That's not loyal. I'm-" John cut off and squeezed his eyes shut. 

"If you're worthless, then I am too." 

His breath hitched and he pressed his face down against Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, I'm supposed...I'm supposed to be nice to Greg's John, but I-" he stopped and took a very controlled breath. 

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

_Greg's John._

The words pulled the air right out of his lungs and he lost a pained whimper before John could even finish talking. Moran burst into delighted laughter, grabbing those words out of the air and plastering them across the front wall of his little broken down house. The one that had fallen to ash for John. 

For Greg's John. 

He closed his eyes, whining on each clipped exhalation, feeling as though John had just punched him in the gut. His breathing shifted and he was only moving his ribs. He would never be John's Sherlock. He would be Sherlock, who lived with John, or Sherlock, who John visited. He'd be Sherlock the friend, Sherlock the burden, Sherlock the-

Not ever John's Sherlock. 

He gave himself a moment to move through that. It was not something he didn't already know, but having the words _Greg's John_ in John's voice…

"Y-You should b-be...nice," he said through his tears, doing his best to do right by John, "to...to-" _say it_ , "G-Greg's...Greg's John." His voice collapsed then and he reached up, wanting to touch John before he pulled away. 

"Oh, oh, is that...? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" John hugged Sherlock a bit tighter and looked over to Greg with panic. He'd said something to hurt Sherlock already. 

_Stupid John. Always so stupid. Can't even figure out this one thing._

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I didn't mean it!" John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and pressed his face to his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry. Forgive me. I don't... Was that wrong? Was that bad?" John let out a pained, confused whimper. He'd been told that was the correct thing. He was to be nice to himself like he was nice to Greg. But now that was hurting Sherlock, which meant it was a mind game. Anything could be a mind game. This whole thing could be another elaborate ruse. Some sort of sick prestidigitation of Moriarty's. 

John shook his head. That wasn't right. No mind games. His expression grew pinched and he closed his eyes as tightly as he could. What else was a game? Was the tea a game? Or Sherlock? A moment of dread struck him and he briefly entertained the notion that Sherlock really had tortured him, and this was just a ploy to get him off his guard. John chastised himself for the thought and held Sherlock tighter still. 

"No,” Sherlock said in pained defeat, he'd honestly been trying to confirm what John said, "Y-You should b-be nice to y-yourself! I...I w-was agreeing, I was...I a-agree with G-Greg you...you sh-should be kind to yours-self," he whimpered and let go of John, feeling him tense. 

"I'm s-s-sorry, I'm sorry...I d-din't m-mean...I w-was trying to...help you I n-never can help. Make it worse e-e-every..." his voice went out on him again and his chest caved, cracking on a sob. 

"I'm s-sorry."

"No, no, Sherlock, I'm sorry, don't cry. Don't cry I'm sorry and I'm staying with you!" John's eyes were wide now and he stared at nothing as a soft, familiar voice slid around him. 

_Oh, John. Stupid little John. I tried to warn you, didn't I? I told you how weak you were. What would happen. I said 'you're going to hurt Sherlock very badly when this is over' and now you have. I understand you breaking my rules. You're a defiant little pet. But the ones you make yourself? The ones Greg gives you? That's takes a special type of stupid._

John flinched and whimpered into Sherlock's shoulder. "I didn't mean to," he protested, though obviously not to anyone in the room.

_You never mean to. You're just too stupid to see that you're so worthless. These men don't love you. They pity you. Do you remember what love feels like? When I let Sherlock take you?_

John shook his head. "Wasn't 'em," he muttered and pressed one hand over his face. Abruptly he sat up, though he kept one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I need... I hear...I-I need help."

Greg was on his feet, moving to John's side and wrapping an arm around him as he pulled him up and away from Sherlock, into his arms. 

"Sherlock, I'm just going to spend a moment with John down the hall. We'll tell you before I take him home, you didn't do anything wrong." 

He gently rest John's head against his shoulder and began walking him out of the room without waiting to see if that's what he wanted, leaving Sherlock wide-eyed and holding his breath. He turned his focus to Mycroft, washed pale and shaking. 

"I- I c-can't-t...wh-what d-did I do?! I- oh g-god why _why!_ I-" he gagged and pressed his hands over his face, shouting into his palms in agony. 

John clutched Greg as he recovered several graphic descriptions in his mind, all in a sweet, soft voice that made it all the more threatening. 

"Greg, oh, he-" John heard Sherlock cry out and he twisted in Greg's arms. 

"I've got to go back," he exclaimed and looked up at Greg with tears in his eyes. “Oh, G-God I have to go b-back- SHUT UP!"   
John clutched the sides of his head and abruptly dropped to his knees as all his effort was focused on keeping himself on the safe side of panic.   
"In my head in my HEAD!" He sank his fingernails into his scalp and tore in an attempt to physically anchor himself to reality. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I h-have to help him! I n-need to!"

Mycroft gathered Sherlock into his arms and held him close. "Hey, hey, he's coming back. John is just stepping out for a moment to collect himself. He's coming back. I promise." 

Sherlock grabbed hold of Mycroft's shirt as he began to beg. "N-No more! No more p-please! I'm s-s-sorry, I don't kn-know what I did! Make them leave, make them _leave_! I c-can't! He's Greg's he- he- I c-can't! He d-doesn't w-want m-me he-" He pulled at Mycroft and whimpered pathetically. He wanted John more than he wanted air. The feeling of John holding him had been too good, like water in the desert, and he wasn’t going to be allowed that, "why are you doing th-this to me?" 

"I'm trying to help you!" Mycroft was nearly in tears and he rocked Sherlock swiftly back and forth. 

"I didn't mean for this to hurt. I didn't mean for that." The smallest hiccup had sent them both reacting with each other and snowballing terribly quickly. 

"Please just take a deep breath. We'll be okay."

"I sh-shouldn't h-h-have...t-t-touched him! Why d-did I do th-that?! Why did- and I- oh g-god and he-" He could hardly fill his lungs, tipped into a complete panic, "was trying to h-help and… _G-Greg's J-John_ and-" he shouted against Mycroft's chest, his heart surely filling the intercostal spaces as it bled freely. 

"I s-s-scare h-him! I w-want- he s-said...l-live w-with...but I-" he very swiftly went quiet, gasping as though punched in the chest, struggling to move air, "I'm t-to....s-st....upid....f-...for...s-so....s-....so st-stupid..." darkness was threatening to overtake him, and so he silenced himself, bawling against Mycroft's chest, sinking impossibly lower into self-loathing than he had managed to do over the last month. 

Paul moved out into the hallway with Greg and John, shutting the door behind him. Greg was on his knees with John against his chest, quietly trying to talk him down. "You are so brave. You know that voice is in your head, and that's wonderful. Stay with me, keep focused. Keep focused. We can go home, okay? We can go home and try again later." 

John shook his head and wept against Greg's shoulder. "I d-d-don't want t-to! I don't!" He looked back to the door, where Sherlock's muffled shouting was pouring out to drown and burn him. He flinched as he mentally whipped himself with horrible words and promises of punishment, partially in his own voice and partially in the voice of Moriarty. 

"Go back," John cried and staggered back to his feet. He wiped tears from his eyes and suddenly rushed for the door in as close to a run as he could manage. He no longer had any sense that his crying might upset Sherlock, and he went straight to the side of his bed and dropped to his knees. 

"I'm sorry," he pleaded with his head bowed and his hands reaching up. "I d-d-didn't m-mean to h-hurt you. Promise. P-Promise." 

Sherlock clung to his brother, though he turned his pale, blotchy face to John and blinked sluggishly at him. His ribs were catching as gold lights popped and cracked along his vision. 

He spoke at a whisper, struggling to maintain consciousness, muscles slowly and spasmodically beginning to lock up and release without his control. "D-Did...a-are you...th...this 'cause...wh-what he t-told...told y-you?" 

John clasped his hands together as if praying and kept his eyes down. 

"I-I don't.... I-I don't know what y-you want," he whimpered when he couldn't make sense of what he'd asked. John was suddenly aware that he'd fled Greg, and that might hurt him. 

"I'm h-hurting," John cried helplessly. "I h-hurt. I'm c-confus-sed and scared. H-Help, oh, I'm supposed to...I help you but..." John reached for Sherlock again without looking and a broken sob shook his shoulders. 

"I'm sorry. I'm s-s-sorry. Forgive me. Please." 

Once again, Sherlock shoved himself down and went very still and very quiet, even as his body began the early stages of spasming. He reached out where John's hand fell short of reaching him, brushing his fingers against John's. 

"I...s-see h-how hard...y-you're t-trying," he breathed, flicking his eyes up to Greg who came to sit behind John, wrapping an arm around John's chest to support him. "Th-Thank...y-you f-f-for g-going to...all....th-the w-work and t-trouble to v-visit...m-m-me," his chin trembled but his voice remained steady. 

"Y-you sh-should....g-go home with Greg and...r-rest..I...y-you're h-hurting." 

John turned his palms up to Sherlock's touch to indicate it was welcome, though his hands were shaking. "I'm sorry," he started again. "I'm trying and...n-no, not leaving! I'm not! I-I want t-to stay!" 

He sat up abruptly and looked at the bed. Mycroft had pulled Sherlock over, and there was room enough. He cautiously laid down just his torso, enough so he could reach Sherlock and put one hand on his face. "M-Mycroft, can I-I hold Sherlock?" His face was pleading and nearly hopeful. 

Mycroft instinctively drew Sherlock in closer as if John's touch would harm his precious little brother. "Sherlock...is that alright with you?"

Sherlock's fear was escalated as John reached for him. He had no handle on the situation whatsoever, no understanding of what was happening, of what was safe and allowed and what was dangerous. John was irresistible bait. He wanted John to hold him but...there was this horrifying sense of panicked desperation as though John were trying to prove something to himself that had nothing to do with Sherlock. 

Nothing at all about John felt safe. Nothing. 

He reached for Mycroft's hand and wrapped his clammy, freezing fingers around his brother's palm, holding tight. His mind began to disconnect as his muscles twitched, as though he could fall into a seizure at any moment, but he'd not yet hit the horizon he was swiftly learning to identify. He looked back to John in open fear as he effectively took a leap and reached for him with his other hand, not daring to let go of Mycroft. 

John began to cry openly when he wasn't allowed to try, and he took what he was offered. He took Sherlock's hand and the fear in his eyes made John break down fresh once more. He dropped his forehead down to Sherlock's hand and brought his knees up on the bed so he could curl up in a ball. 

Sherlock was afraid of him.

"I-I-I-I d-didn't m-me-mean t-to-" he stammered out a few words, then lost composure and wept again. He held on to Sherlock's hand with no intention of letting go. 

_STUPID JOHN!_

It was his own voice this time, loud, screaming and hateful. 

_YOU FUCKING IDIOT! HELP HIM! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO HELP HIM YOU WORTHLESS SHIT!_

John's whole body trembled and he held to his cheek Sherlock's hand, the only part he was to be trusted with.

Sherlock's brows knit in confusion when John didn't take him. "I...th-thought you...you w-wanted to...h-hold m-me," he breathed, cautiously easing closer, though keeping hold of Mycroft's hand. He leaned into John's touch even though he was scared, now unsure of himself. 

"I...I d-don't l-like...l-letting g-go of M-My....is...c-can th-that be okay?" 

Was that what the problem was? He just wanted to keep hold of his brother's hand. 

"I d-don't f-f-feel...f-feel v-very good," he breathed as his stress mounted.

"D-Did I...m-m-mess up?"

John slowly sat up and looked at Sherlock with tears of dread, confusion and depression in his eyes. "Y-You... You're afraid of me," he stammered and pulled gently on his hand. "I m-ma-ade you afraid." 

John had both arms open, willing to hold Sherlock but unwilling to reach forward and pull him in, lest he scare him away like a starling. 

Greg lingered close to the bed, glancing at Mycroft in clear worry as he watched the men. Sherlock was white as Mycroft's sheets, a thin sheen of sweat covering all of his exposed skin, hands shaking and his breathing erratic. This, while John looked ready to take hot irons to himself, holding his arms open as though waiting for a wild animal to crawl up on him. 

Sherlock interpreted John's words as a failing, an accusation. There was fear in John's eyes now as well, and Sherlock's battered mind told him the solution was to let go of his brother. He closed his eyes and forced himself to open his hand, slowly taking his hand away from Mycroft as he tried to move closer to John, his arms trembling with exertion. 

He was completely terrified now, knowing John was disappointed in him. He offered up no defense as he paused midway between Mycroft and John, honestly wanting to turn back to the safety of his brother, feeling sicker and sicker as he moved toward an unknown situation. 

He lay against the mattress, breathing heavy with exertion, eyes closed as he gave himself a moment to rest. John was within arm's reach and still the journey to him physically felt miles and miles away. 

John felt like some sort of sick, cruel monster for asking Sherlock to come to him. He clearly wanted Mycroft. But if he told him to turn back at this point, it would be even more confusing. John crawled forward just a bit, the perfect picture of unsporting submission, and looped his arms under Sherlock.   
"Please don' be sad," he whispered, "I've got you. I won't hurt you. In won't let anyone hurt you." 

Sherlock went unresisting to rest against John's chest, fingers curled in John's shirt, tremors racing down his body. He shuddered as he lay there, listening to John's heart, eyes closed.

"I...I d-don't f-feel well," he breathed to John, tugging gentle at John's shirt and turned his face more to John's chest, frightened of the threat of seizure.

As soon as he had Sherlock in his arms, John's crying quieted. He knew what this was, and how to do it. "It's a-alright," he said quietly an rocked Sherlock back and forth in slow, long movements. 

"I've got you. If you need to g-go back to Mycroft that's alright. Thank you for letting me try." 

Sherlock tightened his grip on John, whimpering at the threat of being moved. He burrowed closer to John, entire body shaking with effort as his hearing began to tunnel.

He opened his eyes to look at his brother, focus glassy and distant. "M-My," he whispered in show building panic, clinging desperately to John.

John wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock wanted his brother more than he wanted him, but the stab of pain was more than he could bear. John dropped his head down and curled up around Sherlock protectively. "I've got you. You're okay. I've got you."

Mycroft crawled a bit closer and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm here too. We're all here for you."

Sherlock groaned I'm frustration at their lack of understanding, shaking his head and holding tighter to John. Heart racing, he felt the slow build of uncontrolled electrical activity beginning to take him apart.

"N-no,"he whispered, shaking his head as his leg began to draw up, "n-not...that's not..." his face washed cold and he gasped, "Miller, ppl-please...g-get...Miller"

"Oh, oh!" John looked around the room frantically and his heart began to gallop in his chest again. 

Mycroft got up straight away and called for him out the door, then took his place by Sherlock again. "John, this is not your fault. You might want to let me hold him now."

Sherlock began to cry in fear moments before it began, deeply loathing these episodes. His hands curled in on themselves and he was soon in the violent throes of it.

John dropped his head down and kept hold of Sherlock. He scooted towards the middle of the bed, where he wouldn't thrash and fall off or hit the headboard. "Help! HELP!" John's voice was raw and panicked. 

Miller came jogging in as Greg moved over John, pulling him back to keep Sherlock's thrashing body from hurting him.

Paul was already drawing the valium that always sat out for Sherlock on the far counter, handing it to Miller.

"Mycroft," Miller said calmly, a quiet request for Mycroft to help hold Sherlock's hand down so he could push the meds.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hand and held it still in both of his. John was forgotten, and his perception tunneled to include Sherlock and Sherlock alone. 

John was nearly hysterical, but in a very subdued way. He took short, gasping breaths as his entire shook. Limply he allowed himself to be pulled back, and he was indifferent to uncomfortable amount of people in the room. 

Greg pulled John onto his lap and moved them away from the bed, allowing Miller to help Sherlock. He spoke softly to John, rocking him slowly, "He's been having these, it's not your fault. He'll be okay, give it a minute and you can go back to him." 

Miller pushed the drug fast, waiting a moment before asking Paul for another milligram, watching as bloody foam collected at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He thrashed longer than was typical of his more minor seizures, tipped into one nearly as severe as the first he'd had in Mycroft's home. 

The second dose calmed the chaos, and he slowly relaxed against the bed. 

John was openly weeping on to Greg's shoulder. He clutched him and cast furtive looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was finally beginning to calm down. "I'm sorry," he whispered to nobody in particular. 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and began to rock him once more, very slowly, very gently.

Greg handed John his pills now that the chaos had died down somewhat. He spoke softly to John, looking up to see Paul approaching. "This wasn't your fault. That's electrical activity, not anything you did." 

Paul crouched down and looked up at John. "We can step out of here for a little while if you need to. It usually takes him twenty minutes or so to know where he is and what's going on after a seizure. You did very well, I know that was frightening." 

Miller grabbed a towel from his bag, clearing out Sherlock's mouth as the unconscious man began to choke, sputtering and gasping as the seizure slowly left him completely limp in Mycroft's arms. 

John was whipping himself mentally again with terrible threats and words. He pulled out the worst memories he had and dove headlong into it, which caused him to jerk, flinch, and cry out in Greg's arms. 

"H-H-H-He was a-afraid of m-me! Afraid of m-me! Me! I-I didn't h-hurt...I didn't...I didn't m-mean to!" 

He looked over to where Sherlock, his friend, the man who had always been attached to him even if he didn't see it. "I'm SORRY!" He shouted at Sherlock's limp form. 

Mycroft held Sherlock's head to his chest and rocked back and forth. "It's alright. It's okay." He looked up and scowled at John with more anger than he felt. 

John seemed to wither. 

"Greg, could you take him out of the room and calm him down?" Mycroft's voice was remarkably calm. "I wouldn't want him to be upset when Sherlock comes back. It's triggering for him."

Greg had already been moving when John shouted at Sherlock, slowly shifting to stand. Paul helped him get to his feet and Greg carried John out into the hall and down to the spare room, letting Paul close the door behind them. 

"Breathe, John," he said quietly, going to the sofa and pleased with Gladstone following them, hopping up on the cushions beside them. Greg ran his fingers through John's hair and spoke quietly. 

"Do you remember what the rule is, John? Tell me the rule." 

John's vision swirled and twice he nearly passed out from breathing far too quickly. When he regained his composure a small degree, he looked up to Greg with a pleading expression. 

"Hurt him," he whined. How could he be nice to Greg's John when that man was terrible, awful, hurt those who loved him and only caused pain? "R-Rule...I-I can't! H-He didn't like that! That hurt him!"

Greg took John's face in both hands and spoke very softly. "Breathe. Stop thinking and _breathe_. You can't help him if you don't calm down. Look at me and focus." 

Paul watched as John looked ready to faint, one arm out to the side in case the man fell over. 

John wrapped both arms around Greg's neck and used him to steady himself. "The rule hurt him," he breathed on a shaky exhale. 

"It just h-hurt him! I m-made him worse. I don't deserve to b-be here." 

Greg shook his head, "Stop. Breathe. That's all we are doing is breathing and then we will talk when you are calm. Breathe." 

Paul stood back, allowing Greg to control the situation for the moment.

John did as Greg asked and slowly brought himself to a calm state from which to communicate. He still had tears in his eyes, his posture still spoke liturgies of his self loathing, but he was breathing easily. 

"Okay," he whispered. "I'm okay."

Greg nodded, looking down at his watch. Ten minutes since he'd given John his pills. "Okay. Now. The rule did _not_ hurt Sherlock. He was agreeing with you. Do you remember what he said? I was sobbing, saying that he was agreeing, that you should not hurt yourself and that you should be kind to yourself. Do you remember?" 

He was holding John's eye, keeping a grip on both of John's shoulders and speaking calm, yet commanding. This could _not_ be allowed to spiral. 

John whimpered. "I don't know. I don't...he looked hurt. He looked really, really sad. Then, then, he was scared of me! Scared!" 

John grabbed hold of Greg's shirt and adhered himself to him. "I scared him. I hurt him. I'm bad. I'm stupid and bad." John felt undeserving of Greg's comfort and held on as if he was about to be pried away.

Greg drew in a deep, low breath. He looked over to Paul before he began to speak. "John...I think he was just...reacting to the words 'Greg's John.'" He slid his hand gently over John's back. 

"He wasn't upset that you were trying to be kind to yourself. Do you really believe he would be upset that you were _not_ hurting yourself?"

"Oh. Oh." John's heart squeezed painfully in his chest and he thought back to all the times Sherlock had sadly remarked that Greg needed him, or that Greg loved him. 

"He's..." Jealous did not seem like the right word. That was a small, petty word, meant for young lovers and envious people who had not been through nearly as much as they had. Perhaps there was a different word, a more despondent one for supreme and utter depression stemming from something you needed so desperately but were forced to watch another man have. 

"He doesn't want...but he always does what is best and says...oh, Sherlock... What do I do? I can't just not be your John. That's who I am. That's all I have!" 

Greg drew in a slow breath and spoke softly. 

"You don't have to change anything, John. He's allowed to feel, isn't he? He didn't ask you to change. Remember how we talked about this, about how he's just going to have to accept that things are different? He's allowed to hurt. You didn't hurt him, the situation is painful is all. He's already been willing to let you go, hasn't he?" 

Greg ran his fingers through John's hair. "You didn't hurt him, he's just hurting." 

"Yes, but...what does he want? Does he want me to stop loving you and love him? I can't just... couldn't ever, even if I tried. I couldn't try." 

John curled his fingers in Greg's shirt and tugged lightly. 

"But I he wants me to love you both, I can do that. That's something I can do. But I can't...how? How does he want me to love him? I can be your John and still care for him, right?"

Greg kept one hand at John's back and the other covered John's hand at his shirt, trying to reassure him. 

"I don't know what he wants, but he's never left you. Not when you were married, not while you were dating. He's obviously not going to...to ask you to stop feeling how you feel. This is the sort of thing we need time to work on with Paul. Right now, the man I see in that room is very physically ill and deeply confused and frightened. Just as your mind takes a single thought and runs wild with it, I'm sure his does too. I doubt he knows what he wants beyond security and love right now." 

John decided he would package up any strange feelings or confusion about Sherlock and tuck it away somewhere he wouldn't have to deal with it yet. He was quite good at it by now, and focused his thought on helping Sherlock. 

"Okay. Okay. He needs me to love him. I can do that. I can love him. I just need...God, what else can't I mention? What else would cause him pain?"

Paul spoke softly to John then, still crouched down beside him. "John...it's a trial and error process that I recognize is going to be very stressful for you. Perhaps we should wrap up for today, he always struggles after a seizure anyhow. We can spend time sorting out what it is that you want in your relationship with him at a safer distance."

"I'm not leaving him like that!" John shouted at Paul in a tone that spoke of high offense. "I'm going back in when he's alright and I'll just...I'll shut up and stay next to him. I won't talk and fuck things up. I'll just stay silent and hug him and it'll be okay." 

Paul watched John's range of reactions morph and shift, calling to mind non-Newtonian. He was fluid and lax with Greg, but apply the pressure of Sherlock and he shifted in a mix of calm and hard, panicked and angry. 

"John...flip that around a moment. When you were as lost as he is, would it be calming and reassuring to you if Greg were to come into your room and silently just hold you." 

"I..." John shook his head. "It wouldn't. I'd be confused. I just... If I can't help him when I'm talking, and holding is confusing, what do I do? What am I supposed to do? I can't say things and hurt him. I don't want to." 

Greg shifted John in his arms and began to rock him. 

"I know that feeling, John. There have been days...weeks...where it felt as though every single thing I said hurt you. It's stressful, and you've got to keep calm and as level-headed as possible. I don't know how to instruct you, you've not had time to work out your feelings about him. I won't make you leave, but we can go back in and say a quiet goodbye. Then you can spend some time working through this with Paul." 

John nodded and sank down mentally into the rocking. "I'm sorry. I'll go say goodbye when he's ready, if he'll let me." 

John dropped his head under Greg's chin and while he was silent, tears were still pouring down his cheeks. 

Greg looked to Paul as he pulled John in close, holding him carefully as they rocked. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. You've not done anything wrong." 

He looked up at Paul, who nodded and stood up slowly. "I'll go see how they are doing, let them know we are getting ready to leave." He walked out quietly, shutting the door behind him. He walked down the hall, going back into Mycroft's room. 

Miller had given Mycroft a mask to hold over Sherlock's face once again, having a difficult time pulling him up out of it. Sherlock was still lax in his brother's arms, eyes shut and yet to wake, whimpering sporadically over the last few minutes. 

Mycroft rocked Sherlock slowly in an attempt to calm him while he waited for him to wake up. "I'm here for you, little 'Lock. My is here. You're safe now." 

His eyes were misted but no tears streaked down his face. The presence of so many people, as close to him and as familiar with the situation as they were, had caused him to draw back a bit and tug on the reins of his uncontrolled grief. Mycroft looked up to Paul when he entered. 

"Has John left?"  
Paul shook his head. "No, he's much calmer down the hall. He'd like to say goodbye first," he said very quietly, walking forward and tapping the side of his own lips, "he's-" he said as he handed Mycroft a cloth. Sherlock had a collection of blood and saliva collected at the corner of his mask against his face. 

Miller arched a brow. "How calm are we talking here, Paul?" 

Paul nodded slowly and looked to Mycroft. "He's calm, I think he can manage a goodbye. With your permission, of course." 

Mycroft scowled and held Sherlock's head to his chest. "I don't want John to panic in front of him again. I want this room to be a place where Sherlock doesn't have to hear John scream."

Sherlock twitched and shifted in Mycroft's arms, hands flexing and shifting. He drew in several sharp breaths, sputtering as he began to wake. His face pinched and he was swiftly in tears, turning his face to Mycroft's shoulder. 

Paul nodded in understanding, finding himself unable to blame Mycroft for feeling as he did. "Okay, I understand. I'll explain that to him."

Mycroft nodded and shifted so Sherlock would have a view of the door if anyone came in. "'Lock, I'm here. You are in my home, safe and warm. Nobody is hurting you. John is here to visit. Everything is alright."

Sherlock pulled the mask off his face with a trembling hand and wept against Mycroft's shoulder, frightened and hurting as was typical after a seizure. He pulled at his brother weakly, struggling to get closer. 

Paul walked back to John's room and closed the door behind him. "Sherlock is just now coming out of it. He's frightened as he typically is when he's coming out of a seizure." 

John looked up and whined. "I'll go help him?" 

With a look to Greg, he attempted to verify if that was a good idea or a terrible one. 

"To help? And say nice things?"

Paul nodded, "If you feel up to it, that would be nice. I need you to understand that for Sherlock, it is terrifying to hear you shout, and his room in there is a safe place. If you feel that you may need to raise your voice, will you step out first? Also, do keep in mind that just like any person coming out of seizure, he's deeply confused and not quite aware. His reactions are unpredictable even for Mycroft." 

John nodded. "Kid gloves. I'll be gentle, and nice, and soft. I won't shout or do anything sudden or confusing. I'll do it right this time, and I won't break down. I know what not to say this time, I think." 

His arms were crossed over his stomach now, but not in a defiant way. He curled in on himself as if he were cold in the perfectly warm house. 

Greg eased him off his lap and stood them up. "Let's go then," he said warmly, proud of how John had calmed himself down. He held John's hand and together they walked to the door, moving down the hall where slowly the sound of Sherlock's frightened whining grew louder. 

John prepared himself to go in for a full three minutes before he worked up the nerve to finally grip the doorknob and turn it. 

"Sherlock?" He was barely inside the room, standing awkwardly with his hands clasped in front of him.

Sherlock was still holding to his brother, whining in pain and fear on every exhalation, shaking in the aftermath of such a violent episode. Coated in a thin sheen of sweat and mostly out of it, he did not react much mostly due to the continued fog over his mind. 

Paul moved inside and walked closer to the bed, speaking quietly to Mycroft, trying to hold his attention and soften whatever protective response he might have. "John is very calm and understands what Sherlock needs right now." 

John shuffled over, dragging Greg behind him like a tugboat. He sat down on the bed, at the very edge, cross legged and apologetic. "Sherlock, it's me. John." He tried to project his voice while keeping it soft. "Are you alright? I'm worried about you."

Greg moved forward with John, watching Sherlock and then looking to Mycroft with deep sympathy. It was hell watching John have episodes, he couldn't imagine combining frightening seizures into the mix. 

Sherlock slowly turned his face so that he could see John over his shoulder, lips and chin still bloodied. He cracked his eyes open, glassy and bloodshot, and looked between Greg and John, dropping them down to the blur of fur. 

"Red-" he began, shuddering even as his lips curled up in a smile. It faded with his dog's name, realizing that the beast in the room looked nothing like his old friend. Sherlock blinked in confusion before looking back up, finally realizing that John was standing there. 

"J-John?" 

John tried to smile, but the blood on Sherlock's chin worried him too heavily. "Yeah, I'm here. Right here." 

John stayed cross legged on the bed, and made no move to come closer. Nor did he open his arms and ask Sherlock to come to him. He sat still, externally peaceful and internally hating himself. 

"You okay?"

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, confusion clear in his expression. He blinked slowly, his body shivering and twitching as it tried to settle. Sherlock looked around at the many faces in the room with a looming sense of dread, finding Mycroft's, searching his brother's face for how safe he was. 

"Th-There...I...l-lots of..." his voice was a mess and his teeth pinked. He looked back to John, tugging gently on his brother. 

"D-Did...y-you're ups-set. Did I h-hurt you?" 

Mycroft shook his head and chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into tears. Death had been far too merciful for Moran. 

"No, no, you didn't hurt me. You were hurting, and it was sad. Empathy. You've done nothing wrong." 

John kept his head down and his hands in his lap.

The relief of knowing that he'd not angered his brother was overwhelming and he began to cry. "I h-hurt," he sobbed, still unaware that he'd even had a seizure, very childlike in his tone now, "am...p-please w-will...will y-you help m-me? It h-hurts." 

"Yeah, yeah, I'll help you. I've got you. Miller?" Mycroft looked up and held Sherlock's head close, as if not trusting him to be alright when not under direct watch. 

"Something for pain, please?"

Miller nodded and already had it drawn up, moving past John with the syringe and reaching out to take Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's eyes went wide as they rest first on the needle, and then on Miller's face. always mistaking him in confusion. 

He turned his face away, crying for his brother. "MY!" he shouted against his shoulder, drawing his arm to his chest in fear. 

"Just something for pain," he said quietly. "You'll stay here with me. You don't have to sleep. It's just to help you stop hurting. You're alright." Mycroft petted Sherlock's hair and kissed the top of his head. He took hold of Sherlock's hand, but did not try and pull it away. 

"Could you let him help you?"

John's posture had changed slightly. He had full grasp of the situation, and knew that the man approaching the cowering Sherlock with a needle was a doctor, but he felt a small flurry of protective energy regardless.

Sherlock never fought his brother when he was even slightly lucid, and allowed Mycroft to move his hand. He was making clipped little sounds of fear as Miller leaned in and gave the medication. Slowly the tension eased from his body and Miller moved away, completely excusing himself from the room to help keep Sherlock calm. 

With the pain more manageable, Sherlock breathed for a few minutes before allowing himself to look around the room. His eyes settled on John and he went very still. "John?"

John watched Miller sharply and when Sherlock spoke, he tried for a smile. "Yes. I'm here. Are you feeling any better now?"

Mycroft curled Sherlock up in an almost possessive way, like a mother bear picking up her cubs. He had one hand pressed over Sherlock's ear and his knees drawn up to support him. He watched John just as sharply as John had watched Miller.

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, still breathing tight and fast, though the pain was better managed. He tried to get a handle on the situation. He shook his head. No, he wasn't feeling better, "I...I f-feel...f-feel b-bad," he whispered, tightening his grip on My though not out of a fearful reaction. 

"You...a-are you...ups-s-set with m-e?"

John shook his head and scooted closer. "Nope. Not mad at all. I'm worried about you, and I'm sad, because I am trying really hard to help you but I keep making mistakes." He stared at his hands, which were still very scarred, but not as knobby. 

"I'm sorry if you thought I was upset."

Sherlock's heart began to speed up, rolling painfully in his chest as he watched John. He listened to him speak, both relieved by and somewhat frightened with his shift closer. Greg was close, and Paul was there, and Mycroft was holding him as though ready to _protect him_ and that felt wonderful, but was there something to be protected _from_? 

Sherlock's chin trembled as he watched John. 

"I'm...I h-had an-nother s-seizure...d-didn't I? I'm s-sorry! I c-can't help...h-help them. I can't h-help them they j-just h-h-happen. S-Scares m-me," he licked at his lip and tasted blood. Slowly he reached up and brought his fingers to his lips, looking down at the blood on his hand. He whimpered in fear, looking up suddenly at his brother. 

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's head and held his hand. "It's okay. You're alright. Miller, could you get something to clean the blood?"

"A sponge or something," John interjected. "Not a rag. Those are bad." Especially when near the face.

Miller went after a cloth for Sherlock's face. John's words made him stop and he thought on it, looking to Mycroft. Sherlock hadn't seemed to be overly concerned with water, but there was no harm in just getting a soft sponge. 

Sherlock stared at his hand in his brother's, sweating and fixated. "Wh-what..." he looked to John as tears shot down his face, just up on the edge of panic. "J-J-John?" he breathed in fear, looking to his friend to help him understand. 

John smiled at Sherlock. "They're going to get a sponge to get the blood off your face. It's good to let you be clean. It won't hurt. They can let Mycroft do it if it makes you scared." 

Mycroft leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "It's alright. I've got you. I'm just going to clean off your face. Nice and warm." 

Sherlock looked up at his brother and then back down to his hand, still not understanding. "Wh-Why am-m I b-bleeding?" He turned his eyes back to John, growing more and more tired despite how afraid he was. 

"D-Did I do s-s-something wrong?"

"Seizure," both Mycroft and John stated at once. John fell silent and Mycroft took over. "You had a seizure, 'Lock. It's okay. You're okay now. You did nothing wrong. You're very, very safe. Nobody in this room would ever hurt you."

Sherlock nodded and watched as Miller came back in, turning to hide his face against Mycroft. Miller simply handed Mycroft the sponge and moved away, not wanting to scare him further. Sherlock was mumbling against his brother's chest, rocking himself and pulling his fingers up to his lips in fear.   
"N-No...not...I....I d-don't w-want..." he shivered and pressed harder against Mycroft, the fog of confusion heavy over his mind. 

Mycroft put the sponge on his knee and held sherlock closer still. "It's okay. We'll wait until you are comfortable. John's right there for you, if you want to say hello. If not, you can stay just as you are." 

Sherlock's grip on reality was tenuous at best, leaving him unsure of his timeline. He tensed as he heard John's name, turning suddenly with a shouted "NO!" eyes wide as he tore himself out of Mycroft's arms, putting pressure on his knee, only catching that John was on the end of the same surface as him and Miller -whom Sherlock always mistook while panicked- was within arm's reach of him. 

He grabbed hold of John's arm, whimpering in incredulous relief that John was solid and reachable, pulling hard to shift him further away from Miller. 

Paul was across the room in a heartbeat, only a half-second behind Greg as Miller put up his hands and backed away. 

John gasped and grit his teeth when Sherlock grabbed him, and he nearly lost touch from that alone. 

"'S okay!" His voice was breathless, but he forced it into some semblance of calm. 

"It's okay! You're safe. You're safe. I've got you. Everything is alright." He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and tried to catch his eyes. 

Everyone rushing them simply drove Sherlock deeper into madness. He pulled John back towards him with all of his flagging, trembling strength and shouted at them. 

"DON'T T-TOUCH HIM! DON'T TOUCH HIM!" 

He slung his arm around John so that John's back was to his chest, and his own pinned forearm was across John's shoulders. He began to rock them slowly, his thigh folded in a way that kept their hips separated by nearly a foot, speaking soft to him even as he held his own trembling hand out to keep distance between them and everyone else. 

"It's o-okay, J-John, G-Greg will come a-and h-he'll s-s-save you and you're g-g-going to b-be f-fine, Greg w-will g-get you out. He'll g-get you...y-you...he'll...s-s-save....Gr...eg...." the exertion was too much, and within seconds of trying to protect John, Sherlock fell backwards hard, fainting dead away. 

John froze to his very core when Sherlock grabbed him and all conscious thought was ripped away. He put his hands over his face, elbows in to protect the tender floating ribs, and stared blankly ahead at nothing with wide, petrified eyes.

He held his breath for the entirety of it, and when Sherlock fell away, he stayed completely still. He was frozen, terrified, a mouse in the path of a cat. After just a few seconds he regained enough cognitive ability to scream. 

"GREG! GREG! GREG!" He stayed still and didn't dare to even move his eyes despite wanting very much to not be where he was. 

Greg was there, picking John up, his own heart in his throat. Gladstone followed close by, hackles raised though not so much as growling. Greg took off with John, out into the hall and down to the room with Paul in tow, his only thought to sedating John and letting him wake up in his own bed where he could heal from this. 

"It's alright, it's alright, I'm here, I've got you," he said over and over again as ducked into the room and sat down on the sofa, watching as Paul came in and draped the blanket over John before going to the bag to grab the syringes, leaving Mycroft and Miller to handle Sherlock. 

John locked up. His legs were stiff, his arms covering himself, and his abs tight in anticipation of a blow. He stayed in the exact position Sherlock had held him in. Silent. Stunned. Petrified.

Even when Greg held him, he made no move to relax. His breath hissed between clenched teeth and his eyes fixed on nothing. Occasionally he screamed, but his teeth remained together, and his eyes locked forward. 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and made a little best of pillows for him, just in case he didn't want to be held when he woke. 

"Paul," Greg said roughly, knowing he couldn't reach John like this, "hurry, oh god, please, Jesus just-" John's hand was thankfully accessible and Greg just carried on whispering to him. 

"You're safe. Greg has you and you're safe," watching as Paul pushed the sedative and holding his breath as he watched for John to go unconscious. 

John felt the sedative and became suddenly, violently animated. Being grabbed, dragged and held tightly by Sherlock had tipped him over the edge of what he could handle. In fact, it had shoved him right over. Roughly. John struggled in an attempt to keep himself awake and the air froze in his lungs. He could not draw breath to scream, though his mouth was open.

This silent, horrifying display of struggle only lasted a few seconds, as he managed to free himself, but at the cost of energy. He'd been holding his breath, and blacked out on his own accord wrote the sedative had quite taken him. 

Paul helped grab John back up and into Greg's arms. "Greg, breathe. Breathe. We'll get him home, we'll get him home and this will pass one way or another, this will pass. I'm going to go get a car and everything ready. He'll be down for a bit, just relax, one step at a time." 

He left Greg clutching John, rocking him slowly as he fought tears, his face pressed to the crown of John's head. Paul made his way to Mycroft's room to check on Sherlock and let Mycroft know they were leaving. 

Miller was over Sherlock, carefully checking him over as he put a mask over his face. Paul looked to Mycroft as the doctor tended to Sherlock. "Obviously we are going to take John home. I doubt we will return with him again for...months, at the least. This cannot be allowed to happen-" 

Miller moved Sherlock in Mycroft's arms, trying to get a better look at him, hooking him back to the little monitor as he frowned, concerned over his condition. Paul nodded and took in a deep breath, "We are going to have to seriously consider if this is a possibility at all. Please update me with his condition when you have a chance."

Mycroft clutched his little Sherlock and tears ran down his face. He could recall so easily the day Sherlock had been brought home with his mummy from the hospital. He had wide, curious blue eyes and a tiny dusting of dark hair. Mycroft always put his face very close to Sherlock's, as babies can only focus on things at extremely close distances. He loved his little 'Lock. He taught him things. 

Mycroft let out a sob. He'd failed miserably. All he'd wanted to do was help Sherlock. That was all. That was the only thing he wanted and he couldn't manage it.


	9. Chapter 9

Paul spoke softly before leaving. "It is possible this was simply too soon, Mycroft, that is possible. Let's deal with the situation at hand. I have to remove John from here before he wakes. I'll keep in close contact with Miller, I do hope Sherlock is alright swiftly." 

He excused himself and arranged the car, jogging back up and collecting Greg. Within half an hour, they were back in Greg's flat, John changed into lounge clothes and the room set up as calm and familiar as possible, leaving the idea of helping Sherlock far behind as Greg nearly tore himself in half panicking over John's mental state.

Mycroft nodded as Paul left, then wept bitterly onto Sherlock's shoulder. He held his head up, in the same way that made it seem that Sherlock was embracing him back. He broke down very hard and sobbed without restraint at this devastating failure. Those weeks of silence from Sherlock had been Mycroft holding his breath in hopes that John could call him back. A sickening thought struck him. Sherlock had been protecting John when he went under. If he woke and found John was gone, what would he assume? 

John woke in very much the same way he had gone under. He jerked and flailed for a moment, then locked up and went still. He held his breath. His eyes fixed forward. His entire body screamed of panic without moving an inch. 

Greg reached out and very gently took John's hand, starting to massage carefully, praying that it would help call him back. "John...we are home. You are safe and we are home. Sherlock is not here. You are safe, John. We are home now, can you breathe for me please? Take a breath." 

John took one gasping breath, then his lungs froze like the rest of him and he focused intently on the one spot he'd found in the room that contained nothing terrifying. He hadn't looked anywhere else, but he was too afraid to check. His hand was stiff and he could not quite feel what was happening. After a few minutes, which to John seemed both an eternity and a blink, he began to look around the small safe spot in the wall he'd established. 

"That's good, John, very good. Keep breathing for me, you're safe. We are home." He decided not to massage, but rather very gently stroke him, his fingertips gentle on the back of John's hand. Paul was out in the sitting room, wanting to give John space with his only trusted person. 

John heard words, but everything was far too jumbled in his mind for him to make much sense of anything. When he finally got past the routine search of the room, he addressed the matter that someone was holding him. John jumped and spun to see. 

"Greg? Oh, God, Greg!" He wrapped both arms around his neck and scrambled to get closer. "Touching me... he touched...he... he _grabbed_! He was holding m-me down!"

Greg was ashamed at the selfish rush of relief when John grabbed him. He helped John get closer, pulling him onto his lap and wrapping him up tight. 

"I know that was scary. We're home now. Keep breathing for me, you're safe. You're safe. I've got you." 

He'd explain when John was calmer, but for now it was overwhelming to have John communicating at all and he was so washed in relief that he could do little more than hold John and take comfort that he was responsive. 

"Home?" John looked around and stared at the walls. He half expected to see Baker Street, though he hadn't the faintest idea why that would still pop up under 'home'. 

A sickening thought hit him like a punch to the gut and he locked up again. _I left him. I left him. I left him!_

He shouted it, though he wasn't sure how loud. "No, no, no, no, I was supposed to...I can't just leave...I didn't... I can't I-" John couldn't form words and simply began to heave in deep breaths that did nothing for his tight chest. 

"John," Greg spoke very calmly to him, though he called out his name loudly, "look at me, John. Look at me. Leaving was the best thing for the both of you right then. He was too confused after the seizure. I need you to take a deep breath and hold it, okay, hold that breath for three and then let it out slowly. We have to calm down." 

John made several attempts at explaining his own inadequacy, but it always ended with 'stupid' or 'worthless' and he quickly gave up on articulating the stone in his chest where his heart should have been. Eventually he took a breath in, held it, then spoke on the exhale. 

"Is there anything that I can do for him?"

Greg exhaled with John and failed to keep his cheeks dry, pulling John to him and burying his face against the side of John's head. 

"Oh god...you're here. I...I'm sorry just give me...I thought I was going to lose you for days. I'm...you're here. Oh, thank god." 

He drew in a few short, clipped breaths, clearing his throat and leaning back to look at John with tears on his face. 

"I'm sorry I...I was so scared that I wouldn't' be able to reach you that I brought us back. That...that was so traumatic for you. He wasn't holding you down, he was trying to protect you but...but that...far more than you should have had to deal with. I'm so sorry that happened." 

"I didn't mean to...I'm here. I won't leave you." 

John whimpered and began to cry like a injured child. He wasn't hurt, particularly, though he was aching and sore. He was mentally hurt from being frightened, and now that he could view what happened with some understanding, he was surprised he'd not fought Sherlock. 

"I don't want to b-be grabbed by him," John sniffled and pressed his face against Greg. "I don't like it! I wanted t-to help!"

Greg ran his hand down John's back before gently wrapping it around the back of his neck, rocking him like a child. "I know, I know that was very scary. I know. I'm so sorry that happened. You were always safe, but I know it was scary. I'm so sorry. You're safe, and we're home, and he's not here. He's all the way back at his brother's house, he's not here. I'm sorry you were scared."

"H-He was...he was back...he was...why? Why did he..?" John couldn't think of a reason that wasn't sickening. After a moment he gave up trying to speak and leaned in time with Greg's rocking. It was simple and predictable, which he greatly needed. 

Greg kept rocking him, running his fingers through his hair for a few minutes, letting time slide by in comfort before trying to sort out what John had meant in his question. 

"He...the seizures leave him confused and frightened. He saw blood and there were a lot of people in his room. Just like we don't have people in here, except maybe Paul, I don't think anyone goes into Sherlock's room. I think he lost where he was and then realized you were there. He was trying to protect you...I know he grabbed you, but he kept assuring you that I..." he trailed off, suddenly realizing that Sherlock had never mentioned anything of himself. He knew that Greg would come for _John_ , but not him. 

_'Greg will save you. Greg will come get you._ ' Not _us_. 

Guilt tore through his chest and he tipped his head to John's, "that I would come save you from...whatever threat Sherlock thought was there." 

"Sherlock loves me." 

John nodded. That was correct. 

"He always tells me that you love me, and that you need me, even though it makes him sad. He always helps me. He always does everything he can to save me." 

He looked up and took comfort in Greg's familiar face. 

"I'm not good enough for him. I see it now. His unwavering loyalty. I don't deserve that. He tried to protect me and I shut down. Before, he tried to explain something and I left. Now he had a seizure and I abandoned him." John listed his grievances against himself with a dejected voice. 

Greg frowned and shook his head. "John...you earned all that loyalty. You put in your dues, and you've not asked this of him. He's...he's Sherlock, he's difficult to puzzle out but he's Sherlock and he does love you, but that...that' doesn't mean you have to feel the same way. You didn't abandon him when he seized! You were frightened, we calmed down, and you came back. That's not abandoning him. He does love you, but it's okay to still struggle with what was done to you. It doesn't make you bad for struggling. And look...look at you, John! I know you are angry with yourself but oh my god look at you! You're present and aware and articulating and I'm so incredibly proud of you. I am sorry today went like this, but you've...god, you've made such progress." 

John was dripping in self hatred so strong he thought his skin might show his failings like markings in ink. 

"I'm not something you should be proud of. I broke. I broke again today. I lose myself. I thought Sherlock was going to hurt me today. And I still...I didn't fight him. I'm broken, clearly. Moriarty is still carrying out his torment even though he's dead. He programmed me to hurt Sherlock." 

John tapped the side of his head. 

"That's all. That's what he did. He programmed me and now I do the hurting he's too dead to carry out. I was never a player. Just a pawn. And I did abandon him. I left. I went home to my Greg, as he said I should. This makes him sad. Everything that makes me happy makes him sad. How can I live knowing that loving the person I love hurts someone who I also love?"

Greg shook his head. "John. Stop this right now. Don't tell me not to be proud of you. You did not break! Listen to yourself, you are clear and present. _I_ took you home because _I_ panicked. You did not hurt Sherlock. You did not set off the seizure, you did not set off his panic, you did not do anything to hurt him today, nothing. You spoke calmly to him and you did your best. Even Mycroft has trouble keeping him present. He...god, John, lots of things hurt him. Just like lots of things used to hurt you! That list is much smaller now though, and for him it will be too. You are _nothing_ like Moriarty. You are _not_ his damned _pawn_." 

John nodded politely and tried to listen to him. "You're right. I'm not a pawn. He always said I was a very important piece. A most important puppet in the game. Not a player, though. A bishop or a knight. King, maybe. But a piece. Not a player. Not with those three. Moran wasn't a player either. Just another piece." 

John was quickly losing all will to be awake. 

"I can't help him from here. I should just go back under until I'm of use."

Greg very calmly shook his head, reaching out and taking John's face between both his hands, he brushed his lips against John's. He leaned back after a brief moment of contact and then repeated the motion, lingering, brushing his thumb along John's cheekbone as he very gently kissed him. 

When he leaned back to speak, he was only a breath away, tipping their foreheads together with a hand at the back of John's neck. 

"You are believing lies. He fed you terrible lies. Just as Sherlock is terrified of hurting you, you're just as...if not _more so_...afraid of hurting him. Different reasons. You believe you're playing into his trap or...Jesus, that you've _become something_ of Moriarty's making."

He kissed him gently once more. "Those are lies in your mind. Please listen to me." 

John relaxed a bit and his eyes slid shut. Though he believed Greg's affection to be undeserved, he was highly thankful for it. The words 'something of Moriarty's making' struck him deep and he leaned back in to kiss Greg again. 

"They don't feel like lies," he explained when they broke. "All the evidence...I might matter to you, but to the game I was just...I played my part perfectly. I've done everything he said I would. Every last thing." John looked down and away in shame. 

"He's dead and I still obey him. Still. I can't stop. I'm a dog too easily trained. I don't see how they are lies."

Greg kept in close, speaking to John with their foreheads together again, intentionally sharing space and breath with John to force the point that he was not alone. 

"You decidedly do not obey him. You were made never to sleep, never to speak. You were trained to not only say, but _believe_ , that Sherlock had done these terrible things to you. You were made to fear and loathe him. Now...it's not perfect, though it's on par with Mycroft's efforts and likely exceed mine, what you are doing for him. You speak to him, you worry over him, you know that it wasn't him even though even _considering_ that suggestion used to result in horrific pain. You learned to eat to help him, you've forced yourself to adapt to outside to help him...John, _none of this_ is what he taught you. I'm sure he hoped at this point you'd both be dead at your own hands. You _defy him_ , this is not of Moriarty's making." 

John began to cry from the weight of the words. It's hard to see how far you've gone when there is still an endless stretch of road ahead. He wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and gathered him close. 

"I don't know how you love me, or how you think those things are true. I did bad things with Moriarty. I was a bad person. I believed lies about Sherlock just to get out of pain. What sort of person am I? I just want-" his voice faltered and he took a minute to calm himself. 

"I just want to be a good person and not be hurt." He leaned back and locked his sad, weary eyes with Greg's warm ones. 

"I'm glad you think I'm a good person because I just don't see it." 

Greg gathered John onto his lap and wrapped him up tight in his arms, rocking him slowly again, one hand over John's exposed ear. 

"Sherlock, Mycroft, Miller, Paul, and I are all glad that you did what you needed to do to minimize your pain. There is no shame in it, John. We are not talking about a small amount of pain. You were put through intense, unrelenting agony. Sherlock bent, he bent to avoid pain as well. Any of us would, but you held out..." he shook his head and rocked John just a bit faster, "you held out for so, so long. You are motivated in all this...this painful, frightening work to help other people, not yourself." 

He closed his eyes and buried his nose in John's hair, breathing deep. "I can't see any darkness in you, John."

John held on tight to Greg, the person who saw him as good. After months of being whipped for what he believed to be his own malefactions, he'd begun to believe that he simply must be an awful person. John had a just mind. He was straightforward and honest. These things made it difficult for him to honestly believe that someone would hurt another person who didn't deserve it just for fun. He was also terribly self critical, and hearing that the beatings were punishments had served to engrave his culpability in his mind. 

"But I...I deserved it, and it was my fault, and I-I...It was, I know it! He..." John struggled for some form of clarity, and tried to ask the correct questions. Why would he blame himself for something that was clearly out of his control. 

Ah, control. Of course. 

John whimpered and grabbed a fistful of Greg's shirt. "V-Victims of...of abuse...h-have control p-problems...want to control everything... And they f-fear losing control." 

It was common knowledge, in his opinion, and was well aware it was why he still feared being sedated even when he could easily fall asleep and no longer feared punishment. 

"And I-I-I...it's easier to...to take blame for what happened than t-to admit I-I lost control." 

Greg kept hold of him in that same safe position, changing nothing as John came to his own awareness. He debated bringing Paul in to navigate these waters, but decided against it in the end. John was making brilliant progress all on his own. 

"You have control now, John. You have so much control now. I can't imagine how terrifying it was to have so little for so long. You did not deserve any of it, just as Sherlock did not deserve any of it. I love you. What you are saying about control...all of that is true, it's easier to take blame than face how terrifying all of that was, but John, you've survived and it's over. It's over now. You can let yourself feel that and nothing terrible will happen now. I have you, and you're safe. It's okay for it to not be your fault anymore."

John wept for quite some time, but the pain of awareness was still stinging in his chest. Eventually he quieted, but still couldn't reconcile what had happened. 

"I..I still did things I shouldn't! I knew I wasn't supposed to try and escape but I did anyway. Don't I deserve that? He...I was directly disobedient." 

John whimpered and closed his eyes. "I love you. Please don't stop loving me. I'd die. I need you to love me or I'll die. Please don't think about what I did, or what I did to Sherlock, or how I'm hurting him. Please just stay with me."

Greg pulled them both back so that he was rested against the headboard, drawing his knees up, feet planted on the bed to help better hold John to his chest. 

He leaned in again and brushed a soft, chaste kiss to John's lips, lingering and sharing breath for several heartbeats. He could not help the tear that rolled down his own cheek, heart breaking for John. 

"I think about what you did to survive, how brave you were, how beautifully defiant you were. I think about how hard you are trying for Sherlock, how much you want to help him. I think about what you've overcome and how bravely you keep moving forward even though it _hurts_. John, I _love you_. You don't have to earn that, or work to _keep it_. You have it, it's yours. I love you." 

John kissed Greg then, full of grateful love and fear of loss. To hear that he didn't have to work for it, or earn it, was more than he could properly understand. He didn't break away, as he had no other way to express how grateful he was. 

Greg lingered with him like that for a few moments longer, though did not want John to begin to worry that he was going to want this sort of attention from him, and so broke off gently and allowed them to rest cheek-to-cheek, speaking very soft and quiet to John. 

"I know this is all so hard, I do. I have you, and I'm not leaving. I'm so proud of you, John. You are incredible and I am so overwhelmed with how proud I am of you. You're safe, and you're good, and I'll remind you of that as much as you need. I love you." 

John rested his head against Greg and the tension he'd been holding bled out of him slowly. His small revelation hadn't fixed the damage, but it had led him to see what was done, therefore giving him a means to contend it. 

"I didn't think anyone would ever care about me every again," John said quietly and sank into his arms. 

"You know, when I was there. It was all my fault and...I know you say I don't deserve it, but I felt like I did. I didn't think anyone would ever be this kind ever again."

Greg kept him close, rocking him gently. "If I could take this away from you, John, I would. I am so sorry you were made to feel that. I cannot imagine."   
He ran his fingers along the side of John's face, tears on his own as his heart broke for the man. 

"I love you, it's free. You never deserved what happened, and one day it won't feel like you did. I understand it still feels that way now. I love you and I'm so deeply sorry you are hurting. Lean on me, I can share the weight of it. I love you." 

John leaned all his weight on Greg and whispered his thanks. "I don't know how I would have gotten through this without you. I can't imagine it. You're my reason for being alive. Thank you for not letting me...you know. I'm sorry I tried so many times." 

He knew he'd scarred Greg's heart with it, but his own was so torn he couldn't figure out how to fix it.

Greg shook his head gently against John's, tightening his grip and rocking him slowly. "You were trying to escape pain, not hurt me. You don't need to apologize. I know you...believe that this is all one-sided, but I swear to you John, you've save me more times than you know. I love you, you've...I'd be just as lost without you. I'm so glad that despite all of this, you want to stay." 

He pressed a soft kiss to John's forehead, lingering there. Slowly thoughts of Sherlock began to return and he wondered how he and Mycroft were faring after all that trauma. Paul would likely know, and he'd check later. 

"Love, will you drink a bit of juice for me? You've had a hard day and we need to take care of you a bit." 

John nodded and stretched his arms again. "Can I have something for pain too? I'm sore. I hate being sore. I never knew just how bad being sore could be until you stay on cold concrete for a month." 

He snuggled against Greg and appreciated the soft warmth ten fold. "I love having a bed. It's wonderful. And juice. I have so many things that I didn't know were gifts before."

Greg nuzzled against John for a moment and then let go with one hand, getting his phone out and texting Paul with the requests. "Of course you can have your pain medicine. Always. Paul is going to bring it all in and then we can sleep a little while. I know I'm tired, I'm sure you are exhausted. You've done so well, so well." 

He carried on rubbing John's back slow and gentle until Paul knocked very lightly and came in the room with cold juice, a few slices of banana and a fork, and John's medication. He was quiet as he set them all in arm's reach and then excused himself again, very impressed to see the calm between them. 

John ate the banana slices and drank his juice. He still did so slowly and carefully, but these were things he was used to, and they did not cause him pain. 

After several minutes of silence, John spoke up to voice a worry that had been bothering him since he woke up. "Mycroft isn't going to let me go back, is he?" 

The question disarmed Greg. He'd not been anticipating talking about Sherlock yet, and he'd seen the rage on Mycroft's face when this all went south. 

"I will speak with him, John. Don't worry over him right now, he's just very protective of Sherlock."

John nodded and looked at his hands. He'd had so many things he'd been planning on saying. He had rehearsed them mentally for weeks. Then, when the time came, he froze and shouted.   
"Okay. I understand. Will you tell him that I'm sorry? Really, properly sorry?"

Greg nodded, "I will, but I'm sure he knows that. You were grabbed and exposed to him in a flashback. It's not your fault, John. You did nothing to induce that reaction. He was unconscious by the time I took you out of the room, he didn't see you go." 

John held his juice pouch in two hands and drew his knees up. "I don't like being grabbed. I could have held him, but he was too afraid of me. I thought he would have wanted it. He seemed to want me to hug him. I could hug him without much trouble. But the grabbing is just....no. I can't be grabbed. By anyone. Him especially. You can hold me right because that's safe. With him it doesn't feel like being held, it feels like being held down."

Greg nodded, "That's perfectly understandable. He thought we were going to hurt you and reacted in kind. I think...I mean, I'm not a psychiatrist, but I think his mind is trying to sort through his inability to protect you all that time he thought you were there with him. He gets very...fixated on protecting people, has put his brother under him several times thinking that he was shielding him from harm. He's stuck, mentally, and we saw the effect of that. I think the seizure tipped him over. I am so sorry, John. He's just not able to think like he used to. He's not the same." 

John readily agreed. "If he's stuck there, in a place of danger, then anyone he cares about he will protect fiercely, and anyone he doesn't know he'll see as a threat. But when I get scared, and see you calm, it helps. That might help. I just need to stay with him and stay calm." 

Greg rubbed at the back of his neck, debating sharing the information with John. If he wanted to help Sherlock though, he'd have to know. 

"Eh...John," he began, clearing his throat and looking up at the ceiling. It seemed such a simple thing to say, but John would understand the impact better than everyone outside of Mycroft. 

"His...the Palace..." he drew in a deep, slow breath and looked back to John, "Mycroft says that it's...gone. That he spends time there, but it's...I don't know how to explain it because I don't really understand it when it's working, but he can't use it, it's...his process is gone.”

John shut his eyes and thought about that. "I...but...he can... he can fix it, right? Can't he...gone? But Greg, he spent more time up in that thing than he did actually talking to me. That was...his life was in there. All his information." It seemed impossible. 

"He'll fix it, right? He can fix it, can't he?"

Greg looked over to John sadly and shrugged. 

"I have no idea. I'm sure Mycroft is working with him. I don't understand how any of it works. He's just not...he can't function as he did before, at least at the moment. So...I don't know, maybe that's making it harder for him to sort through it. He's Sherlock, it was always hard to understand him." 

He thought on it then for a moment and carefully put his words in order. "John...you don't have to answer this now, but it's something to honestly think about. His mind made him who he is...was. Who he was. If he can't fix it," he licked his lip and looked back to John, "You know you can stay with me forever, no matter what happens with him. He's...if he can't fix it...would it be better for you to let him go?"

John hated the question and had the childish urge to tell Greg to shut up. "Probably not," he responded in a casual tone. 

"I'll stay with him even if he's hurting. That's the nice thing to do." Avoid. Deflect. Change the subject. 

"Want to see the birds?"

Greg took that as a screaming, resounding _yes_. Relief, followed by swift, sharp guilt tore through him. It did not seem as though Sherlock was going to improve at all. He'd been afraid of John, and though he went to him, the relief that used to come from John's visits seemed gone from him now. 

Paul had informed him that Mycroft had been in the market for an aid. He was running out of time with his brother. He'd looked to Greg as though he'd lost weight since leaving the compound and had been deeply, deeply confused nearly the entire time they'd been there. 

"I thought we'd rest," he said quietly, "but if you'd rather see the birds, we can do that first." 

John wanted not to think about it. If he couldn't help Sherlock now, what would he do if he never recovered? John was counting on Sherlock eventually healing, as he had, so he would be easier to help. If Sherlock was going to remain so distraught and confused, he would be difficult to deal with. He could not be grabbed like that again. He simply could not. John closed his eyes. 

"Birds. Yeah. Sherlock would like the birds. No, he'd say it was frivolous and pointless. Or maybe..." John shook his head. "Let's just sleep, then. Let's sleep. I don't want to be awake."

Greg found that he quite agreed with that statement. 

Soon enough they'd shifted back to the position they'd been in, with John tucked in the blankets against Greg, lights out and fan going. "It...it is going to be alright, John." One way or another, it would be.

John leaned against Greg and tucked his arms across his chest. "Okay. Thanks, Greg. I love you." John turned his face down and closed his eyes. Just before he fell asleep, he whispered; "But I don't believe you."

In the sitting room, hours after they'd left, Paul finally gave in and texted Mycroft after not hearing anything yet. 

_How is Sherlock?_

Mycroft had stopped crying and was lying with Sherlock in his arms. He sniffled and stared at his phone. 

_Everything is terrible._

Paul read the text and inhaled slowly before responding. 

_I believe my services would be better served with Sherlock primarily. Greg can consult with me via phone, but John prefers him to me. Sherlock obviously needs help._

Miller spoke softly to Mycroft. "I have results from the labs. He needs his nutrition altered, few deficiencies that likely resulted in this." He'd drawn blood and had it rushed in, deeply concerned with their inability to rouse Sherlock. "I'm going to give him a jab and it will likely restore consciousness rather swiftly."   
Mycroft put one hand on Sherlock's face. "He's so broken. If you think nutrition will help, then I'll be on board. I need...I thought this would work. I thought a month... He didn't do anything the entire month! No progress! We regressed. Then John comes and he's talking within seconds." Mycroft turned bitterly and pressed his face into Sherlock's curls. 

_I'd prefer to have the support here. Thank you._

Miller drew in a slow, deep breath as he found a place on Sherlock's arm to give the injection, swabbing the skin as he prepared to give it. "He's chattered each time he's had anything new in here, though he was a touch more lucid with John. I'd hazard that it's more to do with stimuli associated with trauma than a preference of company. He would not let go of you. I know I do not know Sherlock well, but he was obviously afraid of John." 

He uncapped the needle and explained, "This cannot be given intravenously, though it's likely to work fast." He gave the jab and binned the syringe, stepping far enough away that Sherlock was very unlikely to see Miller when he came awake. 

Mycroft nodded gravely and stroked Sherlock's hair. "That element was unexpected. I expected him to cling to John, and try and protect him as he did, but not cower from him when John openly asked for affection. I didn't expect it to go perfectly, but I didn't think it would go this badly." 

While Mycroft waited for Sherlock to wake up, he got things situated. The blankets were pulled high. He had an abundance of pillows. Mycroft was on his back, close to Sherlock and below him with his legs and hips far away. "Sherlock? Are you there?"

Sherlock slowly began to stir, shifting on the bed beside his brother, brows knitting as he whimpered. He grabbed at his arm where Miller had given him the jab and then his eyes abruptly opened, hand shooting out and grabbing Mycroft as he tried to struggle up. 

"GREG!" he screamed, heart racing, instantly shoved back to where he'd been before he'd fainted away. "G-" 

His voice snapped out and he looked around the room, shoulders flailing as he tried to breathe. 

"John?! _JOHN! JOHN!_ " he'd not seen Mycroft at all, nor had he seemed to notice Miller, unfocused eyes sliding over them the same as the walls. He threw the blankets back, twisting his body as though he was going to stand. 

"MORAN G-GODDAMN I-IT! MORAN!" 

Foam was collecting at the corners of his mouth as he breathed wildly through clenched teeth, wheezing on each inhalation and whining with fear and rage on exhale. He began to cry, even as he struggled to get up, panic completely overtaking him. 

"Okay, okay, Sherlock! Sherlock!" Mycroft grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders and tried to ease him back into the bed. He kept his shoulders up and his chin down in anticipation of a blow, but spoke loudly his own name in an attempt to get through. 

"I'm here! Mycroft! My is here! I had Moran killed! He's dead, Sherlock. Dead. Moran is dead." 

Mycroft wrapped both arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him still, but not down. "My! My is here! Listen to me!" 

Sherlock screamed and went very still and tense, ducking in anticipation of pain. He was only narrowly breathing, wild and shallow, stars cracking along his vision as he failed to understand through his fear what was happening. 

"D-Don't," he gasped, deeply afraid and still not present. Miller held perfectly still, not wanting to escalate the issue. "pl-please don't h-hurt them," he sobbed, trying to look back at Moran. 

His eyes met Mycroft's and for a full five seconds he did not move at all, perfectly frozen, holding his breath as his damaged mind tried to register what was happening. 

"MY!" he yelled as he exploded into motion, twisting in Mycroft's arms and virtually climbing him in an effort to get closer, breaking down and sobbing against his shoulder. "My! H-Help, help m-me!"

The tipping point for Mycroft was always when Sherlock recognized him. From there, he could handle it. It was when Sherlock struggled against him that he wished he was dead. Those five seconds, where Sherlock stared at him without reacting, were hell. 

When he finally had his baby brother back in his arms, Mycroft let out a rush of air he hadn't remembered holding. He felt dizzy. When had he last properly slept? Ate? 

"I've got you," Mycroft choked out. "You're safe. I saved you. I came for you and Moran is dead."

Sherlock sobbed against his brother, shaking terribly now that he knew it was safe to let his guard down. "Y-You g-got m-m-m-e, I...oh g-god...I th-thought..." he shuddered and gripped desperately at his brother, "d-did Greg s-s-save John? Is h-he s-safe?"

"Sherlock, _you_ saved John. You brought him out of that building and you went to Moran so Greg could get him out. You saved John. But yes, Greg has him safe at his home. Greg has John, and I have you. Everyone is safe." 

Mycroft rocked Sherlock and rubbed his back gently. "Except Moran. I had him shot."

Sherlock shook his head, biting his fingers as he remained against his brother. 

"N-No...I...I...." he trailed off, eyes pinched shut as John's voice echoed in his head screaming for Greg. Somehow the sound, so fresh and at such a distance given the state of his flagging consciousness, tipped him hard into confused grief and left him sobbing with renewed effect. He pulled at Mycroft's shirt and cried against his neck, shaking hard enough to exhaust his strength rapidly. 

"Oh, little 'Lock, it's alright now. Everything is alright. I'm here, and I love you. Greg loves you too. And so does John. Mrs. Hudson too. She thinks of you like a son. Mummy loves you. We all do. We're here for you, and you can choose which of us you want to see and when." 

Mycroft kissed the top of his head. "It's all in your control."

Sherlock curled to Mycroft as much as he could, trying to hide in his brother's arms. "I...I...h-had hold...had hold of h-him...I had h-hold of him! I...I w-wanted....I th-thought I c-could k-keep him...s-safe until..." He shook his head, falling apart all over again. 

"I h-hurt him! I h-hurt him ag-again I- oh g-god I just w-wanted t-to..." he shook his head and wept against Mycroft's chest loathing himself. 

"Shh...you didn't hurt him. He was just scared. Remember that he's fragile, and doesn't like to be grabbed. It's alright. He knew you weren't hurting him. He just got a little frightened was all." 

Mycroft could not begin to describe the terror he'd seen on John's face, and was grateful Sherlock had gone unconscious and hadn't had to deal with a fallout. 

"He's alright now."

Sherlock frowned as he tried to make sense of what Mycroft was saying. "B-but...but I- I...was trying to...p-pr-tect h-him...that's...wh-why I'm-" He pulled away enough to see if Mycroft had gotten them out of Moran's cell yet or not. 

"Already moved us. I'm...your h-house...I'm in," awareness dawned, slowing his voice until he was left whining, "No Nonono I...I g-got lost and I grabbed him! He's...h-he's gone isn't h-he? I...I m-made..." his voice broke and he covered his face, shaking his head. He'd made John leave. 

Mycroft carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "You tried to protect him, and it scared him. It's not your fault. He'll come back, if you want. Greg took him away and they went back to his flat. But you can call him any time you want. He isn't gone forever." 

Sherlock's mind was quiet for the first time in quite a while. Grief was all there was in the inky darkness. He'd terrified John on his first visit in months, and now John was gone. 

The unfathomable size of his error shut his thoughts down and he simply floated in the quiet knowledge that he'd yet again left John screaming. 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft prodded him gently and tried to get a response. "I'm sorry, you're okay. John will come back. You're okay. Please don't-" Mycroft went a little pale when Sherlock didn't respond. After weeks of silence, Mycroft was loathe to let Sherlock slip away again. "Sherlock, Sherlock please! Please don't leave." 

But Sherlock only wept, and remained silent as a full hour ticked by. When he'd run himself down dry, he finally spoke, breath catching as he tried to form the words. "It's...g-gone, i-isn't it?"

Sherlock's words startled Mycroft out of his settled calm and he sat up a bit. "Gone? What's gone?"

Sherlock waved a hand absently. "T-The _Was_. H-How I was. John w-was. H-How our friendship-was. How _life was_. All...all th-that it's..." he bent his knee up slightly and flexed his hand as though confirming his body was different now. 

"I c-can't...c-c-can't fix it. An-any of...of it. He sc-scares m-m-me now and...I sc-scare him and...it's...it's gone."

Mycroft nodded. "It's changed, Sherlock. But it won't be the first time things changed. It changed when he got married, and changed when he lost his wife. You'll be okay. But..." He shifted so he could cradle Sherlock more as one would hold an infant. 

"Could you maybe tell me why John scares you?"

Sherlock's lip trembled and he looked away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. "I'm s-sorry. I'm...I sh-shouldn't b-b-be scared." 

He closed his eyes and bit at his fingertips, "I'm s-sorry...p-please d-don't be ups-s-set too." 

"Never. I'll never be upset with you for something you can't help. Just remember I'm here, and I've got you." He took Sherlock's fingers out of his mouth. 

"Would you like one of those smoothies?"

The question derailed his thoughts and he looked up at Mycroft for a moment in confusion. He nodded after a moment, accepting food as though it were nothing, as though he'd not been refusing to eat for weeks. His mouth felt like sandpaper and his entire body hurt. He'd been struck down to nothing, and had very little with which to rebuild. John as he knew him was gone. Life as he'd known it had ended. 

He could have this comfort, surely. 

"P-Please." 

"Oh, yes. Thank you. I'll order it right away." 

Mycroft almost dropped his phone in haste and made several spelling errors in his text to the staff. 

"It's good to see you eating. It makes me happy. Would you like anything else? I've got those special utensils, if you'd like to try something with a spoon, or pancakes again."

Sherlock watched his brother in confusion. He was flustered...but it didn't seem as though he were angry. Sherlock reached out and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's shaking hand, looking up at him. 

"My?" 

Mycroft dropped his phone into his lap as soon as Sherlock touched him and took both his hands. "Yes? What is it? I've got you." 

Mycroft searched Sherlock's face for signs of fear or confusion. 

Sherlock stared up at his brother, studying what he could of the details of his face. His chin quivered as he traced lines of pain nearly clear as his own scars in the curves of Mycroft's expression. 

"My," he whispered, trembling lip making the sound wobble, "are...wh-what...you're s-so...you look..." he couldn't finish the statement, reaching instead and wrapping his arms around Mycroft, giving him a hug that had little to do with his own comfort. 

Mycroft almost lost hold of a sob when Sherlock actually hugged him. It wasn't clinging, it was just a hug. Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real hug. 

"I hurt you," he whispered. "I thought having John over would help."

Sherlock shook his head swiftly and pulled Mycroft in tighter, trying to move his own exhausted body to rock Mycroft's, emulating things that made him hurt less. 

"I...he l-looks better. Th-that's what I...did this for. Not to win him back -just to let him live." 

His voice broke as he stated the painful truth. 

"He's going...to live f-f-fine without me and I g-got to see...th-that he's okay. He's...b-but I have you. I h-have you and you won't...won't scream at m-m-me or hate me or-" he shook his head again and went quiet, trying to help his brother.

Mycroft clutched Sherlock and helped him with the rocking. He did not deserve to be rocked by Sherlock. His little brother, who had been through so much, who'd endured physical, psychological and sexual abuse, should not be expending energy to help Mycroft, who'd only mucked things up.

"You're the most selfless man I know," Mycroft whispered. "You've done the right thing. You're helping John."

Sherlock held on to his brother as his strength slowly began to fade, burying his face against Mycroft's neck. He felt the weight of grief like a stone around his neck, pressing on his ribs and making him shiver, but it was okay. 

He could feel that. 

It wasn't like the fire, or the blades. 

This was nearly gentle comparatively. 

A heaviness without the sharp, cutting bite. He did not allow himself to think beyond the present, beyond right that moment. Sherlock could deal with this pain in the here and now, but the stretching lifetime ahead was overwhelming and therefore he avoided thoughts of it. He could let John go for this moment, and in the next moment he'd do the same, again, and again, until he was out of moments and he didn't have to miss him any longer. 

Mycroft let tears slide down his face as he rocked his baby brother. 

"Do you remember that one summer we spend near the beach?" 

He ran his fingers absently through Sherlock's hair. 

"We built castles. Redbeard splashed around and trampled them. We built bigger ones. He trampled those too. We built ones will walls and moats and stones, but he always managed to find a way to the center. That probably had something to do with us burying his rope in it. Can you find that memory?"

Sherlock was making visuals along with his brother's words, not recalling, but rather creating memory. There was an odd pairing of smell and sound to it, a familiarity as though he knew about the rope before Mycroft said it, but he'd not have been able to actually recount the memory first. 

"Th-through a w-wall...l-like a conversation...th-through a wall." His voice shook, afraid he was going to let Mycroft down. "I...I d-don't want to go...a-after it." It was just another in a long line of losses. 

Mycroft continued on gently. "You don't have to go after it. I'll help you. The sand was pale yellow and cool where we'd been churning it, but hot elsewhere. The ocean had low waves, except for a few hours of the day when they would rush in and drag things out. The air was fresh and salty with a constant wind that occasionally dragged the dry sand about. You fell and got sand in your mouth. Redbeard loved the water and tried to catch the waves in his teeth. His fur would get salty and we needed to hose him down every day. All our clothes had sand in them. The sun was very, very hot and the sky very, very blue. It set over the ocean, and the colors were mostly reds and oranges. We tried to fish and didn't catch anything. We dug for shells instead and got buckets full." 

Tears slid down Sherlock's face as he was suddenly ripped away from himself, dropped dead-center in the middle of the memory. Mycroft was pinked with threatened burning, and Redbeard covered in clumps of sand. The water rushed up around his feet, draining back away swiftly, and he spotted a tiny, nearly transparent crab scurry up out of the sand, only to hide once again. 

"My," he whispered, a slow smile spreading over his face, eyes closing peacefully for the first time in a long while. There was no whistling or smoke, only his brother and the sea. 

"He's not...n-not here." 

Mycroft's spirits soared and he continued to build the pleasant memory around Sherlock with strong walls he hoped Moran couldn't break. 

"Look up. No clouds, remember? Mummy always insisted on covering you with sunscreen. It was hilarious because the sand would stick to you if you didn't let it dry first. Remember how the sand felt? It was hot, then when you buried your feet down, it was cool and wet. The water was nice, only cold in the evening and early morning, but still refreshing. There were seagulls always squawking. We learned not to leave a picnic unattended. Blue towels with shells on them. An umbrella with stripes. Mummy liked to read on the beach to keep an eye on us. We dug a hole and hid in it. It was cool and dark inside the hole, with wet walls and a wet bottom since we dug it close to the sea line. Remember why we got out? The chance wave that turned the hole into a little swimming pool?" 

Sherlock could see it all nearly cinematically. His body slowly relaxed as his brother painted the picture, immersing him in sensory. His grip eased and slowly the shaking in his limbs quieted. He was breathing slow and deeper, the tension slowly edging out of his expression. It was the calmest he'd felt in years. 

Mycroft didn't stop. He needed to create this memory brick by brick. Here was something he was finally doing _right_. 

"We found driftwood and made swords. Do you remember that? Mine was a bit curved with lines in it from the water. Yours had a sort of handle you made with cloth. Red cloth. No, dark orange. One day, we built a sand castle we were sure Redbeard couldn't get through, because we'd simply piled sand on top of the rope. He dug, and we gave up watching and went inside. He dug for so long, and finally dragged the sandy thing right into the living room."  
Sherlock felt as though he were floating in a warm bath, weightless and nearly out of body, suspended in the way back feeling of being a young boy secure in his little family and environment. He drew Mycroft closer to him instinctively, dropping his heart rate down and his breathing deep as though sleeping. There were no walls here, only a little floating memory protected by its disconnect to everything else. This was not his palace, but some other, unknown to him location. 

Mycroft dove into his small room with the screens and blue writing. He drew up the memory and began to describe the beginning of one day, with every bit of sensory information he remembered. The temperature of the sand, wind, water, the feel of their swords, the joy of racing down the beach, the excitement of finding hermit crabs and making a little ring to watch them; he spared nothing. 

Sherlock managed to doze off like that, watching Hermit crabs scurry about as the sun set. He did not wake when the food was quietly brought in, resting easy in Mycroft's arms, more still and languid that he'd been since John went to get on a plane. 

His foot twinged up on him half an hour later and he jumped awake, though he was swiftly calm, washed in the memory his brother had given him. 

"W-Will you...c-can I st-still go to the sea if my legs won't w-work?" He asked, very hopeful and very afraid of the answer. 

 

Mycroft looked down at him with more warmth than he'd naturally felt in months. "Of course. We'll make a boat and float you out, or I'll carry you to a sand bar and we can sit where the waves roll by. We'll make boats out of driftwood and race them with leaves for sails."

Sherlock bit at his lip, smiling as tears rolled down the sides of his face. "I...oh g-god I w-want...I want that. I want...I...." his voice snapped and he touched his fingers to his lips without biting. His breathing caught and his voice trembled terribly. 

"P-Please t-take me...I...I c-could h-have that? I would...would like that. You'd come? W-With me?"

"Yes. I will take you to the ocean. I will. I promise. I'll bring you there and you'll have the sun and the waves and it will be beautiful." 

Mycroft felt lighter than he had in months. Here was Sherlock, finally hopeful about something that he could actually have. Here was something he wanted that Mycroft could give. 

"I'll go and we can splash around in the waves. I'll get a little boat. We can name it The Aurora like the one you fixed up."

Sherlock was overcome, unable to speak to his brother. He raised a single, shaking hand to fist in the material of Mycroft's shirt, turning his face to press over his heart. His entire body was shuddering, leaving his teeth chattering and his muscles twitching, though from the simple, hormonal rush of relief. 

"And you'll eat ice cream and throw bread for the gulls," Mycroft continued in a shaky voice. 

"It'll be fun. We'll have good, proper fun. Sandcastles and picnics and swimming and boats." The scene sounded wonderful to Mycroft as well, and he found himself already making plans. As soon as Sherlock was able to, they would go to the beach.   
The idea of such a trip was beautiful and something that Sherlock did not quite fully believe, but it did not hurt at all, there was nothing painful or sad about it. He in no way associated John with the ocean, or Moran to the sea. Even he and his brother had kept away from such things in the many years they spent angry and bickering. 

He nodded, slowly calming until the tears dried and only his shaking fist attached to Mycroft's shirt exposed his active consciousness. 

Mycroft went on his phone and found a simple track of waves and distant gulls. He set it on the lowest volume and rocked Sherlock gently to the rhythm of the surf. Hope swirled in him for the first time in months. Perhaps Sherlock's recovery did not depend on John. Maybe Mycroft could be what his brother needed. 

Food untouched, Sherlock was lulled back down into sleep in his brother's arms. He was calm and lax, resting there comfortably. Miller walked over to Mycroft once a calm had settled and handed him his drink. 

"I would be more than pleased if you could get all of this down. And then get a bit of sleep yourself. He's properly resting, might stay down for quite some time." 

Mycroft took the drink willingly. It seemed like something he'd drink on a beach. 

"Okay. Thank you. I finally found something that works. I recalled a memory from our childhood and described it. He said that Moran isn't there."

Miller nodded, giving Mycroft an open smile. 

"That's wonderful news. Truly. I hope that is relieving to you. See if you can get some rest for yourself." 

Mycroft nodded and his eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. 

"Yes, it is wonderful for him to have a safe place. He's talking favorably about the future now. I'll rest in a moment. I'd like to think on a few more things."

Miller nodded and quietly left the room, hopeful that the men were going to finally catch some sort of break. 

Sherlock remained quiet in Mycroft's arms, resting comfortably. 

\----

John jerked awake with his pounding heart in his throat as the last tendrils of a nightmare faded from his mind. He filled his lungs a few times and allowed himself a few moments to settle. 

"I'm alright," he said quietly, though in truth he was not. The nightmare was past him, but it was a different sort of hurt that weighed around his neck like a heavy stone. 

Greg sat up with John, wrapping him in his arms and rocking him gently. "You're alright," he agreed, holding him close and sliding his fingers through John's hair, hating that the poor man had to see all of that in his dreams, "I'm with you, you're alright."

John gave a perfunctory nod and otherwise did not respond. It was a full ten minutes before he spoke, in a low, subdued voice that told of great pensivity. "He was afraid of me."  
Greg inhaled slowly, still gently rocking John as he gave him the time he needed to settle back down. "He's afraid of many things, John. I'm not sure how lucid he was. And he still went to you, right? He went to you, called for you, wanted you near him. I think he was just afraid of the situation."

John shook his head. "He went to me like I went to Moriarty when I was ordered to. He had no....no trust. He was afraid of me. It hurt. I don't want him to... I should talk to Paul. He'll know. Right?"

Greg nodded, "Yeah, you should. Soon too, he's going to be spending more time with Sherlock given...he's just going to be better used over there with him. It's not you, John. Whatever is going on with him, you didn't do it. He's...he's just lost. Remember that his Palace is broken and he's just...depressed and still physically healing. I can call Paul in here, if you want to talk to him." 

John put his hand over his eyes for a moment. "Talking to Paul always hurts. But I need to if I'm to fiction properly. I know it's not my fault, just like I logically know that I didn't deserve to be beaten. I can say it. That doesn't mean a damn thing about how it feels."

Greg gently took John's hand away from his eyes and pressed a kiss to the backs of his knuckles. "Shhh, it's alright. I understand if still feels horrible, believe me. If you're not ready to talk to Paul right now, we can do it later on a call. Would you like some tea? Maybe have your meds before we talk to him?"

John watched Greg's lips touch a scar on his hand and he wondered, foolishly, if Greg was lying when he said he was beautiful. John looked to the drawing on the wall. Surely, he wasn't that person. 

"I'm sorry. I'd like to talk to him now."

Greg reached up and touched John's face, trying to soothe him. "Okay," he said calmly, texting Paul with the request that he come in. Greg spent the next few minutes hugging John to him and running his fingers over John's back. 

Paul knocked lightly and let himself in. 

"John, you wanted to speak with me?"

John felt Greg's hand over the rough scars on his back and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the shame. It was unusual of him to be self conscious, as before he'd mostly cared about his body for the purpose of the military, and after Moriarty, how he looked hardly mattered. But now he was, suddenly, acutely aware of how disfigured and marred his body was. He had forgotten Paul was coming and blinked at him in surprise. 

"Oh...uhm... Yes. I need to talk about Sherlock and sort things out in my head so I can be better help to him." 

Paul sat down, keeping his movements slow and predictable. "Alright, John. We can talk about Sherlock." He leaned back and folded his hands on his lap, waiting for John to be ready to speak. 

John realized he was supposed to lead and looked at Greg nervously. "Well... Ah... He was my friend...then... He jumped off a building. And died. For two years. Then he came back... And now this, and I thought he was...you know. But I love him. And I also am depressed when I think about him."

Paul inhaled slowly and nodded. "Yes, you've had a very complicated relationship through the years." He looked to Greg and then back to John.   
"You say you feel depressed, can you describe the feeling you get when you think of him?"

John gave a half shrug and looked down. "Shame. Guilt. Betrayal. Loss." He stared at his scarred hands, then his then under the blanket. 

Paul hummed and nodded. "What was it like to see him yesterday, before things became difficult?"

"Sad. But not in a bad way. In a sad way. I don't like him hurting. It hurts me to see that. And then I tried to be nice and fucked it up, and then I got mad at myself. Then he grabbed me and..." He shook his head. 

"I didn't handle that well. It hurt."

Paul interjected, "John, I'm going to have to disagree that you fucked anything up. I was in attendance the entire time. You did nothing that was bad for him. Sherlock is battling his own issues. I know it may not feel that way, but can you see it on an intellectual level?"

Defiantly, he grit his teeth. His posture spoke of distancing as he brought up a pillow to his chest, as is to create a barrier between himself and the concept he was subconsciously abhorrent of. 

"Intellectually, I know I called myself 'Greg's John' and he looked sad. Then instead of being comforting, I panicked." 

Paul intentionally drove forward, recognizing the tender spot and going for the core of it. "What about Sherlock's sadness made you panic, John? Why would it frighten you so terribly to see him react to you with sadness?"

John kept his eyes down and his posture shrank with insecurity. "I love him. That's what I'm guessing. But not just that.'when I was still....holding out...from the torture, I mean, I kept resolve by saying I wouldn't hurt him."

Paul gave a tight nod and began to address that. "We can't interact with anyone on a regular basis and be sure we won't hurt them. Perhaps if you amended that statement to mean physically, this would go much easier for you. You'll not physically hurt him, which I highly doubt you would."

"I would never hurt him physically," John assured with conviction. But after a moment he stopped and looked to Greg. He loved Greg more than anything in the world, but he still hit him when confused. "But...I can't be sure of that. I'd never willingly hurt him, but sometimes...if I didn't know who he was,I might get scared and hit. Or, worse, I might know who he is and forget that he's innocent. But it hurts him emotionally and physically when I do that. I don't see why he draws comfort from my presence."

Paul decided to hone in on that. "He is learning to find that comfort in his brother out of necessity. Were he to not seek out comfort from you, would that help you, John? Help alleviate the...need to go to him?"

John scowled, but kept his grim expression aimed at the blankets instead of Paul. 

"Yes. And I don't want that. Everyone wants me to leave him. Even he does. But I don't want to. I want to go see him. I want to help him. I know it hurts to be around him, but I need to. He was...is...my friend. Why, if even when I thought he was actively hurting me, did I refuse to shoot him? Again after, why, when it hurt me to watch, did I insist on having a video of him to practice? And why again, once I'm safe and happy in a nice place with someone I love, do I keep seeking him out? Give me a reason for that."  
Paul answered him quietly. "Obviously you feel different about him at a deeper level, and have made huge strides to help him." 

He tipped his head to the side and spoke again after a moment, "or, you equate your time around Sherlock with healing, and you see him as a way to heal yourself. That is also a valid feeling, and quite understandable. I am not here to sway your opinions, only to help you understand yourself."

The later made sense, and John suspected it might be true. But Sherlock didn't feel like healing. Healing was like working on a stiff muscle until it relaxed. It hurt, but it helped. Talking with Greg about difficult things felt like healing. Talking with Sherlock felt like running sand in an open wound. 

"I just want someone to tell me what will help him, and what to do."

Paul allowed a few moments before answering quietly. 

"At present, John, I think the best you can do for him is work on the damage done through his likeness, and try to resolve that bitterness and anger you hold towards him. It breaks through the surface and while he is obviously aware of it, I don't believe you are. The most important question I want you to tackle first, is why you want to help him at all. I don't want you to allow yourself to answer that you love him. You need to break it down and really look at this."

John squirmed and crossed his arms around the pillow. He swallowed hard and looked anywhere but Paul's eyes. "I am not bitter." 

The combination of his loss of contractions, closed off body language, and use of a barrier object spoke paragraphs of his discomfort. "I do not have anger towards him. I know it's not his fault. I fought for that knowledge! It was difficult!"

Paul pressed on despite John's discomfort. "Knowing he is innocent and feeling negative emotions are different things, John. You cannot possibly hope to help him if you do not first work through how you honestly feel. It is not a failing on your part that you are, on some level, hurt and angry with him."

"I _feel_ like he tortured me!" John spat and brought his hard stare up to Paul. 

"A thing I have no right to feel! I fell for Moriarty's stupid trick and now I have no right to hurt him for my own stupidity. Don't you sit there and say it isn't my fault. I can't control that I feel like I'm trying to love Moran, but I can help what I do! I know for a fact that I loved Sherlock and that to some degree I still do, or I'd have shot him when I had the chance. I would shoot Moran, but not Sherlock, even when I believed that they were equally involved. That _has_ to mean _something_!" 

John wanted more than anything to resolve this in a way he could handle. He needed to love Sherlock, because he needed to help him.

Paul did not back down. "John, your reality for a very long time was that he was torturing you. The only way to get past this is to allow yourself to feel that betrayal and work through it, along with desensitization. We obviously cannot have the two of you together, but Greg has tapes of him you can listen to."

Greg swallowed around the lump in his throat and kept hold of John, saying nothing.

Paul spoke softly to John again. "What you are trying to do, John, is admirable. It's also...the odds are not in favor of success. Observing the pair of you...the nature of it is so severe that I have no choice but to help the both of you find ways to live happily away from the other."

John did not want to hear any of this. He shook his head and perused his own point again. "Tell me what I need to do to work through this betrayal and be his friend again. I want it gone. I don't like-" John's voice cracked and he was silent for a moment. "I don't like feeling like a man I loved tortured me. I want that gone."

Paul gentled his voice and spoke slowly to the hurting man.

"You've not truly accepted that it wasn't him. This will fall into place when you do. Remember how we discussed altering how you remember it? You still call the man 'Sherlock' in your mind. You feel betrayed and bitter because you still hold him responsible."

John's heart pounded in his ears. "I have accepted it! I hugged him and tried to help him! I'm a good man! I am!" 

John shouted the last statement in the hope that if he got Paul to believe it, he might begin to believe it himself. 

"I'm a good man," he stated again, but in a much lower voice. "I am. I swear. I never meant to believe Moriarty. I don't hold him responsible. I would never. I'm a good man. I'm-" he broke off and turned to press his face against Greg's shoulder. 

_Ah_. 

Paul watched as Greg shot him a vicious glare, wrapping John tight in his arms and trying to soothe him. Paul spoke before it could get too out of hand. 

"John, I hear that you are very upset right now. I am sorry that this is so painful, my intent is not to cause you hurt or guilt. You have made conscious choices to do painful things willingly in an effort to help Sherlock. Of course you are a good man." He let that hang for a moment so that John could at least hear him say it. 

"You never believed Moriarty, and your constant concern and protection of Sherlock is evidence of that. You never believed him the way he hoped you would, and frankly John it's _remarkable_ that you didn't. The hell you were put through, and the mastermind orchestrating it...I am in constant awe at your ability to hold throughout. What happened, John, is you shut down the part of your mind that primarily was your _self_ , keeping it safe. You built up a new reality, which John, please hear me, honestly shows how strong of a man you are. This is a survival tactic and you handled what you were subject to with remarkable strength. Now, the issue is that you are living half in the constructed reality, and half in the present. It's confusing, and upsetting, where your mind recognizes one reality and your emotions and body react to the other." 

John's breath hitched and he grabbed hold of Greg's shirt with a bloodless grip. He was well aware that he'd built up an external persona at first, one of submissive obedience and respect, while inside he was boiling with anger. Then, once Moriarty had seemingly been inside his head, he'd thought a very certain way in order to please Moriarty. He knew the person he became. 

He'd sank into the personality of Pavlov. Physically at first, then emotionally, then mentally. He'd gone through a full change and become exactly what Moriarty wanted. He'd become what he needed to be in order to avoid pain. Now, the need to relinquish that person was present, and he was unable to do so. 

John narrowly kept himself from sobbing by practically climbing Greg. 

"I-I-I'm still that p-person," he lamented, "all but mentally. And-" John let out a whimper. The person he'd been was terrible, hateful, submissive, selfish, and cowardly. To hear that he was still that person was like a dull blade being twisted in his gut. That person deserved punishment. He always deserved punishment. The only reason John had accepted that he no longer deserved punishment was that he no longer was that person. He believed he had healed. To hear this was, to his broken, damaged mind, akin to an open threat. John shook his head repeatedly in the pleading way he'd learned to when he wasn't allowed to speak. 

Greg eased John onto his lap, wrapping him tight in his arms and looking as though he were seconds from getting up and throttling Paul. The psychiatrist lowered his palms when John wasn't looking in a bid to get Greg to drop his aggression down before he drove John further into this panic. 

"John," he said very calmly, "you are not the construction of your mind. No more than an actor is his character. You were forced to play a terrifying part, and now we are easing you out of it. You are safe here, John. No one is upset with you. No one is disappointed in you or angry with you. Tell me where you are, John. Tell me who you are with." He needed to keep John present if this was ever going to help. 

John let out a shrill, humorless laugh. "It's not an ACT! It's me! You think he doesn't know if it's an act? You think he can't tell? The only way to survive with him was to believe him. Not act like it. I broke. I mentally snapped and believed him to protect myself. I should have died! I-I should have died when he first took me! Or, no, I should have died with Mary. Or pitched off the roof with him. Or died in war. Just-" he was searching back, picking a time to die that would have saved him from the most pain. 

Suddenly John sat up, tears streaming down his face. Even that was an improvement to life with Moriarty. Even when he'd wept bitterly, John had rarely been hydrated enough for tears. He glared daggers at Paul. "No one is upset with me? I'm upset! Sherlock is upset! How dare you say that I am not that person? I clearly am!"

Paul listened very, very carefully to John. They were circling the core of it, getting closer to the root of the issue. John's anger was a road map, and Paul was doing his best to navigate with him. He skimmed John's statements of death; panic response with an exit strategy, common coping mechanism that meant little outside of stating how trapped and hopeless John felt. 

No, what really mattered was John's _rage_ that Paul suggest he was not this Pavlov character. 

He met John's eye-contact without challenge, showing that he was present and with John and that John's anger was allowed. 

"You clearly are? That's interesting to hear you say, John. The person you describe as Pavlov does not strike me as a man who would refrain from pulling the trigger when Sherlock was at the other end of the barrel. He does not strike me as the sort of man who would respond through blinding fear to Morse Code. I don't see him ever daring to speak, or sleep. He was a creation meant to minimize pain, and understandably, you got lost in him. No, you were not purely acting when you accepted Moriarty's lies, but you did not take those false truths to the core of yourself. The man I'm looking at right this moment is someone I would describe as brave, fierce, enraged, and deeply hurting. This...Pavlov...has been dying for months, and that is deeply upsetting to you because losing Pavlov is akin to taking off your body armor and walking into the thick of fighting on a battlefield. You are reacting to losing your protection." 

John shook his head and grit his teeth. His eyes were wide and wild as Paul spoke to the very things he feared more than anything. "No, no, NO!" 

This amount of self aware torture was blindingly painful for him. He crawled out of Greg's lap and burrowed down in between his side and the mattress as if trying to dig under him. 

If he wasn't Pavlov, he would be hurt. If he was not obedient, he would be hurt. Those truths stuck more than any other. Moriarty had established those truths in order to build the rest. 

He'd say be obedient, and John would learn to. He'd say believe me, and John would be obedient. He'd say Sherlock was hurting him, and John would believe him. A - B - C progression. 

John tugged at Greg's shirt and began to shake. "I'm still that p-person! S-Still! I-I am!" While on the outside he said that he did not want to be Pavlov, and while he abhorred Pavlov to his core, it was a protective shell he could wear without fail. He would be hard pressed to relinquish it. 

Paul debated ending the session as John reacted so sharply, but he was still speaking, still with them, and this would at least open the door to get at the center of John's mental block. 

Greg held on to John as best he could in John's new position, cupping the palm of his hand to the back of John's neck to help him feel protected. 

Paul spoke very softly. "John...I know you're very scared right now. Letting go of something that used to be safe is deeply frightening. You don't need Pavlov any longer. No one is going to hurt John. No one. Greg is with you, and all the people around you love and care for you. If you want to help Sherlock, and get past the feeling that a person you loved would do this to you, then you've got to let Pavlov go. He's hurting Sherlock, and he's hurting you." 

Hurting Sherlock? John broke down in fresh tears at Paul's words and he clamped his hands over his ears. Why was Greg allowing this? Shouldn't he be protecting him? John tugged at Greg's shirt and flinched each time the words repeated themselves in his mind. 

This was worse than being whipped, in his opinion. The pain was sharp and he could not escape it. He wanted desperately the things that Paul had said would come with his relinquishing of Pavlov, but the thought of it struck more terror into him than Sherlock grabbing him had. 

John pressed himself against Greg and cried out in pain. "Stop," he gasped, "please, stop. Please. _Please_!" The raw desperation in his voice sounded different when it wasn't bouncing off of cement floors walls. 

"Paul, _out_ ," Greg snarled at him. Paul stood, removing himself immediately, needing John to see that Greg held the same sort of power as he did. He shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Greg to John. 

Greg curled down with John, wrapping him protectively in his arms and speaking softly to him. "I've got you, I've got you. You're safe. Paul is gone, it's just you and I. You're safe, I've got you." 

John reached up and pulled Greg's hand to his face when he ordered Paul to leave. "Thank you," he wept with all the gratefulness he would have inflicted if Greg had pulled him out of a burning oven. "Thank you. Thank you." He lay shuddering and made a weak attempt to pull Greg closer. "Hurts. Hurting."

Greg kept John as close to his chest as possible, leaving his hand on John's face so that John would feel him there. "I love you. Breathe for me, John. You're safe. Right here with me, pillows and blankets, Gladstone. I know that was scary, it's over now. It's over." 

John continued to cry for quite some time, but he distanced himself from the reason why. He allowed himself to feel grief, but the thought of no longer being Pavlov was terrifying, so he refused to think it. 

"Don't like him," John sniffled and looked up at Greg. "He hurt me."

Greg pressed a soft kiss to John's forehead. "I know this is painful, love. I'm so sorry it hurts."

"He was hurting me," John repeated again in a childish way. "He hurts. I don't like it."

Greg gathered John to his chest, holding a hand over his ear. "Paul was saying things that are painful to hear, I know. I'm sorry that hurt, I really am, John. You're safe, I've got you."

John pulled on Greg's shirt and covered his face with the slack. "I'm sorry. I don't want those things. I don't want to talk to him. He hurts me. I hate him. He lied. He can't get me the things he said. He said I'd stop feeling sad about Sherlock hurting me. He lied. He said that about the last thing."

Greg closed his eyes and nodded as his gut twisted. Maybe he just wasn't ready yet. The outcome was the same though. Without addressing this, they were going to have to sever contact with Sherlock. Without addressing this, Greg was doubtful he'd be seeing his John any time soon. 

"Okay, John," he whispered quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, "you don't have to talk to Paul. I don't think he lied to you though. I really don't. You don't like what has to happen for you to stop feeling sad about Sherlock. That's different than a lie.”

John looked up in confusion. "I...That makes me sound bad. That I would rather not think about bad things than help Sherlock." Fear suddenly struck him and he shook his head.

"That's not...No. No. I'm better than that. Right?" He was not at all certain.

Greg felt like they were lost and floating at sea. He held onto John and deeply hoped that he was directing them correctly. 

"John...it's not so simple as that. It's not that you'd rather do one thing and not the other, it's...this is really exhausting, scary stuff. You are doing your best to work through it all, and right now you're just not ready for more. That's okay. It doesn't make you bad, it makes you worn out. We can come back to it when you're more ready. It's not meant to make you sound bad. I can't imagine how hard all of this is for you. You're not bad." 

"I-I shouldn't be taking breaks," he said and wiped tears from his eyes. "I should be w-working...and not stopping so I can help him! I'm b-b-being a bad p-person. I'm hurting Sherlock indirectly. L-Like w-watching someone commit a murder and not doing anything. I'm a part of it. I'm being bad. I'm worn out but I have been for over two years and that's not going to change!"

Greg took a show, deep breath. "John, you're stronger than you've been since getting back. You're healing and getting better all the time. Your job isn't too rescue him. He's learning to get comfort from Mycroft. You don't have to rush this."

John didn't like the answer. "I should go to him. I owe him his mind thing, his hands, his legs, his work, his music, everything! I owe him everything! And I can't give him anything!"

Greg shook his head and took John's face in his hands. "No, John. You don't owe him that he gave those freely. He gave those so that you could live. He and I talked about it for hours before we went into the plan, he never did it with the expectation of having you in his life again. He misses you, of course, but he's...you don't owe him. We want you to get well, and I think once you are well, you'll be able to face what Paul is saying."

John would have none of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned away. "I'm sorry, love. But I can't. It hurts too much. I'll die."

Greg closed his eyes and allowed himself a few minutes to roll through the loss of hope. He was angry that he'd allowed John the chance to go back and see Sherlock at all. He should have known better, he really should have. Guilt for the incredible pain they'd subjected Sherlock to was nearly overwhelming. This, of course, was not to mention the damage done to John.

John had asked for support, and Greg stupidly gave it.

"Okay, John," he whispered thickly, "okay."

"I'm not giving up on him, though," John amended and nestled down into the covers. "Not if he still wants me. Maybe someday when we're healed. Whenever he wants me and whenever I'm ready. I'll get over this some day." 

Greg could hardly breathe through the devastation of it. He pulled John in closer as the feeling of complete and crushing failure shredded through him.

"Someday," he agreed, his voice wrecked, resting his face against the top of John's head.

John whimpered and grabbed hold of Greg's hand. "I'm sorry. I just want you to know that I'll always be willing to help him. I just don't know how." 

He felt terrible. Hateful. Villainous. "I'm a bad person. A bad person. I know you say otherwise. I'm just bad. I shouldn't try and avoid him, but I don't mean to."

Greg shut his eyes and shook his head. "You're not bad, you're injured. Someday....Someday maybe we'll see him again. This is better, this way. I'm just sorry I didn't put a stop to it sooner. You are not bad, and he will learn to rely on his own help. It will be alright."

Or he wouldn't, but there was nothing more he could do.

John let out a distressed sound. "No. Not someday. If I'm a burden to him now, then I'll practice every day until I am good enough to see him again. I won't just forget about him." 

Greg drew in a slow breath and carried on trying to explain. "John...you can't just practice. You've got to work on what Paul said, or it will just fall apart again. It's okay to not be ready for this, alright? I know you want to be but you're not and that's okay. I love you no matter." 

John shook his head once more and sat up out of Greg's arms.   
"I can't do what Paul asked! It is impossible! He's saying that I'm still that person and I can't be! I just can't! I'm a good man! I am not him anymore! I've been out for nearly two years, Greg. Yet I can't handle this. Don't tell me that after two years I still have something to let go of."

"Hang on, John, hang on. You've been out just over a year, and in that year you've had a hell of a lot of scares and setbacks that are not your fault. You are a good man, and you're not the person you call Pavlov, but you still default back there when you're scared. That's not failure, that's just something that needs help healing. That's all, John, that's all he means." 

"Feels like longer," John whispered with shame clearly written on the lines of his face. He was battling within himself, and had gone way beyond the limit of what was productive. "I'm... I don't want to be Pavlov, but letting go is..." He whined and covered his face. 

"Letting go is very difficult right now. That's okay, John. Please hear me, it's okay if you're not ready. Someday you will be. We have plenty of other things we can work on right now, you don't need to put yourself through this. Take a deep breath and slow down, we are okay." Greg kept his voice gentle and calm, trying to be as soothing as possible. 

John began to weep openly once more at the knowledge that some day he would have to face something so devastatingly painful in order to be a good person. To say he was still Pavlov meant he deserved to be beaten. To say he needed to let go of being Pavlov meant he needed to let go of his only proven means of protection. "I'm confused," he whispered, and flopped back onto Greg's chest again. 

Greg held John close, nodding. "I know you are. I'm so sorry. I love you no matter what. Can I do anything to help?"

John pressed his face down and took a moment to think. "No," he whispered after a moment. "No, there isn't. I'm going to go to bed. I love you." 

Greg nodded sadly and kissed John's forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling useless, "I'll do better, John. I should have protected you from this, I'm...I'm so sorry."

John looked up with equal sadness and brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek lovingly. "You can't protect me from everything. Some things just hurt regardless. But you stay with me, which is what I really need."

Greg slid his fingers through John's hair and tucked down against him, trying to get them back to sleep. Later that day he'd let Mycroft know. There would be no more attempts at proper goodbyes, no more calls, no more shirts or pictures. Greg was determined to block the men from one another.

"I've got you. Just sleep."

John dropped off to sleep very quickly despite the hornet's nest of negative thoughts that stung his mind. He slowly relaxed his grip on Greg's shirt and his tears stopped for a time. 

Mycroft was having the best night of the past three months. Finally, there was hope on the horizon, and he was running for it. Physical therapy would be easier now that they had a goal. Making sand castles didn't require any intense degree of dexterity. Floating in the water would be easy on his legs. Things could be good again.

Sherlock's eyes jumped under closed lids, dreaming as he lay in his brother's arms. 

_John was running, faster than Sherlock had ever seen him go. He wore a smile even as bits of skin flew off his back, leaving a macabre trail in his wake. Sherlock's legs refused to move with any sort of speed or coordination, leaving him constantly falling, slipping on John's blood as he tried to give chase to the laughing, bleeding man._

_John turned back to look at him, several meters away, when Sherlock's own body fell from the sky, landing directly atop the unsuspecting John, enveloping them both in a horrific crack and mist of fine red._

He came awake with his chest heaving, struggling to catch his breath, John's name dying on his lips.

Mycroft held Sherlock and helped him sit up a bit in his arms. "Hey, it's alright. I'm here. You're okay. Everything's alright." He clicked the noise maker back on his phone and the ocean surf washed in.

Sherlock reached for Mycroft's shirt, pulling himself closer to his brother, focused on breathing slowly as his heart hammered in his chest. "My," he whispered, more to himself as a reminder of where he was and who was with him. He was not in a panic as he tried to push the dream away, only frightened from what he'd seen and grieved by the partial reality of it.

Ten minutes later his heart had slowed and he was more relaxed in Mycroft's arms, though he remained quiet. 

Around this time, Paul's text made Mycroft's phone light up. 

_Hit a wall with John. Am available at any time for you and/or Sherlock._

Mycroft comforted his baby brother and spoke softly to him about their trip to the beach. When he got the text, he was worried. 

_What sort of wall? And whenever you are ready would be appreciated._

Sherlock held tight to Mycroft's shirt, listening to his words and making his best effort to get back to that little floating haven he'd found the night last. 

Paul's text was a bit delayed. 

_I am on my way, simply leaving a few things here if I am needed, but prepared to spend a majority of my time at your home._

_John is not prepared to handle the next massive step, which unfortunately is an impossible obstacle to he and Sherlock sharing any sort of relationship._

Mycroft began to paint the details around Sherlock as if they would serve as a protective barrier against the unpleasant thoughts. He started on the sky and gave the exact color. He gave the shape of the white fluffy clouds that had briefly floated cheerily by that day. He gave the speed of the wind and how they had to chase a runaway umbrella, only to bring it back and let it go again for the fun of chasing. He told of the hole they filled with water to put the tiny guppies they caught. While he did, he sent a text.

_And that obstacle is?_

Paul's response was more swift now that he was not otherwise occupied. 

_That persona we've been seeing since his return. One he was forced to adopt to manage his torture, where he was made to believe Sherlock guilty and to obey. He's mentally broken free of it for the most part, but he has to shed it completely. It's akin to asking you to strip nude and confront a terrorist cell. He equates this alternate persona with protection. He cannot possibly have a relationship with Sherlock that is healthy or productive until he is willing to let go. At present, he's not._

Sherlock's lashes were clinging together, lip trembling now and again. Flashes of warm sea air, sticky and wonderful, breezed through his mind. He found one of the described clouds sitting on the ground of the Palace front lawn. Ocean waves rushed around the steps of his childhood home. All of this wonderful detail made horrible in the context of his shattered mind. He couldn't find the island. 

Mycroft continued to paint the picture for Sherlock as he texted. "You and I tried to dig a hole with tunnels. It kept collapsing, but it was fun anyway. The sand down there was cool and damp. There were clams if we dug close to the water. Do you remember their tongues? Well, they weren't tongues, but that's what they look like." 

_How long will it take for him to break through?_

Sherlock shook his head, opening his damp eyes. "I c-can't put them wh-where they should be. I don't want...he's there and I..." he looked away, afraid to see disappointment on Mycroft's face. "Can...can w-we just watch something?" 

Paul's text followed. 

_That would all depend on John. Even were he willing to start straight away, it could be as fast as a few weeks, or close to a year. It's unfortunately very tangled with his true self._

Mycroft smiled down at Sherlock. This was the most communication he'd had in weeks. "Of course. Documentary? Cartoons?" He flipped on the telly and scrolled through channels. 

_Please suggest to Greg that it is important. I don't believe he holds me in his good graces._

Sherlock stopped his brother when they came to a channel showing the deep ocean and it's impossible life. He tucked his fingers to his lips, eased back closer to Mycroft while still holding a corner of Mycroft's shirt, rubbing it with the fingers not occupied at his lips. 

Paul's reply was a bit delayed as he debated the response. Greg's reaction leveled a new layer of finality to the whole feel of the thing. 

_Greg appeared devastated by John's reaction. I do not believe pushing the severe importance of this on him is necessary._

Mycroft was content to hold Sherlock, and the possibility of something else that his brother could look forward to had almost erased the need for John in Mycroft's mind. As long as he had something to hold on to, he was going to chase it. The beach was more likely to come to fruition than living with John. 

_Sherlock wants to go to the beach some day. There is a chance now that he can live without John. But I would like to keep them open to the idea of someday, when this is over, they could be together. Just open to the idea if the beach doesn't hold up._

Paul responded quickly to that. 

_The beach? That is a positive turn. Yes, I believe it is time to start helping Sherlock let John go while making an effort to find other things to comfort him. This is unfortunate but not unexpected. I will be there shortly, would you like for me to come up directly?_

Mycroft drew in a long breath. A month ago, he would have hated the idea of John moving on. But now, he had something else to hold on to. He could let go, knowing he had something to keep them afloat. Mycroft turned to Sherlock and gently touched his cheek. "Could we talk to Paul today?" 

_We used to go there in blissful youth. He wishes to go back. It's the first positive thing I've heard him say about the future._

Sherlock kept his eyes on the beautiful, shimmering invertebrates as he listened to Mycroft speak over the gentle narrator. 

"Paul...h-he's...s-supposed to b-be helping my-" he cut himself off with a quiet click of his teeth and closed his eyes. _No. Greg's. Not yours, not ever yours._

"He's s-supposed to h-help...John." 

His grip tightened slightly on Mycroft, voice heavy with a detached sort of sadness.

Mycroft closed his eyes and petted Sherlock's hair. "He already helped him today. John is alright. Paul is coming to help you now." 

He looked up as the narrator began to explain bioluminescence. "Aren't they beautiful? We could go to an aquarium some time."

Sherlock kept his fingers to his lips and did not respond, nearly paralyzed at the idea of going to such a public location. He'd be stared at. Children with no decorum would whisper to their mothers. It would be as though he were followed about by a spotlight, fodder for ten minute conversations of mouth-breathing speculation by knuckle-dragging passers by. 

The idea of moving about with the rest of humanity without John, his John, or Greg at the very least, by his side was crushingly intolerable. 

"H-How...m-much time do I h-have?" 

"We don't have to go if you don't want. It's always going to be your choice. Maybe a private beach would be better for you." Mycroft rocked Sherlock to the motion of the waves. 

"You have all the time in the world. I'll always be with you. If you mean until Paul comes, probably about a half hour. Perhaps less."

Sherlock did not move, staring at the screen as he forced himself to ask again. 

"H-How much...of th-the six months remain?" His tone was heavy, though calm. He was more aware now than he'd been in...well, the trouble was that he had no idea how long it had been. John had pulled him far away from his mind, and he did not want to go back to it, did not want to continue losing, continue hurting. 

"Y-You cannot...st-stay like this w-with me. Will you be...employing an aid?"

Mycroft actively pressed Sherlock against his chest. "Just over three. The last month has been difficult, but you're here now, aren't you? We can make progress. I don't want to hire an aid. I don't want to leave you. I will only bring one in if you need it." 

Sherlock's vision blurred as Mycroft responded. He'd no idea he'd burned through so much time. He had less than three months and then...and then. 

His chest hitched unexpectedly, abruptly battling a horrible wave of fear as his mind supplied the few days in hospital that he'd mostly spent alone, and the mind-blistering terror that he'd been left in. 

There was so, so much left to overcome. The idea of managing to do everything on his own was overwhelming. 

"Th-three months...okay...I...I c-can do that." 

Mycroft rocked Sherlock a little faster. "I won't leave you after three months. I promise. I won't. If you aren't ready, I won't go. I will stay with you forever. It's going to be okay." 

He bent over and kissed Sherlock's head. "If you can't manage being alone, I will stay with you. I'll stay until you want me to go. You don't have a three month deadline."

Sherlock shook his head, holding on to Mycroft's forearm instead of his shirt, fingers to his lip. 

"I c-cannot abide y-you s-sacrificing your career. Th-this...m-must be mind numbing. I'd...I'd have gone m-mad sitting in bed all day long. I will...find a way to...to be al-alright when you work. You...w-will you t-tell me of your day in the evenings? And c-could I be...allowed to sleep...in h-here until I am...a b-bit braver?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm doing just find here. Honestly. I will stay until you are brave enough to be comfortable on your own. You will always stay in my room. Always. I would prefer it. I will make this easy for you, okay?"

Tears slowly trailed down Sherlock's face as he stared at a rather hideous angler fish, watching it lure in something small and unwitting. 

"I th-thought...all that t-time....thought th-that I...I w-was...disappointing to y-you and nothing more. You...w-were always s-s-so _angry_ w-with me..." he trailed off, thinking back to the first time he'd hit the needle on his own. At first it had been something rebellious and interesting to do at a rather dull party he'd attended in order to gain intelligence on his potential lab partner. He'd forgotten what it felt like not to hurt until the brilliant and rather surprising, pure white rush of warmth swelled in his chest and sent him off to the most peaceful existence he'd known in years. 

He'd gone out to score on his own three nights later, shooting up at home, next to his chemistry supplies, clean scrubbed arm and fresh needle, precise dose after analyzing the product himself. And thus a ritual had begun that offered him peace and comfort, relief from loneliness, and quiet. Mycroft had hated him for it. 

"I st-started to make you angry. I c-carried on w-with it...seven percent...n-never more than...than th-that. B-But I carried on...b-because it...oh g-god the _relief_...I'm not like you. I w-wanted to be...g-god I wanted to be. I was weak. I was lonely. I h-h-hate....hate feeling lonely. How pathetic...yet the n-needle m-made it quiet and..." he shook his head, chest hitching. "I am sorry I...I n-never was wh-what you wanted." 

Mycroft felt the sharp pain of it immediately. He had been angry. Very, very angry. But his anger stemmed from worry and fear of loss. He couldn't count how many times he'd confronted Sherlock gently, then with irritation, contempt, disgust, anger...

"I'm sorry you felt that way," he whispered. "I'm very sorry. I know you were lonely. I wish I could have been there for you more. I should have been there for you. I got you into it in the first place, really. With all my studying. I never needed to study. Not really. I just used it as an excuse not to talk to anyone. I should have spent more time with you." 

He had never seen much allure in the needle. Mycroft was perfectly able to occupy himself with his own mind, or quiet his thoughts completely. He had several filters, and while they took years upon years to build, he could block out the endless stream of information he saw otherwise. One sweep across a room could gain him a world of useless information. 

The make of the lamp. The exact color. What that color would look like in better lighting, or outside, or if the room was painted a different color. The type of wood used. If it was built on a lathe. The type of polish. The sort of factory it was built in. What country it was built in. How much the people cared about it. The last time it was dusted. Now on to the table it was set on. 

It could be rather exhausting, if he let it into his mind. 

"Sherlock, do you have filters for the information?" He wondered why he'd never thought to ask. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I h-had a few. People _talking_ managed to...get through n-no m-m-matter. It was never quiet. My...violin...I could ch-channel it to th-the music but...w-without the d-drugs I..." he bit at his fingers, trying to call up an image of his moroccan case and only finding John, sitting in his chair and quietly reading the paper. 

He stared at the mental image, the telly and room around him fading out. He could practically feel the leather of his own chair under his hands, watching John as he had been before he decided Sherlock wasn't worth his time any longer. A slow spreading sense of peace pushed away the cold and settled him. For many minutes in Mycroft's arms, he was silent and quiet. Five bled into ten, and ten to nearly twenty before he reacted at all. 

"Eleven down...you've made an error. Wh-why do you insist on writing with ink, John?" 

He startled hard at the sound of his own voice, which made him aware on an auditory level. He looked around in confusion before he realized where and _when_ he was. 

Mycroft began to rock Sherlock again when he came back to himself. "I'm here. Mycroft. I've got you. You're alright. It's okay. John is safe, and you're alright." He decided to avoid talk of filters, as it seemed to drive Sherlock away. 

"It's okay. Look at the telly. We've got a nice documentary going."

Sherlock spoke very quietly. "He....the puzzle...ink...t-tell Greg not...not to let him in...ink," his voice trembled and he pinched his eyes closed, feeling as though he were willingly handing over his entire life. "I c-could never...get him to use a p-pencil." 

"Alright, I'll tell him. Thank you for the information." Mycroft petted Sherlock's hair as he thought. "Once you're feeling better, I think we'll go to a private beach. That would be nice, don't you think?"

Sherlock tried to pull his mind away from John. Reluctantly, after several more minutes desperately trying to pull the image of him, the peace that came with him, back to the front of his mind, he let it go. 

He thought of the beach then, tried to move where Mycroft wanted him to go. He'd have to be carried, it would be absurd to procure a chair that would work on the sand. He walked himself through the semantics of it. A long car ride, likely a year from now as the summer would be over before he was anywhere near ready, ending in him having to reach up and wrap his arms around either his aid's, or his brother's neck. Just the thought was enough to fan humiliated shame across his chest. 

Would he be able to walk at all by then? Read? Think? Or would he simply be a healed up shell of himself as he was now? It would be nice to sit on the edge of the water and let it rush up around him. Perhaps peaceful. Perhaps. 

He nodded in response to his brother, unable to force himself to react more than that. 

"We'll sit on the sand and let the water wash up. We can rent a boat. Or fix one up. Or just buy one. Black with a red stripe, if I recall. It will be nice, won't it? The sun, the sand, the shells. We can race hermit crabs and build little houses for them." 

Mycroft slowly found himself looking forward to it as well.

Sherlock kept his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes, confused at his inability to find peace today as he had the night before. None of what Mycroft was saying helped him feel anything but loss, and there was no particular reason for it. 

Mycroft's phone chimed. 

_I am here, available at any time._

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock with swelling sadness. "Are you alright to talk to Paul today? He's here, and would like to help you, if you would like."

Sherlock nodded, hating that he was upsetting his brother. "I'll t-talk to him," he whispered, trying to pull himself up out of it. "I'm s-sorry, My. The b-beach will be...very nice." 

Mycroft felt a rush of relief and smiled brightly at Sherlock. "The beach will be wonderful! Just like it used to be."

_Yes, please._

Sherlock watched the little fish on the screen, ignoring when Paul came into the room. He smelled of John, the faint undercurrent of Greg's flat which now meant John's home, twisting his guts and making him cringe. He swallowed thickly as his eyes blurred and forced himself to keep his focus on the screen. 

Paul came in and gave Mycroft a gentle smile, moving to sit in a chair more towards the food of the bed, though not quite, on Sherlock's side. 

"Hello, Sherlock. Looks like a hard day," he said quietly, watching as Sherlock sluggishly turned his eyes to look at Paul, and then away. 

"He's th-thrown you out," Sherlock said quietly, "y-you pushed him. W-Was it...ab-about me?" 

Paul shook his head and spoke honestly, "No, Sherlock, not about you specifically. He's just a bit overwhelmed." 

Specifically? Mycroft cringed and tried to distract Sherlock. "Sherlock has said that he wants to go to the beach someday. Wouldn't that be great? Next summer. It's decided." 

Mycroft looked up to Paul and gave him a hopeful look. 

Sherlock nodded as an automation, trying to be agreeable as he put his thoughts to what Paul could mean. He stared at him, taking in all the detail he could. Nothing was forthcoming, though. None of the folds in his shirt, the dog hair on his leg, the lines on his face spoke more to him than any other half-witted observer. 

"My b-brother," Sherlock began as he stared at Paul, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks for no specific reason, "is b-being an idiot and...I n-need your help in talking sense to him. S-Seems he's...willing to...sh-shelf his career to s-sit nursemaid to me in lieu of hiring...h-help." 

Paul kept his eyes to Sherlock, giving him a very gentle smile before looking to Mycroft. He'd not expected Sherlock to divert in that way, but they could go along with it for a time. 

Mycroft had a small hint of a genuine smile that showed mostly around the eyes. "I'm not being an idiot. I want to stay with you. I'd rather have a family than a career. I'd rather be on the beach than in an office. Truly, Sherlock, I would." 

Paul smiled gently at the both of them, looking back to Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes and curled his fingers to his lips again. Paul gave him a moment before speaking softly. 

"We can talk about anything, Sherlock."

Sherlock set his jaw before speaking quietly. "There is n-nothing...to gain by speaking. You b-both are w-working to...detract m-me from...John. This means..." He couldn't say it, but he knew.

Mycroft gave a shallow nod. "Yes, we are. We're trying to set your mind on other things while the two of you do a bit more healing. It's not permanent. But you need to heal."  
Paul gave Mycroft the floor, interested in watching the brothers interact.

Sherlock bit at his lip and nodded quietly. "He already has," he whispered, breaking down Mycroft's words. "H-he is...m-mostly okay, so long as I'm n-not sound."

Paul opened his mouth to counter, only to be stopped by Sherlock. "I w-won't see...him again. You don't have to f-fight me over it. I know I'm...n-not good..." it was tempting to let that hang, but Mycroft would object, "for him."

Mycroft caught the ending modifier and tried to hug Sherlock closer. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. That sounds like the best idea. You're a good man, but right now he's still not ready. I think he's growing, but not in the area that you are concerned. He'll work on that, but you can understand it is painful for him."

Sherlock was not particularly surprised by this, but it did nothing to ease the incredible pain of it. He did his best to breathe slow and deep, forcing himself to listen.

"I...am n-not a good m-man. I gave...a foundation for...for M-Moriarty to...build on." His voice broke and he suddenly pulled at his hair. The official confirmation that John was done with him left him in a crushing void of loss. He was overcome with the want to grab the phone and beg John not to give up on him.

He looked to Paul with a deep agony in his voice. "Tell me honestly, please...tell me. Is...is it...Will he ever...am I..." his chin trembled and he lost his words, whimpering and pulling at his hair hard enough to rip stands free.

Paul spoke very softly to Sherlock. "I cannot speak for the rest of your lives, but for the next year, Sherlock, we should put your focus elsewhere."

Mycroft gathered Sherlock up and pressed him against his chest. He dropped his head down and rested it on Sherlock's crown in a position that would defend him if anyone wanted to hurt him. Unfortunately, the pain was on the inside. 

"You're a good man," Mycroft insisted with all the conviction of a parent defending a wrongly accused child. "I love you. You're a good man. You'll be able to see John someday, but for now, you need to focus on yourself. If you get better, we can go to the beach. Please, let's focus on that."

Sherlock did not care about the beach. He didn't care about walking, or eating, reading or his violin.  
He'd been abandoned. John was leaving. No...He'd left already.

He pulled at his hair, starting to rock himself as the blistering pain of it became overwhelming. Moran was whistling happily in the background, chuckling to himself occasionally.

"And...a-and what...when...when will...you be done...done w-with...idiot, worthless Sherlock? How m-many..months before-you're too disappointed and...I see your back as well?" 

He could hardly get the words out through his tears, heart utterly broken.

Mycroft's hope shattered into fiberglass pieces that splintered in his heart. 

"I'm not going to leave you," he pleaded again. "I won't ever leave you. I promise. I'm here for you. I love you. You know what it means to love someone. I'd do anything for you, give anything willingly and happily."   
Sherlock held tight to his hair, pulling in an effort to feel a different sort of pain than this.

"Sherlock," Paul said quietly, trying to redirect him, "this is not your fault or John's-"

Sherlock's anger was so acute that he screamed at Paul, his voice cracking in his tangled mix of bitter anger and cloying betrayal, "IT IS! YOU ALL...H-HEARD HIM! M-MY FUCKING FAULT!" 

His voice shattered out as he choked on his own throat, breathing chaotic.

Panic was getting the best of him and he began trembling, a thin sheen of sweat beading along his brow. Crushing guilt ripped across his mind, setting off his John in the barred up corner as the mental image of John began to scream, begging Sherlock for mercy.

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, stay with me." Mycroft took his face in his hands and stared him in the eyes. "I'm here. Look at me. You are safe. It is going to be okay. Everything will be alright. I've got you. My's got you." 

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's wrists on either side of his cheeks and began to shout, holding his brother tight in place, not wanting him to leave. 

"I c-can't! I can't! I th-thought...I h-honestly thought....thought I c-could be w-without-" he opened his eyes and stared at Mycroft, going very pale as he breathed too fast, "H-He...he l-left m-m-me behind. He left- John left m-me he- n-no matter what I...I e-ever did he- John always...always...h-he never l-left and now he's gone and...I h-had Greg but he's...it's all...I have nothing! I can't do th-this! I can't do th-i-is please! PLEASE! I can't! I c-can't!" 

Stars danced across his vision, nearly taking him down, hands freezing and shaking on Mycroft's wrists. 

"Th-there...wh-what is th-the point? I am nothing!" The last shouted word died on his lips and he began to sob bitterly, swiftly in danger of blacking out with his breathing so wild. 

"You are my brother! And as such you are important to me! You are fantastic. You're brilliant. I need you to stay here with me, John. Fight the panic. Don't let it take you away." 

Mycroft tipped his forehead to rest against Sherlock's and closed his eyes. 

"Please, little 'Lock, I need you to stay with me. I need you to stay. I can make a good life for you. I really, truly can. John didn't leave you behind. The man you've seen isn't truly John. John, your John, the real John, is buried underneath his abuse. He needs time to wake back up and be himself again. I promise you, he'll come back."

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes again, whimpering as he struggled against the crashing panic. 

"M-My," he breathed, his entire body shaking violently and locking up. 

"I don't w-want to t-t-talk anymore. Th-this...I c-can't do this. I can't do th-this." He let go of Mycroft's wrists, shoving his fingers between his lips and falling apart, narrowly keeping himself conscious.

"Okay. Okay. I'll read to you, then. I'll read to you. Is that alright?" 

He shifted them down so Sherlock was lying on Mycroft's chest, carefully wrapped in arms and blankets. 

"No more talking. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."

Sherlock held onto his brother and simply tucked his head down, breathing wildly. He did not care what Mycroft read to him or make any attempt to focus on the words. 

If he was going to be alone, he could perhaps find John in his mind once again, at least have their sitting room. He dove for his own mind, running like hell in an effort to find John in his chair, working his puzzles with a brio. Within minutes, he was away from himself, slowly going lax against his brother as though sleeping.

Mycroft started to read some simple verse in hopes that the simple meter would calm him, but quickly realized that he wasn't absorbing it, or even hearing it. 

"Sherlock," he called gently, then looked to Paul. "What should I do?"

Paul had been keenly watching Sherlock, noting how he wasn't quite sleeping, though decidedly not present. 

"That was a more extreme reaction than I was anticipating, given his reluctance with John the other day. I'm honestly not sure what we should do at this point, Mycroft. He's a bit different than my typical patient. Do you think he's gone into his mind? Are you able to call him back when he does this?"

Mycroft scrubbed a hand over his face. "He said he never wanted to see John again, then he screams that John's left him behind. He wants to see John more than anything, but then he fears him and doesn't want to inflict his presence. I'm trapped." 

He looked down at his baby brother, who despite being a full grown man, still seemed so small to Mycroft. "Sometimes I can pull him out. Sometimes I can't."

Paul could offer a bit of insight at the least.

"Ah, I think there is a bit of crossed understanding there. Greg has spoken to me about this at length. I believe Sherlock means that he will willingly not pursue John for John's own good, I don't recall for a moment him losing the desire to be with John. As far as the fear of being with him...I'd be willing to bet it is John's instability that frightens Sherlock, not John himself. Sherlock only allows the most consistent man he knows near him. That's you. And he's thrived with you believe it or not. Sherlock does well with anticipated issues, but throw something unexpected at him and his mind cannot handle it. I think...that Sherlock believed John was doing his best to try and see him, therefore John cares about him. Now he's just heard that it's over, and you can imagine where he's gone with that. It's a bit like a..." _teenage romance_ , but no, he'd not use that term, "He's put nearly his entire value of himself in John Watson's opinion of him. It's as if John was his radar for value, and he is seeing himself as worthless. Given time, he will shift that to you, and hopefully take your opinion of him as he did John's." 

"Yes, but what do I _do_?" Mycroft stressed the last word. 

"He views himself as worthless. He needs John. But he is willing to let him go. I just want them to be happy together. That would be ideal, I think. But it was clear from last time that it won't happen any time soon." 

He looked up to meet Paul's eyes and study his expression.   
"You're a professional. Do you think that John and Sherlock will ever live together? Or at least be neighbors? Though, that might hurt him even more, if it wasn't a transition stage."

Paul inhaled slowly and gave himself a moment to consider his response. 

"I believe an outcome with them having any sort of relationship whatsoever to be perhaps thirty percent, at best. The more time apart, the deeper the rift of distance, which means that even once both are as healed as we can hope for, there will be little reason for them to join back together, and they will both be different people. With different men, I'd say there exists no possibility, and would recommend against it. However, these two are unique in both their relationship, prior life experiences, and the depth of attachment. John may simply have been overwhelmed today, but it sounded very clear to me that he is apologetic, but done." 

Mycroft nodded gravely. He'd expected as much. 

"Thirty is a horrible chance, but if it is one, I'll still chase it. I'll tell Sherlock the truth. That they need time away and likely won't have a relationship like they did. If it ends up that they do, it will be a happy surprise. If not, there won't be a disappointment. I hope to give him the best life possible."

Paul nodded, agreeing with Mycroft. 

"I know you hope to give him that, but I'm afraid nothing will succeed if he has no sense of purpose. John has been driven by helping Sherlock, but Greg is so dependent on John that I have little doubt he will be John's new motivation. I see that the last month did not put Sherlock in a better position, I was hoping to see him eating and mobile to some degree. What happened?"

Mycroft looked wearily at Sherlock. "He went away," the older brother began. "He just left. Into his mind. He hardly responded and when he did it was clearly only to placate me." 

"Has he made progress in his mind, do you think? Perhaps that can be his focus for now. I'm sure I don't need to stress this to you, but he's a very severe suicide risk, especially now. I quite agree with your brother that you need to return to your work eventually. An aid is going to be necessary one way or the other, you cannot be with him constantly. That you've managed to this long is shockingly impressive."

Mycroft gestured vaguely to his own head.

"I've been sorting things into a new form of memory retrieval. More efficient. It keeps me occupied. Unlike my brother, I'm not unnervingly restless. There are always improvements to be made in my mind." 

He reached down and touched Sherlock's face gently. 

"I'll hire an aid soon. I just don't want to. He'll know what it means. He'll try so hard to be polite to them so I go back to work. Should I get a man, or a woman? A man would be stronger, if he needs to be carried about or held, but he might fear a man more easily than he would fear a woman, given his abuse." 

Sherlock did not at all react to the touch at his face. Paul hummed and nodded at Mycroft. "I have a few people I can refer your way. I am doubtful that gender will make a difference. I is very unlikely to accept physical comfort from anyone outside yourself, I would not be concerned with that. You need someone able bodied and willing to take a hit now and again." 

"Someone warm, but not patronizing. Don't patronize him. That's..." Mycroft shook his head. When he was young, he'd hated being patronized. It was a terrible thing to be spoken to as if you're a child, even if you just happen to be one. 

"Someone empathetic, but not willing to compromise on what is good for him. I'd like to have interviews with each of them, both alone and with Sherlock present." 

Paul smiled at Mycroft, "Of course. I am referring a few outstanding aids from the hospital. I can work a bit of NHS billing magic, and if you decide you would like to hire one on, there will be no cost to you. I know in your position finances are not too terrible of a concern, but it is beneficial to your own mental health to know that your work performance will not affect your brother's care. My goal for Sherlock, right now, is keeping you as physically and mentally well as is possible. We've seen when Greg gets too overwhelmed what the outcome was on John. I do not wish to repeat that with the two of you if at all possible." 

He looked back to Sherlock and spoke quietly then. "If he's in his mind, I'd suggest you pull him back as often as you can, and start putting together a physical map of what's going on in there. Have him draw it if he can manage a crayon or pencil. With minds like yours, this is likely the key to him finding both the will to keep living and solutions to his own problems. I suspect that if he begins to find ways to heal himself, he'll improve much faster." 

Mycroft returned the smile, and while polite, and he was sincerely grateful, it did not touch his eyes. "Thank you. I would appreciate that. I will do everything in my power to avoid a meltdown as Greg has had in the past. If my mental health is at risk, I will take time off. As it is, I would like a list of the aids. Perhaps the most intelligent ones, if you can. They might be goldfish to him, but that doesn't mean we need someone dim witted." 

Perhaps they wouldn't be goldfish anymore, though. Perhaps Sherlock's mind wouldn't be functioning enough to notice. 

"I'll try and call him back, but it rarely works."

Paul held up a hand, "For now, if he does not seem to be in distress then I would let him be. Just let him be. He's doing his best to cope with another devastating loss." 

He pulled out his phone and pulled up a list, "I've been compiling this for the last three weeks. All of these people are available and very skilled in their fields. These are nurses, not aids, and they've been trained for psychological trauma and work extensively in those wards. I believe the only difference between them is personality, as skill and physical ability is nearly equal." 

He sent that out to Mycroft's email. "Pictures of all of them included in the links. Miller can vouch for all of them as well." 

Mycroft checked the email on his phone briefly. "Could you bring my laptop over? It's just in that drawer there. I don't want to leave him." Mycroft looked down at Sherlock briefly, then pointed to his dresser. He would do his own background checks, eliminate anyone he did not deem appropriate, and contact the rest. 

"I'd like to do a bit or research on them. I'll contact them after. I'll have to interview them when he's asleep, and heavily so, as I would like to ask more personal questions, of which I'd like to watch their expressions while answering."

Paul got up and moved over to fetch the laptop for Mycroft. He stayed close to their sides for a moment, leaning in to better look at Sherlock. 

Out of curiosity, he whispered to Mycroft. "Will you try and call him back?"

"I will the second he shows a sign of distress," Mycroft stated. A tensing of a muscle, quickening of breath, his eyes moving under the lids, or any sort of noise were generally precedents of a difficult time.

Paul nodded and stepped away, leaving Mycroft with his brother. "He is incredibly fortunate to have you. Now, will you allow me to have the kitchen send you up something to eat? And would you like me to sit with him while you go have a proper wash and change of clothes? Perhaps even a walk in the hallway or a moment outside of this room. Whatever you care to do, I'm here to support you both."

Mycroft's arms tightened around Sherlock at the mention of leaving the room, and he looked down in surprise at his own defensive, possessive gesture. "Yes, perhaps some distance would be good. I'm very stiff from staying still. A walk would be good for me, as well as a shower. I can eat once I'm back with him." 

Mycroft gently eased Sherlock onto his side in the sheets, then paused to see if he responded. 

Sherlock went limp and unresisting to his side. Paul watched for any tension in his expression, finding none.

"If he becomes distressed, I will help and call you. Please take the time you need, you're wise to accept some time for self care."

Mycroft gave a nod that was close to a shallow bow, gathered his clothing, and left for his bathroom. 

Once on his own, which was a beautiful thing indeed, he looked at his bathroom. It was a wonderful change of scenery from his room, the walls of which he'd stared at longer than he ever thought he would. The natural colored tiles on the floor were impeccably clean, and cold as he took off his socks. There were two sinks, again an attempt to show to his grandchild wanting mother that someday he'd have a wife. The cool, white marble was the brightest thing in the room, and stood out amongst the natural colors and brass accent metals of the knobs and handles. It was a bit fancy, but Mycroft hadn't designed it. He'd not commissioned it either. He'd simply bought it because it seemed the proper thing to do at the time. He liked his luxury, but he'd never entertained having a family. Not truly. 

Mycroft stepped into his large shower and let the water run. 

Paul stayed with Sherlock, keeping a close eye on him. He appeared to be sleeping, though Paul knew he wasn't. With any luck they'd help him map his mind and perhaps restore a bit of what he'd lost.

Quietly he waited for Mycroft to return, glad that all was calm for the moment.

Mycroft took his shower slowly and enjoyed the feeling of being able to move without worrying about holding someone. He stretched, tried to touch his toes, and rolled his tight shoulders. When he got out, before he put his clothes on, he looked in the mirror. It was honestly the first time in his life he'd thought he looked too thin, and he remarked ruefully that he'd gone past his target weight quite easily. Exercising was pointless now. He didn't give a damn what he looked like anymore. 

He dressed in soft clothes and went to check on Sherlock before taking his walk.

"Hasn't moved," Paul assured, watching Sherlock with unwavering attention. "I think you're fine to go have a walk, clear your head. Sun is out today, get a few minutes of vitamin d."

"Perhaps I'll run," Mycroft said without much conviction and put on a pair of comfortable shoes. He didn't have much motivation to run anymore. Still, outside would be nice.

Outside the patio door Mycroft found his backyard was still nearly groomed, but it had been allowed to grow for a period of time. The grass was a lush, dark green and very thick; a special type that grew well even without direct sun. Mycroft walked out under a large tree and sat down on a little wooden bench. There were accent stones near a few decorative Chinese maple trees, which had been an utter pain to bring in, but his landscaper had insisted they would look nice. They did add dimension to the otherwise flat yard. 

Mycroft was outside for a half hour, thinking, walking, and looking around before he decided to return to his room. He walked by his study and paused as if he would open the door, but only shook his head and walked by.

Sherlock nearly came out of his skin when Paul sneezed. He jerked violently, hand reaching out in front of him as though trying to catch something, crying out for John.

"Sherlock, it's just me. You're in-"

Sherlock cut him off, bitterly angry. "My brother's room. Go th-the f-fuck away." He did not bother to look at Paul, knowing Mycroft was gone. "Go b-back and...h-help the m-man who deserves it."

Mycroft arrived a minute later and saw that Sherlock was awake. Relief and worry hit him from either side, like being frozen and warm at the same time. He carefully walked over and stood by the bed. 

"I'm glad to see you are awake. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock pushed himself up so that he was sitting, already starting to shake from supporting his weight. "I w-want him to l-leave," he growled towards Paul.

Paul got to his feet without reacting, looking to Mycroft."I sneezed, startled him. I'm happy to step out, I'll have the kitchen send you both lunch."

Sherlock swore at Paul and shouted again. "You kn-know damn well...I m-mean out of the house, g-go back, leave m-me alone!"

Mycroft was torn between showing Paul's side of it in an attempt to help Sherlock understand, and taking Sherlock's side to show him that he had authority. He decided upon the later, and turned to Paul with an apologetic expression on his face. 

"Perhaps another day. If you could tell the kitchen staff to bring up the meal on your way out, that would be wonderful."

Paul very calmly nodded, quite accustomed to that sort of reaction. "Perfectly fine, I will see the pair of you later."

Sherlock sat there, shaking and scowling until Paul left.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock as soon as Paul was gone and slid onto the bed beside him. "What prompted that?"

Sherlock set his jaw, looking away, doing his best to stubbornly appear as though he were not trembling like a newborn fawn.

"I th-think he's an idiot...I don't n-need h-his fucking h-help."

Mycroft shrugged and was terribly glad to see some fight in Sherlock. "Alright, then. We won't call on him anymore." He wished for Sherlock to know that his word would hold power. 

Sherlock looked to his brother, having expected a fight. He arched a brow and then nodded, looking down at himself.

"Am I allowed to stand?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't suggest it medically." Mycroft sat casually next to him and relished in the first adult conversation they'd had in weeks. 

"It would hurt. You've not had physical therapy yet." 

Sherlock reached up and touched his nose, scowling at the feel of the tube. "It is g-going to hurt anyhow, the fascia w-was severed."

He looked to Mycroft and flexed his hand. "I want to try.. w-will you h-help me?"

Mycroft drew a deep breath and let worry and uncertainty show clearly on his face for Sherlock to see. "Yes. I will help you, but you must promise to put most of your weight on me. And-" he turned to the medicine box, "-take a painkiller first and wait for it to take effect."

Sherlock nodded without hesitation. Mycroft's worry was upsetting and he wanted it to go away. 

"Alright," he said quietly. "I...I only w-wanted..." He trailed off, setting his jaw in determination. He pulled the blankets off and looked down at his clothed legs, reaching out for a tentative stretch.

Mycroft handed him the fast acting painkiller and looped one arm under his shoulders. He would make sure that hardly any weight was on that knee. "It's alright. I'm not angry. I've got you."

Sherlock held his arms around Mycroft's neck and slowly tried to move forward. He put his weight on the leg that only had the Achilles severed. Pain flared up the back of his calf and wrapped under his foot, making him grit his teeth.

He did not dare put weight on his knee just yet, waiting for the pain to subside on the other leg. Within seconds, his thighs were trembling and he was breathing rather fast. "Wait," he breathed, afraid Mycroft would make him sit down. "It hurts...b-but I can do...I can do th-this."

Mycroft adjusted so his own shoulder was under Sherlock's, and his knees were bent to make him shorter. "If it hurts too much, you can sit down. I don't wish for you to hurt yourself."

Sherlock cautiously tested the knee, applying steady pressure until the pain became nauseating.  
Moments later he was trying to sit back down. "I...I can't..." He whispered, the fight swiftly leaving him. He'd hoped it had not been as dire as they'd said, but that leg felt useless.

Mycroft gently placed Sherlock back in bed. "You did well, very well. We'll be able to practice more once you've seen a physical therapist. Things will get better."

Sherlock sat down with his back to the headboard, already moving on from that. He reached out and grabbed a brio from the night table, fisting it as a toddler would. He drew his trembling legs up to his chest, hissing as he bent the knee before reaching to his side and shoving a pillow under it, forcing it to remain bent. 

Positioned, he put his focus to the pen in his hand. He watched his fingers very closely as he slowly opened each one at a time, often forced to move the neighboring finger given the crushed state of his knuckles and the breaks that were healed to the best of their ability, but decidedly needing more surgery. 

For the next ten minutes, he practiced moving the pen in his hand, often dropping it to his lap and starting all over again, passing it between his fingers. When the time had slipped by, he switched hands. He began to speak to his brother as sweat slid down the sides of his face. 

"Will I be a-able to forget h-him? They make moves of...th-those that are...tossed aside. A-Always alone l-later in their miserable lives. It's s-so cliche it makes my t-t-teeth hurt." 

His tone was rough with physical pain, but much more even. Weighted down with sadness, though easier to speak with his body focused on a task. 

Mycroft watched intently and silently. It was good to see Sherlock driven, awake, and alert, but the sadness on his face was still heartbreaking. 

"You'll be able to move on," Mycroft said gently. "But you don't need to forget. You can have happy memories of him. Your life can be very good without him, just like it was when we were children."

Sherlock worked with his left hand as Mycroft spoke. He could scarcely move the finger independently at all, and he dropped the pen every two to three seconds. The massive spike that had essentially cored out his palm had done damage to all the major structures. His arm was trembling up to his shoulder, and his breathing was much faster as he suddenly became demanding of his body. 

"I h-have not been happy since I w-was an ignorant, st-stupid child. H-He-" no longer _John_ , no. He couldn't call him _John_ any longer as that name meant a slew of peaceful, wonderful things that were now and likely forever gone. "was th-the closest I e-ever got without ch-chemical intervention. It is a h-happy delusion to believe I will be m-more than..." he cleared his throat as his eyes blurred, pushing the thoughts as far away as his feeble mind would allow him. 

He dropped the pen again and with his better hand, picked it up and tried to chuck it across the room, managing to launch it only as far as his feet. 

He stared down at the thing in silence for a moment before breaking into pained, disheartened laughter. 

Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock in his arms. "No, you can be happy. I can show you how to make your mind be quiet. I can show you filters. We can go to the beach and things can be quiet mentally and happy." 

He bent over and took the pen to replace it on his table. It seemed impossible to function without filters, and Mycroft wondered how Sherlock kept his head from exploding without the use of many. 

Perhaps if he had shown Sherlock the filters when he was young he's never had searched for quietness with drugs. His whole life could be different. 

For a moment Sherlock began to pull away from his brother in frustrated anger that had nothing to do with Mycroft. His resolve melted away at the physical offer of comfort, closing his eyes and leaning hard into Mycroft in the next second. Bitter, grieved tears slowly collected at his lashes, trailing quietly down his cheeks. The road stretched ahead so far that he could not even imagine the end of it. All he knew was how difficult it was going to be to walk down. 

Ahead of him lay a quiet, dark unknown. His brother would walk parts of it with him, but he'd be alone with increasing regularity very soon. Behind him sat John, smiling with his beautiful dog, arms wrapped around Greg, back to Sherlock as he walked away. 

Gooseflesh bloomed across his body as he allowed the mental image of what was happening to him to take hold, doing his best to come to a place of acceptance. 

Mycroft stayed with his brother, and while his sadness was not welcomed, it was held higher than the silence of the past month. Mycroft kissed the top of his head as he always had when Sherlock was a little boy. 

"Could you tell me what you see?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, startled as a sob he'd not realized he'd been holding back rattled up from deep in his chest. 

"A r-road I'm...it's dark ahead, f-frightening, cold. And h-he-" his voice cracked and he shook his head, pressing his face against Mycroft's neck in desperate need of skin contact as panic and fear churned around him. Letting go of John was like letting go of the edge of the pool in the deep end with weights at his ankles. He was sure that without John, he'd simply begin to drown again. 

"I c-can't do th-this, My. I'm..." his chin trembled and he shook his head, trying to clutch at Mycroft with exhausted, aching fingers. 

"Alright, it's okay. A dark road? I want you to know that I'll be there with you for every step if it, if you allow me. I promise it." He put his hand on the back of Sherlock's head and held him in place. 

"You don't have to do this alone. You'll never be alone again. I promise. You're going to be alright. Truly, you are."

Sherlock tried to hear his brother, holding to Mycroft's clothes and feeling very small, aching from head to toe, feeling minor swelling between the joints of his fingers as he gripped the material of Mycroft's shirt. 

Even as he sat there, face buried against his brother's neck, breathing in little clipped, bursts, John walked away from him. Hand-in-hand with Greg, the dog's happy tail wagging at his side. 

"Th-this _hurts_ ," he breathed, ribs catching as the image swelled the tight ball of grief in his chest. "I l-love him, I don't kn-know how to l-l-let go." 

Mycroft was silent for a moment. He never thought he'd have to talk Sherlock through a breakup, and while this was not nearly as simple as that, it had the same desired effect of letting go. 

"I'd suggest you try to think of him as he was, not as he is. Try to remember your happy times, then move on to something else. Don't block it out, but don't indulge in reminiscing. Try and remember that you'll always have me, even if you still want someone else more."

The crux of it was that Sherlock did not for a second believe that he'd always have Mycroft. That had never been the case, historically, and he had little reason to believe it now. It would start off slow, of course, with Mycroft doing the minimum at work and returning swiftly to Sherlock. But the weeks would blend to months, and the months to years, and Mycroft would tire of letting his mind atrophy. 

John had made a life with Sherlock, and Sherlock with him. They worked together, ran together, ate together. 

Or at least, those were the shadows of understanding and memory that Sherlock still had access to. He could see John in his chair, but he'd not reacted to Sherlock at all. He was a moving picture on the wall, nothing more. He'd lost John in every sense. 

"N-Not _more_ , you idiot. J-Just _different_ ," he tried to explain, grief tearing his voice apart. "I st-still wish I...c-could have given him..." a sob tore through his sentence and he was forced to stop for a moment, struggling with himself, "a m-memory. He...g-god how he hates me. I...m-maybe someday he'll allow m-me a goodbye." 

"And so you will," Mycroft responded easily. "I think that another month before trying to call again would be necessary, but even that might not be enough. He needs to heal. You need to heal. Once the two of you are each mentally on your feet, you can try and say goodbye properly, if that is indeed the right thing to do. Let's not dwell on it now, though. Would you like something to eat, or drink?"

Sherlock felt Mycroft shut off the conversation, biting his lip and pulling away. He wrapped his shaking arms around himself and looked down at his feet. "I will if I n-need to," he whispered to his knees, all the fight gone from him. He just wanted...

He shook his head and closed his eyes. It didn't matter what he wanted. He would be forced to survive the day, and the next, and the next. Life was over, and it was now just a game of figuring out how to numb himself through the rest of existence. 

"I'll make sure your life is good," Mycroft insisted again. "Beaches and good food and puzzles. We can play deductions. We can-" his voice cracked a bit and he centered himself again. "We can do all the things you used to enjoy. Won't that be nice?"

Hopelessness cracked through Mycroft's voice, making the conversation intolerable. Not even Mycroft believed what he was saying. 

_I understand now_ , he mentally whispered to the image of John comfortable in his chair. The man did not look up from his puzzle, of course, but it was at least something to address his bleeding words to. _Heal up enough so that you could jump into the Thames. It was a good, solid plan to escape. I'm so glad Greg's adulterous wife left him. The dog is beautiful. You'll be happy. You and your birds. It was a solid plan though._

He rest his chin down on his good knee and closed his eyes, settling into the terrible, quiet understanding that he'd lost it all, everything was gone. 

"It...w-will be nice," he whispered as another tear dripped off his chin

Mycroft watched Sherlock carefully and his heart ached in his chest. "I promise it will," he offered again, as if that would prompt Sherlock to believe him. "I promise. I'll make things right for you. I'll give you a good life. Please, just trust me. I can do this. I know I can."

Sherlock nodded as he slowly became more and more exhausted. He did not speak again, his throat painfully tight and his heart made of led. He swallowed hard and turned his focus more towards the way his body was reacting to his efforts at mobility. 

Everything hurt terribly. Even with the pain medication it felt as though he'd been in a vehicular accident with a brick wall. His knee screamed with pain while the rest of him simply burned with a deep ache. The skin of his hands felt too tight as they slowly swelled. 

It would be better if his brother took him to the beach and left him on a sandbar at low tide. He closed his eyes and pictured it. The sand beneath him and warm sun hanging in the sky. He'd spend his final hours in the sea, weightless and comfortable. The tide would be slow and easy on him, gently lifting him from his final perch, pulling him out into the great expanse. No dramatic fall, no crack of a gunshot. His lungs would fill with seawater, and he'd sink quietly into the depths. 

It would be beautiful. 

He'd never be allowed that sort of death, but oh, it was peaceful to think about. 

"Okay...You get some rest," Mycroft stammered and tried to sound calm. He would bring Sherlock to the beach. They would sit in the sand and be happy, god damnit. How the hell had Moriarty managed to go into Sherlock's head and taint his memories of the beach? 

Mycroft felt offended, as if he'd personally been wronged. But of course, he had. His life had come to a screeching halt. 

"I'll stay with you."

Glad that Mycroft dropped the offer of food, Sherlock very carefully eased himself back down in the bed, curling on his side and holding himself with his arms wrapped as tight as he could manage around his chest. He rocked himself very lightly as he walked back into his mind. 

_'John?' he called out into the quiet dark. He could hear the sobbing man behind the bars, but that was not who he was after. He moved away from the tortured man, seeking out the John Watson who once would have died for Sherlock. The one who'd thrown himself at Moriarty and told Sherlock to run, to save himself at the cost of John's life._

_He moved through his own mind, desperate to find the sitting room of 221B. It had to be there, even if it was in ruins. Moran was puttering about in the basement as always, but he seemed uninterested in Sherlock at the moment._

_'John? Please. I need help,' he called out again, voice thick with tears, hand dragging along the wall as he moved in the dark, wondering absently and going from tactile memory in an effort to find what he was after._

_The scent in the air changed over an unknown period of time. Moran's whistling faded, and there was the soft sound of a violin who's out of tune strings were being plucked. His heart rate quickened and he rushed forward, calling out John's name again and again._

_He stumbled over the threshold of their sitting room, hitting the floor with a violent crash. The room was nearly completely dark and very cold, but it was Baker Street. It smelled of home under the sweat stench of rot. He was alone, but he was home. After a few moments of overwhelming exhaustion, he pushed himself up enough to crawl over to John's chair. He kept to the floor, pressing his side against the seat, arms wrapped around his knees and head tipped to the cushion._

_He cried, unable to find the scent of John specifically. He'd forgotten, even in that short time away. So he simply rest against the familiar comfort of John's chair, falling asleep at the foot of it in the darkness._

Mycroft tried to rouse Sherlock from the confines of his mind, but it was very clear that he wasn't going to come out. Instead, he split his mind and set part of it to monitor Sherlock, and part of it to work on repairs. 

He was mentally sluggish and weighed down by all sorts of negative emotions. The pesky things were like grit in the gears and cogs of his mind. They slowed things to a standstill in his hopes of reaching objective reason. 

Mycroft did not walk in his mind in any sort of physical form. Instead he saw it as a massive machine made of words and numbers, all of which were covered in grime. He started at the beginning. Clearing his mind. 

There was the very reasonable cause to not completely blank out, as he needed to watch Sherlock, but he could clear everything else out. 

Perhaps. Nagging Worry would not leave, nor would Doubt or Insecurity. They hovered about and it took Mycroft a full ten minutes, which was eons to his mind, for him to drive them out and reach clarity. It was numb clarity, devoid of inflection, during which his thoughts were not tainted by words that held biased meaning. 

Hours slipped by with Sherlock quietly sleeping. His mind and his body both down at the same time. Somewhere near midnight, Miller came in with a gentle knock. 

He carried with him a high calorie meal for Mycroft and set it down at the man's side, speaking softly to get his attention. "Mycroft, have a bit to eat." 

He moved over to Sherlock's side and put together a feeding, knowing that the kitchen had not brought him food. He stood quietly at Sherlock's side, getting that going before drawing up his medication. 

Sherlock did not stir, exhausted in his sleep. 

Mycroft took the food and stared at it with a dull expression. He'd gone through one fourth of his mental processes in the span of six hours. Never had he attempted to stay that involved for that long, and he'd never needed to. He'd deleted things, assigned emotions their own separate cubby holes, organized his responses, and created lists of emotions that would likely crop up when certain things were being spoken of that would display themselves in neat, blue writing when they were acting. 

Exhausted, he silently began to eat without so much as looking at Miller. 

Miller watched Mycroft with growing concern. Eventually he spoke, his voice very quiet. "Paul tells me he gave you a list of names for selecting an aid. I am glad you are considering one." 

He looked back down at Sherlock's guarded position and shook his head, "I'll handle the pins tomorrow, don't want to wake him." 

Mycroft blinked and looked over at Miller. What had been said? 

The blue words he had prompted to inform him of his own emotional involvement sprang to life and floated mentally just beside Miller. 

_Pins._  
Fear  
Anxiety  
Desire to protect  
Illogical desire to protect against medical procedures  
Desire to stay in good graces  
Desire to make life tolerable  
Desire to keep from pain 

_Aid._  
Loss  
Protective anger  
Fear  
Shame  
Worry 

The next list that appeared told him how to speak without letting them bias him. These things were needed. "Yes, he needs his rest. Thank you for waiting. I will begin writing up Sherlock's situation soon and sent it to them."

Miller finished with the feed and unhooked Sherlock after flushing the line. "You do as well," Miller said gently, not looking back to Mycroft in he interest of allowing the man his privacy. 

"Can I get you anything?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I'm alright for now. I'll get started on this aid business, much as I don't want to." He stopped and looked to Sherlock's hands. 

"He tried to move about earlier. Something for swelling would be appreciated, if you have it."

Miller nodded, "I noticed and already gave him something for it. If he wants to move, just call me and I can give him something more to help manage the response. Was he struggling with you?" 

Mycroft shook his head. "He was more clear than he has been in weeks. He practiced with a pen, tried to stand, and spoke with bitter sadness but not panic."

Mycroft shook his head. "He was more clear than he has been in weeks. He practiced with a pen, tried to stand, and spoke with bitter sadness but not panic."

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "He also cursed very loudly at Paul and ordered him out out of the house. I haven't seen him angry in so long. I'm glad to see it."

Miller smiled and nodded in response to that. "Paul is often the recipient of shouting and anger. Comes with the job, he pokes at the sore spots. At least in my work, I can follow up with morphine." He looked over to Sherlock and gentled his voice. 

"Anger is something he can work with. I'd rather see him focus on rage then this latest loss. I'm very sorry that it's panned out like this, I was so hopeful for them." 

"I was hopeful as well," Mycroft whispered. "I'm still a bit hopeful. Not for now, but for later. In years. I recognize it will take years. I thought one month would help, but then he left mentally."

Miller crossed his arms and watched the sleeping man. "He's...in a different place than John. His focus is very limited without the ability to walk, read, or write. That, and he's had far less time to deal with this. Perhaps he made some progress in his mind. Either way, the month of quiet was not a complete loss. His body has been able to rest, and while he needs to eat more, that was a positive we can look at." 

Mycroft gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's too long hair. "Yes, the healing in his body will have done him good. His hands and legs still pain him terribly. He's sore. He's still scared." 

Miller nodded, watching Mycroft handle his little brother. "I would be, too." He deeply wished there was more for him to do to help. 

"Neurology has drawn a blank with his inability to read. The only solid suggestion I've gotten is to have him look at lettering for a few minutes at a time and see if his mind can't find the paths again. It's likely tied in to the damage in his brain making him seize."

Mycroft decided he would read up on the topic that night. "I'll get block letters. Maybe Shapes. Something to ease him into it. It will be discouraging at first, but I have high hopes he'll be better off once he can read."

Miller walked over and took Mycroft's tray. "Get some rest, Mycroft. Believe it or not, I honestly think you are doing an outstanding job with him." 

He moved to the door and spoke quietly once more, "I'm sorry about John, truly I am. Please let me know if there is anything I can do, even if it is outside my scope as a physician. Goodnight, Mycroft." 

The door closed quietly again behind him, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock in the quiet dark. 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a long time after Miller left. This was his darling baby brother. The one with a mess of curly hair that had a fantastic way of holding on to leaves. The one who was holding a fake sword with chubby little hands before he could properly talk. The little boy who was curious about everything. 

And someone had raped him. 

Mycroft flinched involuntarily. 

Sherlock woke in tears many hours later. The morning was giving way to afternoon, and through the night he'd not moved at all. Sherlock was silent as he opened his eyes, already glassy from having been crying in his sleep, sniffing lightly as he focused at a random point across the room. He made no effort to sweep his surroundings, not particularly caring who was in the room with him. Moran himself could have walked in and he'd have quietly laid there. 

Mycroft was grateful to see Sherlock awake. "Hey, 'Lock," he began, not verbally acknowledging that Sherlock might be mentally distant. "I was thinking you could have some pancakes and eggs this morning. Maybe bacon? Smoothie? Water?"

Sherlock blinked slowly and then nodded, whispering a flat, "Alright," before dragging his palms over his face, sniffing and trying to get himself under control. Slowly he pushed himself up to sitting, pulling his knees as close to his chest as he could manage and starting to wrap his arms around his legs. He yelped in surprised pain as a pin caught the sheets, pulling unexpectedly at his arm. 

He freed it and held the throbbing limb close to his chest, looking down at his knees as he tried to sort himself for the painful day ahead. 

Mycroft texted the staff with a small amount of hope bubbling in him.

The cry caught him off guard and once he saw what was the matter, he wrapped one arm under Sherlock's knees and one behind his back. Very gently he lifted him into his lap and held him, which would prevent him from exhausting himself trying to hold the position on his own. 

"I've got you," he said all the while. "I've got you.”

Sherlock rest his head against Mycroft's shoulder, staring across the room as he listened to his brother's heartbeat. He held out all of thirty seconds before dissolving down to quiet, heartbroken tears, holding his pained arm protectively close, leaning his weight to Mycroft's chest. 

There was a knock at the door a few minutes later that meant the food had arrived. Mycroft very gently eased out of bed and came back with a tray of food. Eggs, toast, pancakes, bacon, two smoothies, two cups of juice, and two waters were on it along with the special utensils Mycroft had been wanting Sherlock to try. They had a bigger grip, had a soft coating of rubber even on the ends, and had a stabilizing factor to reduce shaking. 

"Sherlock, look," he began and sat the tray down next to himself in bed. "They're meant for people with Parkinson's, but I'm certain they'll help, if you're ever interested in trying them." 

Sherlock looked down at the utensils his brother spoke of, instantly recognizing them. Even as tears quietly streamed down his face he spoke, voice thick and heavy. 

"S-Studied b-birds," he whispered, recalling snippets of the engineering behind them. He reached out with a trembling hand and wrapped his fingers around one, disgusted with how he was holding the fork in his fist. 

"L-Like an animal," he whispered sadly of himself, holding his fist out in front of himself to test the stabilization of it. He closed his eyes in the next moment as adrenalin spiked through him. He was, in his mind, looking at his future locked in his fist. He'd likely need things like this absurd fork, like a fucking wheelchair, like a nursemaid, until his damned heart was finally allowed to stop. He could sit for months in anticipation of the beach, spend a few days in the quiet of the waves, only to return to London and sit by the window, slowly going mad until the next few days, the next year. 

On and on it spanned, hateful and desolate. 

_Stop this, Sherlock_ , he chastised himself. He opened his glassy eyes and turned more so that he was facing the food he had no desire to eat. With all of his focus he shifted his fingers as best he could on the handle of the fork, and made a slow, painstaking attempt at the eggs. 

He managed to get half the fork-full he'd started with into his mouth, choking them down before tossing the fork down in frustration. 

"Good, Sherlock, good!" Mycroft went for enthusiastic but not patronizing. 

"I knew you could. How about something that doesn't require the fork next?" 

He reached down and took a piece of bacon. 

"You'll get better with these things if you work on them. It will be nice to get you some independence. I'd like for you not to have a feeding tube." 

"How can y-you st-stand me," he said roughly as he tore his fingers through his hair, "I'm the v-very definition of p-pathetic."

He skid his fingers over the tube in his nose, utterly humiliated with himself, abruptly wishing it was dark so that he wouldn't have to be seen. The eggs were ash in his mouth and he only wanted to lay back down and vanish.

"You are not pathetic," he said softly. "You went through hell and came out alive and fighting! You came out with the will to help someone else even at your own expense. You are far from pathetic." 

"H-Help? I caused h-him terrible p-pain. My intent....w-was irrelevant...and h-he's wisely...come to realize..." He stopped as his voice caught.

"I've s-slaughtered your career..t-taken your l-life...I...I..." He shook his head as he broke down, going to his side and turning his back on the food. He covered his head with his shaking arms in an attempt to hide.

While Mycroft did not like to hear that his career had been slaughtered, he did like that Sherlock was speaking. 

"To hell with my career," he retorted. "It's an occupation. A means to make money and entertain myself. Now I have you and plenty of money. I've got everything I need. You are a wonderful brother."

Sherlock did not pull himself back out of his tucked position, breathing slow as he silently cried. It was lies and stretched truth, constantly.

His stomach growled loudly and he tried to ignore it, hiding his face as he willed himself to simply stop existing.

"Sherlock, please eat something." He didn't want to press the matter, but he strongly wanted Sherlock to eat.   
"Please. It's been so long. Just a bit of smoothie and a piece of toast. Whatever you want. I can have anything brought up here. Please, just eat a few more bites."

He came very close to ignoring his brother, wondering if he could manage to starve himself. Mycroft's voice was so tired and worried that it pulled him into active response, slowly posing himself back up with a sharp cry of pain at using his taxed muscles.

He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up a slice of bacon, pink across his cheeks as he soaked in humiliation, quietly eating in an expression of love for his brother where he could not force himself to speak.

Mycroft leaned over and rested his forehead against Sherlock's temple. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you so much. I love you. I'm sorry this is hard for you. You're wonderful to me."

Sherlock got the bacon down, but gave up on food after that. He picked up the shake, quietly putting down as much of it as he could, drinking until the nausea became too much.

He set the glass down and closed his eyes, lying down on his side again as he began to rock himself slowly, grief twisted tight sound his heart, cloying in his mind.

Mycroft felt like a horrible, manipulative person as he set the tray on the table beside the bed. Sherlock was willing to lay down his life for John, and Mycroft wouldn't think on it being much harder for him to eat for Mycroft. 

"Thank you," Mycroft said again and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms. "I'm sorry you feel this way. Is there anything I can do?"

Sherlock spoke after a few minutes of silence, his voice wavering and heavy. "Would...w-would y-you...read to m-me?"

He'd have preferred reading to himself, but that wasn't possible. "I...I s-suppose...should g-get audio books b-before..." He trailed off slowly, trying to consider life with an aid. Like hell would he allow anyone but Mycroft to read to him.

"Of course I will. I'll always read to you when you need me to." Mycroft got out his phone and set it to record, just in case he couldn't always be there. 

"Eliot today, or a children's story? I'm sure I could find something with pirates in it, if you're in that sort of mood."

Sherlock whispered "Eliot," as he brought his fingers to his lips, unsettled at the idea of someone new and unknown putting their hands on him.

Before Mycroft could begin, Sherlock was suddenly speaking in a panicked rush. 

"Who...who is g-going...t-to be...b-be...what if they're like...He s-sent people after John e-even at Bart's...who....wh-what if-f..." He whimpered as his stomach rolled starting to sweat. 

"I'll only be hiring people that Paul has known for years, people who had had extensive background checks, done by me, and those who I don't catch lying about any aspect of their life. Furthermore, I will have cameras, and you will have distress words that you can use safely with me without fear of them finding out. I will be here for the first two months of it. I'll make sure that they are good. If you don't like them, we'll move on to the next." 

Mycroft found a poem and waited for Sherlock's response before he began.

Sherlock reached out and took Mycroft's wrist, his hand cold and shaking.

"Please," he whispered very quietly, "w-would...would y-you hold..m-me?" 

He was already trying to pull himself to Mycroft's chest, "I...I'll....b-be f-fine...y-you have st-staff h-here that w-will help m-me if I...n-need help, r-right? I'll...I'll b-be okay."

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and held him in his lap like a over grown child. He began to read some of the less morose of Eliot's works, which he suspected Sherlock had caught on to.

Sherlock eventually feel asleep, his belly full and the vibration of Mycroft's voice settling him. His fist never relaxed in Mycroft's shirt, however. He was trying to be as brave as he could, honestly wanting Mycroft to be able to work. The idea of being without Mycroft was frankly terrifying, but he could not do to his brother what John had to Greg. 

Greg did not need his work as Mycroft did.

So he slept, taking time to appreciate what he has while he had it.

Mycroft drifted off into an exhausted sleep as well and his mind was at peace, if one ignored the constant stream of dreams. Not all were unpleasant. In fact, most were simply tedious. A mind like his did not simply go to sleep, and it continued to spin strange stories and scenarios even while his body slept.

Sherlock jerked awake with a sharp scream, arching his back as he dragged in a ragged bath only to scream once again until his voice cracked and his lungs were empty. All he knew was darkness, and blistering, overwhelming pain the next. When he again managed a deep enough breath he screamed out Mycroft's name like a child fearful for their life.

Mycroft came awake with a start and the genuine fear that someone was hurting his 'Lock. He scanned the room then grabbed blankets to cover Sherlock with. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay! It's alright! I'm here. Right here. You're okay. You're safe. Do you know where you are? This is My's house."

Sherlock screamed again, sobbing so hard he began to choke, arms wrapped right around his belly as he doubled over, entire body trembling horribly as his color paled. He was non-responsive as he struggled to breathe, heart fluttering madly in his chest.

"Breathe," Mycroft instructed loudly and rubbed his back. "Breathe, Sherlock. You're safe. My has you. Sherlock!" 

He shouted the last bit and tried to move him so Sherlock would see who was holding him. 

"Please! It's me!"

Sherlock managed to reach out and grab Mycroft's wrist, holding on with damp, trembling fingers. He could not catch his breath long enough to speak for several agonizing minutes.

"Pain!" He grit out through clenched teeth, whimpering and sobbing at the word, pressing Mycroft's hand to his freezing cheek for comfort.

Mycroft had already texted Miller when Sherlock spoke, and he rocked Sherlock back and forth while rubbing his back. "Okay. Okay. You'll be alright. Help is coming."

Miller rushed in the room, already on his way after hearing the staff speaking sadly of Sherlock screaming. He opened the door to find Sherlock trembling, folded in half against his brother's lap, guarding his abdomen. 

He swore under his breath and moved swiftly. "Mycroft, we have to lie him down. Sherlock, I've got to move you, soon as I examine your belly I'll give you morphine." He reached out and began to pull Sherlock gently off his brother, needing him on his back. 

Sherlock, lost in the blistering agony of it, knew only that he was being taken from Mycroft. He could not get enough air to scream, and the pain thrumming through his gut was far too severe to allow him to fight. His cries turned desperate and terrified. Miller was careful to keep Sherlock as close to his brother as possible, not at all liking the ashen color of Sherlock's face. He gently began to lift Sherlock's shirt, pulling from the man a horrified scream, which ended up choking Sherlock from lack of air. 

"Mycroft, I've got to see his abdomen," he said gently as Sherlock shoved Miller's hands away weakly. 

Mycroft did not want to have any part of restraining Sherlock or removing any part of his clothing. It was wrong. Or at least, Sherlock would view it as wrong. Mycroft saw his cloud of blue words and read them briefly. "Alright," he agreed. It was better for Sherlock for him to be out of pain. 

Mycroft reached out and took hold of Sherlock's hands in a loving but firm way. He leaned over near him and put his head down next to Sherlock so he didn't appear to be hovering over him. 

"Sherlock! It's me! I'm here for you!"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft, wrapping his icy fingers around his brother's. He felt Miller lifting his shirt, but Mycroft was next to him, and there was no way that My would lie there and hold him down while...

He swallowed, and in the next moment cried out as Miller gently pressed against his belly. "My!" he shouted, dissolving back down into childlike tears as pain got the better of him. Miller was moving faster now, pressing an oxygen mask over Sherlock's mouth before drawing up something for pain and swiftly pushing it into Sherlock's line. 

The relief was slight, but enough to help calm him slightly. He tried to shift closer to Mycroft, wanting to guard his belly and breaking down into pathetic, weak cried. 

"He's properly eating again, and it's likely aggravating...damage. He's not rigid in his abdomen, so he's not bleeding into his belly. This is, I believe, a spasm that's preceding a trip to the bathroom. I'm going to give him something by mouth to help make this...easier...but given this reaction his gut is likely very sensitive and he's going to be in pain for a while as his body adjusts." 

He spoke very quietly, aware of the deeply personal nature of this sort of pain and damage. 

Mycroft took a moment to think through what Sherlock might think if he had sudden pain after being held by his brother while his clothes were lifted. "Something heavy for the pain," Mycroft nearly demanded. "He can not think that he is not safe from rape here. That needs to be out of the question. Absolutely out of the question. He's already afraid of it."

Mycroft reached over and pulled Sherlock's shirt down, then pulled the covers up to his chest. "How long will this pain last? Can we do anything other than medicate him? Hasn't he healed from...from that?"

Miller drew up a secondary dose and pushed it as he spoke over Sherlock's brittle cries. "He has healed, however it is much like using his arms or legs, the scarring and damage done was extensive. It will take time for the pain to ease, he'd currently having intestinal cramping, it should subside on its own."

He thought on it for a moment before nodding and repeating for Mycroft the count. "Even at that late stage, he required fifty seven sutures. If, after a few days of properly eating, this does not improve, we will have to restrict his diet."

Mycroft was going to be sick. He couldn't fathom how Sherlock was handling everything so well after having been raped to the point of having pain months later. "Restrict his diet. Right. How do you think he will go about all this? Taking off his trousers is difficult for him in the best of times, but if he's having pain, I doubt we'll be able to do anything of the sort." 

Mycroft turned back to Sherlock and wrapped both arms around him. "Just cramps! You're okay. Sherlock, do you hear me?"

Miller spoke very, very quietly after picking up one of Mycroft's hands and putting it over Sherlock's exposed ear. "What he's feeling is in his gut, the should not be any...external, localized pain as though the act were occurring. I'm going to push meds through his NG tube to ensure he's not in pain while relieving himself."

He moved away to gather what he needed, listening to a tiny trail of French from Sherlock to his brother.

"My," he breathed in a little, shaking voice. Pain of any sort was terrifying to him, and he was now hyper sensitive to it, "scared."

"I'll never understand what could prompt someone to do this to another human being." Mycroft looked down to Sherlock and held him against his chest where he could hear his heartbeat. "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."

Mycroft was particularly injured emotionally at this recent development. He'd seen people hit Sherlock, usually on the school grounds in some sort of childish scuffle, but this was entirely different. This was torture and rape. Rage heated him once more and he took deep breaths to cool himself.

Miller moved the mask to get to Sherlock's tube, shushing him gently as he whimpered and shied away. "It's alright, Sherlock, only me," he said gently as he began to push an oily substance down the tube. To Mycroft he said quietly, "I think it's nothing but good that you don't understand this sort of thinking. Sign of sanity on your part. People who do this..it's a power play. Weak and cowardly."

"I suppose when I say I don't understand, I should really be saying that I utterly can not emphasize. I can't even see a shred of it. Power, dominance, likely childhood abuse, poor reasoning skills... Those are things I expect from Moran. Though why someone with such an obvious dominance complex would choose to work with Moriarty is confusing at the least."

Miller caught Sherlock's hand as he feebly tried to push Miller away, "easy," he whispered, adopting a bit of strength to get Sherlock's hand back to his brother. He pressed a hand to Sherlock's neck, checking him for fever as he spoke to Mycroft. 

"Likely for access to this sort of violence with protection from being caught."

Mycroft nodded. “An enabler. Right. He couldn’t figure any of this out on his own. Torture and rape, yes. But this whole…psychological aspect is just…Beyond him.” Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock’s hand from Miller. “Sherlock,” he said loudly, “can you hear me?”

Sherlock clutched at Mycroft's hands, breathing in panicked little bursts. Miller capped the tube and out his mask back on. "Giving him something for anxiety," he said gently, going back to his kit as Sherlock sobbed his brothers name.

Mycroft leaned over and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head before wrapping him up in his arms. “Yes, I’m here. Right here. I’m sorry you’re so scared. I’ve got you. I’m here. Could you look at me? Just so you know I’m here?”

Sherlock did so without delay, looking at his brother as Miller pushed medicine to calm him down. "I know...wh-where I...I..am,"he breathed. 

Miller stepped back and away, watching the brothers.

“My house,” Mycroft replied and brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his face. “Safe in my house. You had some cramps in your abdomen and got confused. Are you alright?” What Mycroft was truly anxious to know was if Sherlock believed he was being abused. 

Sherlock held to Mycroft with trembling hands and nodded. "Miller h-has...g-good drugs," he whispered. He was quiet for a minute as the medication cleared some of the fog. "A...cramp? That....it h-hurt in my..." He trailed off as he put it together, letting go of Mycroft as he instinctively covered himself. "Oh g-god...is there...am I..." He pinched his eyes closed as tears began to flow anew. 

"St-still?"

Mycroft choked down a pained sob as Sherlock tried to cover himself. “Safe,” he exclaimed on reflex. “And…The damage might cause some trouble, but nothing you should feel. Miller will keep you medicated against that. You’ll be alright. I promise. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock did not move his hands, though he was not actively afraid for his current safety. His eyes took on a distant, glassy appearance as he fell back into memory.

Mycroft couldn't handle Sherlock leaving him. Not now. He gave Sherlock's shoulders a gentle shake and looked him in those glassy eyes. "Hey, hey, Sherlock, stay here. Stay here. Please."  
Sherlock jumped hard and locked panicked eyes with his brother, reaching for him in a rush of relief. Time stretched and warped in his mind and he'd been falling from one attack to the next. 

"I c-could never g-get him to st-stop! N-Nothing distracted...He would th-think of n-nothing else, oh g-god he..." His voice broke as he pulled himself closer to Mycroft.

"I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry, th-this m-must be r-repulsive to y-you," he sobbed of being so physically close to Mycroft.

"Not repulsive," Mycroft said quietly. "Sad. I'm sad. I'm so sad. I love you so much and you're my little 'Lock. I hate it when you're in pain. I'm so sorry you went through that. I wish I could have saved you from it. I truly do. Please don't leave me. Don't go in your mind. It's not safe there right now. Please stay up here with me."

Sherlock nodded in swift agreement."I...I didn't....m-mean to...h-happened...I want l-leaving. I'm s-sorry I'm making you s-sad! Please d-don't leave m-me."

"I won't. I won't leave you, okay? I won't leave you ever. I swear on it. I swear." Mycroft had tears running down his face and he dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. For the first time in decades he felt terribly small and helpless, just when he needed to be big and strong for Sherlock.

Sherlock's expression crumpled at the sight of his brother crying and panic, sharp and nauseating, twisted his already pained gut. He gathered Mycroft to his chest, entire body shaking terribly as he combed his fingers through Mycroft's hair, trying to rock them but doing abruptly as pain laced across his back.

"It's ok-kay...M-My, I'm f-fine...I'm f-fine."

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hand and held it to the side of his head as he cried. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Now simply was not the time to disconnect. If he did, his cold indifference would likely scare Sherlock more than actually crying. 

"I'm alright. I'm just sad. I wish this hadn't happened. I want to help you. Please just know that I love you. Do you know that?"

Sherlock stared at Mycroft as he nodded slowly, trying to push away his own fear and pain to understand Mycroft's. He'd never seen his brother like this, and it was difficult in his foggy mind to understand if _he_ had done this, of if Mycroft was simply...sad? 

"I...It's m-my fault, I should n-n-never have...l-let myself....I know b-better than....than to t-try to l-love p-people. I know b-better. I d-did this...I w-wish it h-hadn't happened too. I'm s-s-sorry I survived it, M-My, I w-wasn't supposed....to be a b-burden l-like this I w-was supposed to die." 

He could feel the tight band of scarring at his neck where they'd cut into him in the car when he'd first been taken. He'd thought that was the end. "I am s-s-so sorry I l-let...let m-myself...f-fall in love I'm, g-god how I'm s-sorry. N-Never again, brother, I p-promise I'll n-never...I'm m-meant to be like you, I sh-shouldn't f-feel lonely I..." he couldn't carry on through his own self loathing, looking to his brother with pleading eyes, silently begging forgiveness, "n-never again, pl-please My...I'm sorry." 

"You are the closest person in the entire world to being like me, Sherlock, but we are nothing alike. I'm not lonely. Not really. Not anymore. You get lonely and I don't. You do better with people. Not on the outside, but you actually start to care about them. I should never have discouraged you from that. I was a bigoted arsehole. I am grateful everyday that you did not die. I'm so glad you're alive." 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's head to his chest and buried his face in his curls. "I am so sorry. I love you. Please don't say you deserve to die. You don't."

Sherlock stayed there in his brother's arms, not hearing the door as Miller quietly excused himself to give the men their privacy. He pulled at Mycroft's shirt and shook his head. "I m-made you cry. I've n-never made you c-cry. I'm sorry. I d-don't know h-h-how to f-fix..." _anything, and now you're going to leave just like John did._

_'I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock!_  
'I'm not abandoning you! I didn't abandon you!  
'I love you, Sherlock. I'm not leaving.' 

_'John's...going to need a long time to heal, away from you. Maybe in a few years you can properly say goodbye._  
'I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock. You're my brother and I love you.   
'I'll always be here when you need me. You never have to leave.' 

It was the same pattern, crystal clear to him as he ran over their words and his inability to fix anything at all. Everyone was gone except for Mycroft, and now he'd made him cry. Ice-cold, oily fear dripped down his spine, pooling in his gut, making his ears ring. There would be an aid, and that would be the perfect opportunity for My to distance himself and ultimately leave. Sherlock's mind set the whole thing to a time scale, watching as the next few months a subtle shift from Mycroft to the aid happened, and then would be the move of Sherlock out of his brother's room to the one down the hall, and finally Mycroft would be working abroad as often as possible, seeing Sherlock a few times a year, paying for him to languish in Mycroft's home. 

"I'll...I'll eat? Wh-what if I tried to eat again or...or I'll..." he whimpered at the idea of trying to move, still in pain as it was despite Miller's drugs, "I c-can't move r-right now but...but I can..." his heart began to gallop as he ran out of ideas. What could he do to make his brother happy again? His hands began to shake as he struggled to find something, anything, to help his brother forget that he'd been Moran's plaything and had violently woken him as a result. 

"I...I don't kn-know wh-what else to do...l-let m-m-me fix...f-fix it." 

Sherlock had made Mycroft cry before, but he felt no need to mention it. It was his first summer back from Uni. He had expected things to just click back into place for him an Sherlock as if he'd never left. But that had been very, very wrong. Instead he began to see carefully concealed evidence of a budding drug habit in his high school brother. 

He confronted him, but it did no good. He spoke kindly, but it did no good. He spoke angrily, but it did no good. 

He'd been a young man, full of ambition and vigor, crying into a pillow to muffle the sound. He was not an emotional man by any stretch of the imagination, but to come home and see his little 'Lock so changed had been a shock. 

Mycroft wondered if he had approached Sherlock in tears, if it would have made a difference. Judging by how his distress affected Sherlock now, it likely would have. 

Just another thing he'd done wrong. 

Mycroft wanted to sob, or to disconnect, but knew neither would help Sherlock. He shook his head and smoothed his voice. "I'm alright. Just sad. I love you, and it hurts me that they hurt you. It's nothing you've done. You and I made quick work of those who did this. You and I each killed the monster who hurt the one we love." 

Sherlock nodded slowly, wishing he felt more gratification from watching Moriarty drop at his feet. 

"I...I d-don't think John...e-even cares. N-Nothing I did… _nothing_ , m-matters to h-him in the sl-slightest. In his m-mind, Greg..." his chin dipped and he pulled Mycroft closer to him, washed in bitter grief, "h-he's never g-going to remember m-m-me for anything o-other than...than th-this. Nothing I did...n-none of it...m-matters. I don't matter." he trailed off as the unexpected wording poured from his mouth, shocking him silent as the truth cut through the core of him. He repeated it, breathless, "I...I don't matter." 

Perhaps he never had. He'd not thought so before John, and in John he'd found love and purpose, even if it was in a way that others would not understand. John accepted him for who he was. John defended him and chose to spend his time with Sherlock. 

He used to find his value in Mycroft, in his brilliant older brother. But then he'd gone to Uni, vanished without a single effort at communication, only mailing a brief card for Sherlock's birthday, even. My had left him without a backward glance. John had left him without a backward glance. The rest of those in his acquaintance regretfully had kept the Freak around for his usefulness, and now all of that was gone. 

"I don't matter. I- I'm j-just...just..." he shook his head and quietly closed his eyes, deeply grieved, sinking deeper into the standing depression that he'd been in for years now. 

"Sherlock, you can't base your worth on other people!" 

Mycroft curled Sherlock up in his arms as if actively protecting him from the terrors of his own low self esteem. 

"You matter to me! You really, truly do. You matter so much to me. You're my world. I need you. Little 'Lock, I don't think you understand how crushed I was when I came home from Uni, all ready to share what I'd learned and show you new tricks...only to find that you had a drug habit and wanted nothing to do with me. I didn't leave. I just...when I left for Uni it wasn't supposed to be the end of our relationship. It was supposed to be a young adult going to college. I just wanted to go to college. I didn't do it to spite you. I came back. I brought you things....which you didn't want." 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and saw him differently once again. He wasn't his little baby brother with chubby cheeks and bright eyes. He was his teenage brother, much too thin, tired, with dark circles under his eyes and a seven percent solution in his veins. 

"I never meant to hurt you by leaving. I thought I could just come back and things would be the same. You matter to me."

Sherlock kept himself quiet as he soaked in shame. It had been such a different reality for him. Mycroft left, and with it all the life in the house as well. "I...I'm s-sorry. I already...already t-told you that...I know it was stupid f-f-or me to be...ups-set that...you went away." 

He let go of Mycroft, abruptly feeling as though he had no right to cling to him anymore. 

"I...I h-had never been lonely and...th-then you left. S-So I tried...f-father played with m-me for a bit but...you l-left and Mummy just...went-back to her work and...I tried with...with the other children. I just w-wanted a f-friend. Stupid, so stupid. I didn't know th-that I was a freak until...until I tried to..." he trailed off, biting at his fingertips. "B-But I could...score and...and it w-wasn't lonely when I was h-high. Or...it w-was but it didn't hurt."

Mycroft abhorred it when Sherlock let go of him. 

"You aren't a freak! You're a wonderful man. I'm sorry. I had no idea. I didn't know you were lonely. I thought...I don't know. I thought you'd just go on playing without me. I shouldn't have gone, I should have stayed...or I should have explained better...or...or taken you with me. Something!" 

Sherlock laughed around his fingers, shaking his head as panic began to settle in where he'd been holding onto his brother. 

"You sh-should have done e-exactly as you did. Y-You n-n-needed to go to Uni. You needed to leave home. I ch-chose heroin, you didn't put that needle in m-my hand. I...I w-was just stupid. They...m-mummy and f-father...they were so proud of you but I...I d-didn't w-want to be a chemist or a doctor. I w-was a waste. E-even to them. You were...w-were the only..." he trailed off, closing his eyes as the memory pulled him sharply back to the hurt of being a very young teenager, "b-but I disappointed you too. S-So I j-just..." he shook his head and shivered as he tentatively reached back for Mycroft, frightened in the distance between them, despite it only being a small physical space. 

"Pl-Please...I'm s-sorry." 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock back to him as soon as he showed signs of wanting to be close again. "I was never angry with you. I was just angry. You're smarter than 99.98% of the world, and you were just..." 

He stopped. That wasn't going to get him anywhere. "I've been watching over you all your adult life," he said instead. "I knew you wouldn't want me to help you, so I'd tell Greg when it was a danger night. I studied your habits and behavior. I knew when you were likely to relapse. John....Lestrade...Mrs. Hudson...We all worked to keep you safe because we love you. You are very loved."

Sherlock had known that, but it was comforting to hear again. "I know...I'd n-never felt m-more safe. But that..." he trailed off and thought of the day he'd had to follow John's neighbor's idiot teenage son to a drugs den just to get John to remember he existed, and the reaction he'd gotten from everyone after. Yes, it had been to bait Magnussen, but it had also been an honest cry for help. 

"I...I w-was hearing John. Like I hear you n-now. The...the en-entire time I was 'dead,' and I c-couldn't m-m-make him sh-shut up. S-So...I f-f-fell back and..." he shook his head and hid his face in shame. "I'm s-sorry." 

Mycroft kissed Sherlock's temple and rocked them back and forth. "No, don't be sorry. You didn't do it to hurt anyone. You were lonely. I wish I could have seen you more. I wasn't trying to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. Never." 

Sherlock nodded and groaned as his stomach twinged again, beginning to sweat. "I..." he bit at his fingertips as a mix of fear and humiliation joined with physical pain. He'd of course been making trips to the lav, but he'd not had normal food and thus nothing had been frightening. Now though, the pain was sharp and his fear running high. 

"I d-don't want to e-eat anymore."

"That's understandable," Mycroft said gently. "But it would be better if we got you on a restricted diet instead. Something to keep you from having pain. I'll take care of you and make sure you don't have pain you can't handle. Miller will keep you medicated. I promise."

Sherlock kept one hand on Mycroft and wrapped the other around his gut. "I..." he whimpered and forced himself to calm down. This was absurd, "I need to...to be taken to the l-lav." 

Shame and fear nearly pulled him down, and could he have even crawled there himself he would have done. His hands shook as he dreaded his own body, loathing himself for indulging in food. 

"Okay," Mycroft said gently and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms "I'll take you. You're alright. This is perfectly normal. I've got you." He lifted Sherlock up off the bed and held him close to his chest. "You're okay. You're safe." He opened the door to the bathroom and the second one leading to the toilet. A ridiculous set up, really. 

"If you want, I can get you a bathrobe to keep covered with."

Sherlock shook his head, "I...a b-bit of...privacy please. I...I can manage I just...n-need..." he trailed off, sheet white and in a cold sweat, though looking imploringly to his brother. This...this he could not have an audience for. 

Mycroft set Sherlock on the toilet and stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. "Alright," he whispered. "I'll be out here. If you need me, call. I'll make sure nobody comes in." He turned and closed the door quietly behind him.

Fifteen agonizing minutes passed before Sherlock was finally back into his trousers, seated on the closed lid of the toilet. He was gasping for breath through heavy tears, arms wrapped around his gut, trembling hard and freezing cold. 

"My," he called out against his knees, doubled in half just after pulling the flush handle. "M-My." 

Mycroft was in before his name was called a second time, and he dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. "Hey, hey, it's alright. You're okay. I'm so proud of you. You're so brave." His own face was pale and his lips pressed into a thin line, but he let the tension bleed from him as he held his baby brother.

Sherlock reached out with a trembling arm and grabbed hold of Mycroft. "I w-want-t-t t-go t-bed," he managed through chattering teeth, cold to the touch. His face was a mess of tears, pale skin blotchy with a faint pink. 

"M-My," he repeated weakly, struggling to stay present, the sharp pain of minutes ago throwing him back hard into the recent past. 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and was very careful to keep him in a comfortable position. "Alright, 'Lock. We're going to bed. You're safe." He carried Sherlock back into his bedroom and set him down in the little dimple he'd made in the sheets. 

Protective anger still burned in him. He wanted to hold his Sherlock and snarl and hiss at anyone who came close. 

Sherlock held on to his brother and cried out when he was set down, afraid that Mycroft was going to physically let go of him. He pinched his eyes closed as Moran began to laugh from the far corner of the room, breathing terribly fast and shallow, fighting like hell to keep himself grounded. "My...h-help, help," he whispered, starting to sob in open fear. 

Mycroft sat down and folded Sherlock into his arms, then drew the covers up to protect him. "You're safe," he whispered. 

"I'm here. My is here. Nothing can hurt you while I'm here. Bit brothers protect their little brothers. I'll protect you."

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's shirt and held on to the material as his body shook so hard he was nearly convulsing. 

"I...I b-b-begged...I...a-after th-the f-f-f-first t-t-time I b-begged m-mercy. I h-had n-n-no idea...n-no un-underst-t-tanding of h-how..." he shuddered and clapped a hand over his ear, letting go of Mycroft, as Moran purred at him from across the room. 

_Kiss and Tell, Sherlock? Poor form._

He sobbed as he tried to turn himself in Mycroft's arms, horrified to have the threat at his back, looking wildly around the room for signs of the man. 

Mycroft wrapped the blankets tighter around Sherlock's hips and tried to sound calm. "I'm sorry that happened to you. You're a good man. It shouldn't have happened to you." He didn't think of his kid brother as a man, quite, but the statement still held firm. 

Sherlock tried to calm down, restricted in his ability to search out the room. Mycroft wouldn't let anyone near him, surely. He bit at his lip and held quiet, feeling incredibly sick at his stomach, just wanting to sleep. 

"C-Can...can I s-sleep? I d-don't feel w-well." 

Mycroft closed his eyes and nodded. "Sleep now, Sherlock. You're okay. I've got you. You're safe."

Nearly an hour passed before he could calm himself enough to find exhausted, dreamless sleep. He slowly went lax in Mycroft's arms, the tension bleeding out of him, though he was still lightly shaking. His breathing evened out, and after a few minutes of unconsciousness, a bit of color rose back up on his cheeks.

Mycroft rocked Sherlock and kept his own cheeks dry with a good bit of willpower. He wished now, more than ever, that he had kept Moran alive. He wished that he could examine Sherlock and figure out every single injury he had sustained, then done it all to Moran twice over. Let him heal. Go again. He wished he could keep him in the basement and cut him for the rest of his life. 

Mycroft had never been a particularly violent man, but the thought was cathartic. 

Miller came back to check on the men an hour after Sherlock had fallen asleep. He knocked very lightly on the door and let himself in. 

He looked to Mycroft, whispering softly, "How's he been?"

"He went to the restroom, then cried himself to sleep." Mycroft felt stiff from being still so long, and his eyes were damp with tears. 

Miller nodded, moving closer to get a better look at Sherlock. "We'll put him on a different diet, I was hoping there would not be pain. It may be that it's more psychological than anything physical. He didn't pass out or anything?" 

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't think so. He was alone for fifteen minutes. There was nothing in there for him to kill himself with. Please, i'd like this to be painless for him."

Miller nodded, looking closely at Mycroft. "Do you need a moment? I can sit with him if you need to take some time. I've already given the kitchen very specific instructions and will be adding to his daily regimen to help him in this. Paul is likely going to need to work with him, repetitive assault of that nature leaves far more psychological damage than physical."

Mycroft grabbed a handful of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him closer. "I'll take a break later. Not now. So close after this. I'll just wait with him. Thank you so much. I'm going to stay, though."

Sherlock came awake fast with a sharp intake of breath, his hand shooting out and grabbing Mycroft's wrist. At first his fingers moved as though he were going to try and twist in an effort to muscle him away, though less than a second layer his posture shifted from offence to protective defense, only understanding the sort of pain he felt combined with the pull at his clothing. 

"N-no," he sobbed, eyes still closed, unaware that it was just Mycroft.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer to him and shut his eyes. "I'm here. It's me. I'm sorry. You're okay. I've got you. Please, it's your brother."

Sherlock held tight to Mycroft and kept his eyes closed, struggling with himself. He deeply wanted Mycroft to have him, but his body hurt in a way that said nothing of his brother and everything of Moran. He clenched his jaw and turned his face against Mycroft's chest, even without knowing who had him. He'd been able to hide that way from Moran as well, even as it made the massive man laugh at his fear.

Mycroft hated the feeling of hurting his brother, even when he himself was doing nothing wrong. He gently petted Sherlock's hair and muttered soft things to him in an attempt to comfort him.

"'Lock?" After ten minutes of waiting, Mycroft's voice was soft, but thick with emotion. "Could you look up for a moment?"

Miller sat far away in silence, texting with Paul to keep him up to date on the situation. He looked up to watch Sherlock, holding his breath in hopes that Sherlock would ease off the locked up, defensive position and respond to his brother, who looked ready to dissolve into tears. 

Sherlock whimpered pathetically at the request and shifted in Mycroft's arms. For several minutes he did not dare open his eyes or turn his face from the safe pocket he'd found, but slowly his breathing became faster and, with frightened tears streaking down his face, he turned to look up at Mycroft. 

How small his baby brother looked, even with the strong and proud features of a man. Mycroft never truly stopped seeing Sherlock as a child, and saw no angular cheekbones or strong jaw. He saw wide eyes and a round face, and it broke his heart to see him in tears. 

"I love you," he managed to say without crying. "It's me. You know me, right?"

Sherlock stared up at Mycroft with completely blank, unfocused eyes, distancing himself as much as he was able to in anticipation of physical pain. Miller watched them as for several agonizing minutes Sherlock did not, in any way, react. 

Slowly though, as the time ticked by without pain, Sherlock dared to raise a shaking hand to touch the side of Mycroft's face, his eyes slowly focusing on his own fingertips. He followed the curve of Mycroft's jaw and then whispered his brother's name, as though not quite believing him there. "M-M-My?"

In equal parts, the older brother was relieved and sickened. It goes without saying why he was relieved. He was sickened, though, as Sherlock had clearly pressed his face against Mycroft's chest. Why would he hide against him if he did not know who he was? Had he forgotten so quickly?

Mycroft smiled and reached up to hold Sherlock's hand against his face. "Yes, 'Lock. It's me. I'm here. It's My. My is holding you. Nobody else."

Sherlock nearly pulled his hand back when Mycroft touched him, making a noise of fear though he stayed where he was. It reeked of smoke and blood, fear and sick. He was in pain. Significant, _private_ pain. He'd been screaming for his brother for days. 

He narrowed his eyes in confusion, staring hard at what he saw. He could not understand how a trick of this scale could be played. "My?" he repeated somewhat stupidly, as though trying to figure out a puzzle that he could not hope to understand. 

"Yes. My. I am Mycroft." He tapped it on Sherlock's arm in Morse, then repeated it in all the languages he knew, and a few he only knew a smattering of.

_Moran is not a linguist._

Sherlock's expression did not much change, other than to go a bit more wide-eyed. His arms, however, reached up and wrapped around Mycroft's neck, pulling himself up as close and tight as he possibly could as he lay there shaking horribly. He said nothing, breathing shattered against Mycroft's neck as he clung like his life depended on it to his brother.

"Yes, see? I've got you. It's me. I'd never hurt you. I love you so much." 

Mycroft was briefly empathetic for Sherlock in a new way. If Moriarty had told him to cut Sherlock in order to free him, he would have done it. But surely, he'd strike off his own hand after. How would he be able to have, on his own body, a hand so treacherous that it would mutilate someone so precious? He wondered how Sherlock felt about having to cut John. He'd never ask. 

Mycroft abolished such thoughts from his mind. "I love you. 'I'll love you 'till the ocean is folded and hung up to dry and the seven stars go squawking like geese about the sky.' I'm not leaving you. I'm here."

Sherlock was silent again for several minutes until his breathy response puffed damp and hot against Mycroft's neck. "W-Waxing Auden at m-me? H-He's a bit saccharine f-for you." 

As soon as the quip was made he tightened his arms around Mycroft in terror, sure that he would fade away. When he'd been so riddled with fever and close to death, his own mind had played terribly lucid, seemingly corporeal tricks on him. He was not willing to let Mycroft go. If he was going to die, it would be clutching his brother, not seeking reality. 

Mycroft let out a bit of a laugh as encouragement. "I suppose I've always had a weakness for sweet things, though I was sure the extent of it began and ended in the pastry shop." 

Mycroft hoped to goad Sherlock into teasing again, as over the years his favorite subject to repartee about had been Mycroft's weight.

Sherlock quietly lay there, listening to his brother. Did he know Auden before this? Could he have strewn together something like that from the shards of memory in his mind to create his brother in such perfect detail. Why not John? Why was this not John? If he'd the choice of only one person on earth, surely it would be...

Though...Mycroft had been a prat, a meddling, troublesome elder brother who was perpetually disappointed in him, but he'd never left, not truly. Uni did not count, not to the adult Sherlock, anyhow. Mycroft was _always_ there. John....John started hating him the moment he jumped off the roof. 

He pulled at his brother again, trying to bury closer, not yet dropping his guard. He wanted this for as long as he could have it. 

"You know it's me, right?" 

Mycroft pressed the matter again. He would not have Sherlock hide against him again without being sure. 

"Me, Mycroft. Do you remember what I was like as a child? Other than perpetually bigoted, that is. I suppose I was never exceedingly thin either. Come on. It's me. I'm not anyone bad. Just Mycroft. Just your brother."

Sherlock's expression crumpled and he began to openly cry, his breathing shifting and the nature of his clinging altering to something more confused and afraid. He didn't want to talk about reality, he just wanted his brother, not Moran. 

Mycroft. Not Moran. 

This had to be Mycroft. 

He needed this to be Mycroft. 

Even if he started hurting again, Mycroft would be with him and that was enough. He shook his head and buried deeper against Mycroft's neck, willing him to stay close. 

"It's me, Mycroft. Mycroft." He didn't know if he was getting anywhere. This was the same damn cycle. How would he survive hours of this? The uncertainty was maddening.   
"Please, my little 'Lock, I'm here and I love you."

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and pulled Mycroft closer.

"D-Don't leave," he whispered, "st-stay w-w-with m-me. Wh-what do you think? Another hour? A...god don't s-say another d-day. Not a whole day. Pl-please don't leave me. St-stay." 

"I won't leave you. I won't leave you. I promise. I'll stay. I'm sorry I had to leave before. I won't do it again. You're in my home now. This is where I stay. I stay here, and you stay here. I stay with you." 

Mycroft tilted his head back and blinked at the ceiling to clear his eyes.

Despite the fatigue on his muscles, Sherlock kept very close to Mycroft, holding incredibly tight. He nodded again with animation, openly relieved. For several minutes he was silent as he taxed himself to muscle failure, speaking as his strength began to flag. 

"Do...you think...he'll g-g-give m-me back to you?"

Mycroft's spiris dropped from somewhere in his chest and shattered at his feet. He nodded, then corrected himself. "I had Moran killed and stole you back," he whispered. 

"He was shot dead and I took you home. I brought you somewhere safe and he is dead. You're safe. Forever."

Sherlock whimpered pathetically as his limbs began to give out, stopping him from being able to hold to Mycroft as desperately as he wanted. "He's...st-still h-here...that's...he's st-still..." he shuddered and reached up to his own mouth, fingers tracing his lips, one fingertip rubbing over a thick scar that bisected across both upper and lower near the left corner of his mouth. He drew his hand away, expecting blood. When he didn't find it, he frowned, tongue darting out to lick where he obviously expected a gash. 

He looked up at Mycroft again then, a different quality to his confusion. 

"I..." he shifted his thighs, making his hips move very slightly before a sob tore up out of his throat, "f-feels l-like..." he clamped his jaw shut, starting to look about in expectation of finding Moran there, vision blurred as tears fell fast and heavy. 

Mycroft shook his head and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's face. "No, it wasn't him. You've just...Ah...You've been eating more regularly. You just had a trip to the lav, and it upset you. Nothing to worry about. You're safe. I promise. Truly. I wouldn't let anything like that ever happen to you."

Sherlock tensed and looked up at his brother in wide-eyed worry. "It...it _did_ h-happen! I...I w-wouldn't imagine...I...th-that wasn't....the l-lav? I...n-no he...why a-are you s-saying...I...I kn-know he..." Sherlock slapped a hand over his own mouth and stared up at Mycroft with watery, confused eyes, his expression crumpled. Moran had been at him time after time after time. It had happened. The scar on his lip confused his timeline, but he knew he'd been hurt in that way. Mycroft's denial confused him terribly. 

"It did happen, but not today. Not in...months. You've been safe for months. I've got you nice and safe with me. Look around. You're in my house." 

He gestured briefly at the room, then wrapped his arm back around Sherlock.

Sherlock refused to look, happy to stay where delusion of safety could be maintained. He shook his head and pulled closer to Mycroft. "I'm s-sorry!" Anything to keep himself in Mycroft's arms and not thrown back into reality, "p-please, I'm s-sorry. S-scared, I g-got scared. Pl-please l-let m-me stay h-here. I c-can't anymore. N-Not today, please!" 

"Okay," Mycroft replied, though he was not sure what he had done wrong. "You can stay. You can stay. You are going to stay. If that is the only point I can get through, then so be it. I just want you to know that I care about so you so very much."

Sherlock brought his shaking arms to his chest, one hand back to his lips, the other wrapped in the material of Mycroft's shirt. He said nothing else, frightened and exhausted, and within ten minutes he was back asleep. His breathing slowly evened out and his tears began to dry on his face.


	10. Chapter 10

Miller took a deep breath and whispered to Mycroft, "Do you want something for nerves?"

Mycroft nodded and let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding. It ruffled Sherlock's curls and he dropped his head down. "That...We can not allow that to happen again."

Miller stood up quietly and went to fetch Mycroft his pills from the dresser, walking over and handing them to Mycroft with a glass of water. "I'm going to do what I can, but...he needs psychotherapy and likely another stay in hospital to get this all properly handled. I'm worried that it caused him so much pain, but without a proper exam I can't know if it's mental, physical, or the more likely mix of both."

At the word 'exam', Mycroft practically hissed. He shook his head and held Sherlock a bit tighter. "I'd rather not," he said breathlessly. "Sorry, but last time...There was a fuss and....It's his decision. I won't have anyone touching him without his permission. I apologize for my strong reaction."

Miller put his hands up and shook his head. "I'm not keen on the idea either, Mycroft, nor was I suggesting it. I'm just telling you where my current limitations are." 

He physically backed up to give Mycroft a moment to calm down. Greg had decked him last time he'd gotten a look like that, and he did not doubt for a moment that Mycroft was capable of one hell of a blow if he was defending Sherlock. 

Mycroft blinked at the blue words in front of him, then applied each of the precautions he'd set in place against each one. 

_Protective rage._  
-Violence prone  
-Anger prone  
\--Take moment to calm  
\--Isolate anger  
\--Identify enemy  
\--Apologize for any outbursts 

Mycroft bowed his head and listened to Sherlock breathe for a moment. "I am sorry," he said softly. "My anger was not directed at you. I am upset for my brother." _Possessive language._ "But I'm sure you understand. Thank you for the help."

Miller shook his head and returned in the same quiet voice. "I know, Mycroft, I know. It's perfectly alright. Greg landed one and frankly, it wasn't an issue. These men need protection and they need to see protection. You're allowed your rage, if he was my baby brother...you've been holding together tremendously well. The day in, day out of it all is exhausting. I don't like frightening him or hurting him, it's just often needed for his health. Speaking of which, and please forgive my timing, but ortho laid into me about going days on end without turning his pins. I'm not going to touch him right now, but in a few hours, we simply have to get that done."

Mycroft looked up at Miller with appreciation. It was good to hear that he didn't like hurting Sherlock, even if he already knew it.

Disgust showed on his features for a fraction of a second. Since when did he need to be coddled? 

"Thank you. We can turn them whenever you're ready. If you think he won't feel it, we can do it now."

Miller shook his head. "He always feels it. It's not pain, I know it's not pain, but I can't imagine what it's like for him with that residual feeling of something along the bone. It's the thing I hate the most in having to do for him. I'd rather leave it for when he's not confused about _you_ , at the very least. Him clenching that jaw...do you notice if the mask ever helps with that? Does he do it often when we've got oxygen on him? Oxygen helps with pain and anxiety, and it's an easy palliative thing we can do for him if it helps him feel any safer." 

"I'd like to get it done as soon as possible. Maybe we can sedate him. Would it hurt? I truly don't want him to feel it. He deserves some calm today after what happened." He looked up at Miller entreatingly. 

Miller shook his head, "I've loaded him to the gills with painkillers already and he still has," he looked at the clock and then back to Mycroft, "three hours on those. It won't be painful, if you want me to do it now then I will."

Mycroft wanted to ask him to never, ever move the pins. But if Sherlock was medicated, then now was the time. "Let's just get it over with, then."

Miller nodded, "What about the oxygen? Do you ever find it to help? He keeps clamping up that jaw and I just wonder if he has something over his face if he'll feel more protected?" 

He spoke as he gathered his materials, needing the skin to be perfectly clean before starting.

Mycroft placed his hand lovingly on Sherlock's face. "He was...I believe he was abused in ways that would make him want to keep his mouth closed. I don't know about the mask. I've seen him rip it off in fear, and I've seen him react positively. I suppose it depends on where he is in his mind."

That was understandable. Miller moved to the bedside and got the mask, turning the flow on and handing it to Mycroft. "Then let's try, it is always recommended with panicking patients if we can get him comfortable with it. Maybe he'll just sleep." 

He settled on the bedside and gently took Sherlock's arm away from his chest, drawing Sherlock's fingers away from his lips and resting his hand down on the bedding so that he could begin to clean around the posts. 

Sherlock's fingers twitched and his brows drew down slightly, but he otherwise did not give any indication of waking. 

Mycroft put his own arm across Sherlock's chest to protectively replace the one that had been drawn away and nodded to Miller to proceed. He stared at Sherlock's face intently, with as much concentration as someone on the bomb squad.

Sherlock slept through Miller cleaning around the pins, already pinking up with the oxygen on his face. Miller was very careful as he moved, handling Sherlock like spun glass. 

He even managed to turn the first pin without any reaction from Sherlock at all, not so much as a shift in breathing. The second, however, had healed more to the skin and began to bleed nearly the moment it was turned at all. This was the tighter of the two, and Sherlock keened from behind the mask as he tried to pull his arm away, even in his sleep. Miller was forced to hold him in place to get the pin to the correct setting, which frightened Sherlock into abrupt, wide-eyed, screaming consciousness not twenty minutes after falling asleep from the earlier trauma.

Mycroft started with everything he knew to do. He tapped on Sherlock's arm to tell him who he was in iambic pentameter, spoke loudly, and rocked him gently. "It's alright, little 'Lock. I've got you. You're safe. I'm here. I love you."

Sherlock had not woken up with the feeling of metal twisting in his bones, or his hands restrained, in quite some time. He had yet to open his eyes as he began to give honest, panicked fight. 

"Sherlock!" Miller called out, having to clamp down hard on Sherlock's pinned arm to keep him from hurting himself as he swiftly finished the adjustment. It had been less than three minutes since he'd even begun to do anything. 

Thrown headlong into panic, Sherlock twisted violently in Mycroft's grip, fighting against them with everything he had left, which was not much after the difficult morning. Terrified curses flew from his lips, snarling in a mix of language as his exhausted mind worked to protect him. 

Mycroft matched every language Sherlock shouted out and wrapped him in his arms. When Miller was finished, he took Sherlock's arms and crossed them over his chest, where he could hold them still without it feeling like cuffs. 

"My! My! I'm here! It's me! 'Lock, I'm here!"

Sherlock screamed as though burned as he was held and thrashed in Mycroft's arms, completely unaware of what was happening, reacting on instinct with rage and fear. He clamped his hand over the pins in his arm, sobbing as he felt the metal, quaking fingers wrapping around the metal in an effort to free them from his skin. 

Miller saw what Sherlock was trying to do, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's wrists, "Sherlock! No, don't pull those," he said as gently as he could, his words drown out by the sound of Sherlock screaming in panic and defeat. 

Mycroft pried Sherlock's hand away and pressed it flat against his chest. "I'm sorry, 'Lock. Please, I'm here. I'm sorry. I've got you, I'm Mycroft. Mycroft! I'm right here!" 

He hugged Sherlock tight and rocked back and forth. 

Sherlock screamed until his voice gave out, leaving him hoarse and breathless. When he'd finally exhausted himself, throat raw and vocal chords worthless, he turned his face to hide against the chest pinning him, sobbing as the rage bled away, leaving him gasping in fright. 

Mycroft was disgusted. Clearly, Sherlock had no idea who he was, but still he hid on him. Mycroft let out a choked sound of despair and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I'm here," he whispered. "Please look at me."

Sherlock lay against Mycroft, the mask askew from his desperate attempt at shielding his face, doing the only thing he could to hide and protect himself. He beg to sob quietly against the base of Mycroft's ribs, his raw voice wrapping around 'My,' on each exhalation, hardly audible. 

Miller looked up to Mycroft and then down to Sherlock. "I can't sedate him without compromising his breathing, it's too early."

Mycroft let out a hitched breath. Had Sherlock hid against Moran's chest like this? Had he cowered for protection? 

"My," he whined pathetically. "It's My. I'm here. I love you. Please, 'Lock, look at me."

Sherlock carried on like that for what seemed to Miller an eternity, though in reality was likely closer to ten minutes. It seemed to dawn on him that there was no pain occurring, that he was still being allowed to hide without any sort of torment inflicted. 

Sherlock carefully flexed his fingers, feeling that his wrists were still being pinned, though the chest he was pressed against was not as broad or solid as he expected. He whimpered as he tried to understand what was happening to him, keeping quiet in fear of upsetting Moran. He was exhausted, muscles at their limits, pain thrumming through him. 

"Please," he croaked, eyes still pinched shut, "n-not t-t-today. I...m-mercy...pl-please, _please m-mercy."_

Mycroft slowly released Sherlock's hands and unwrapped his arms. He let go entirely, utterly sickened that Sherlock thought he was Moran, and still curled against him. "I'm sorry," he pleaded. "I'm sorry. Please, little 'Lock, it's me!"

Fear and relief mixed in a freezing, oily syrup in his belly as he was released. Sherlock pulled into as tight of a ball as he could manage with his broken body, shielding his face under the bend of his elbow and wrapping his hand around the back of his neck, the other arm doing it's best to cover his back. He cried as he began to rock himself, pulling at his hair to try and find any other focal point. 

At least when Moran had him against his chest, he could feel what was coming, could know if Moran was going to lean over him and carve into his back or touch him. This was either exposure for the sake of shock, or it was a reprieve. Pain raged through his bones as he shuddered constantly, trembling in fear.

Cautiously, Mycroft laid his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder so it would be the only contact he had. Surely, then, he'd notice it. 

Mycroft tapped his name three times, then said who he was in several languages, all in Morse. "Please," he said aloud, "please come back to me."

Sherlock startled and flinched hard away from the hand at his shoulder. 

It wasn't until his brother's pleading voice that anything got through. The tone of Mycroft's strained plea was shocking enough that he doubted he'd be able to create it in his head. 

Slowly he opened his eyes and followed the body beside him to Mycroft's face, going very still. 

In the next moment Sherlock was a whirl of activity, letting go of his hair and grabbing Mycroft violently, nearly climbing him in a bid to escape. He was desperate and panicked to be protected himself. He attempted speech but the words snagged in his throat, only making clipped, choked efforts at sound. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft exclaimed as he wrapped him fully into his arms again. "I'm so sorry he did this to you.I'm so sorry. I should have been faster. I should have-" Mycroft's voice cut off on a sob and he pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I'm so sorry. I'm here now. I've got you. I love you. I love you. Please don't leave.I'm here. I've got you."

Sherlock struggled with panic for the next five minutes, carrying on with the abortive attempts at speech, breathing too fast and too shallow to produce anything intelligible at all. He buried his face against Mycroft's neck, constantly trying to get closer to him, whining on every exhalation. Miller swore and began to punch up calculations, trying to find a safe way to give Sherlock something to help bring this completely intolerable level of panic down. 

"Breathe, Sherlock," he whispered from beside Mycroft, deeply troubled with how shallow of an effort he was getting. The mask lay hissing uselessly around Sherlock's neck, doing nothing in Sherlock's defensive, frightened position to help. 

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's back and rocked slowly in an effort to influence his breathing to conform to the rhythm. Mycroft took exaggerated breaths to give example and held Sherlock as if actively trying to hold him in. 

"Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. You're doing so well, my little 'Lock."

Sherlock whimpered and held on tight to Mycroft, though he very slowly was able to replicate Mycroft's breathing. Over the next half hour, Miller was able to get the mask back in place and Sherlock went slowly lax, wrapped around his brother like a child, the tension bleeding out of his muscles as he fell back asleep without a word, curls sticking to his forehead and breath hitching as he dropped out. 

Mycroft was openly weeping by the time Sherlock was calm. He had tears running down his face, his breath hitched despite the forced calm he needed Sherlock to replicate. Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and squeezed his eyes shut. 

"He..." An attempt to speak was just met with a sob he's been suppressing, and Mycroft gave up on conversation with Miller.

Miller cautiously moved to the edge of his seat and tentatively reached out a hand, resting it on Mycroft's shoulder as he used the other to pull the blankets up over Sherlock's back. 

Very quietly he spoke to Mycroft as he did his best to get the brothers settled. "He is getting lost far less than John did, and has been doing very well under your care. I cannot imagine how difficult this is for you, but he's doing very well considering everything, as are you. Let yourself breathe, he knew he was safe when he fell asleep, you calmed him down." 

He very slowly let go of Mycroft and eased pillows under his arms, careful as he leaned over Sherlock's back to get to Mycroft's other side. The fan was going full, creating a good breeze in the room, and Miller was hopeful that they'd sleep. 

Mycroft broke down harder than he had in decades. He sobbed into Sherlock's shoulder, and it took quite some time for him to calm down enough to speak. 

"I apologize," he said roughly. "I'm sorry. I should control myself better. He...I find it distressing that Sherlock continued to hold onto me even when he thought I was Moran."

Miller nodded and spoke softly. "From what I saw of the tapes...it did not look as though he had much choice in it. He was holding on as one would grip a shark when he didn't know you. Look how he clings to you now...it is completely different."

He handed Mycroft a box of tissue and water. "I'm guessing you've a headache, let me give you something for that. If you can sleep, you should try. Please, feel free to be as you are, there is no need for apology."

"It's just that I still see him as a child," Mycroft said softly. "I know he isn't, but I still see him as my little 'Lock." Mycroft shifted Sherlock in his arms so he was cradled like a baby and rocked without being actively aware of it.

Miller quietly went and got Mycroft something for pain, handing the tablets over. "I can't imagine, Mycroft. I just...you are an outstanding sibling, and I'm honored to help in any way I can." 

Mycroft shut his eyes and buried his face down in Sherlock's curls. "I'm not an outstanding sibling. I hold myself accountable. I shouldn't have let Sherlock into that building."

Miller sat back down, glad to have Mycroft talking. The poor man needed an outlet. 

"Mycroft, I doubt you or all the hounds of hell would have kept him from doing that. This is an impossible situation, and you are handling this with more grace than I think anyone on earth would. Genuinely, even if you went round the bend now, that would still hold true." 

"I love him. He is my baby brother. It stems from when I was young. I hated not being taken seriously by my parents and the entire adult world. It's a terrible thing to be spoken to as if you're a child, even if you just happen to be one. When Sherlock was born, my mother was serious with me for the first time. She told me Sherlock was my responsibility." 

Mycroft closed his eyes and drew in a long breath before continuing. "And I took that very seriously in an effort to prove myself." 

Miller whistled quietly through his teeth. "That's a lot of responsibility for a kid. He's a man now, though, Mycroft.He made his choices. I'm not implying he deserved this, god knows he didn't, but this is not your doing. It's very clear you love him, and he loves you." 

As if on queue, Sherlock shifted and pressed tighter against his brother's neck, his head still damp from cold-sweats, and muttered Mycroft's name before dropping back into deep sleep. 

Mycroft nodded slowly. "It's a lot of responsibility for a child. It was illogical for me to take it so seriously. It's ridiculous for me to still be affected by a childhood responsibility." 

He smiled down at Sherlock and nestled him into his shoulder.

Miller exhaled very slowly, allowing some of the tension out of his own shoulders. "You pair have got to sleep more, you are exhausted. I can stay in here, if it would help, that was you'd know there are other eyes on him as well. How can I best help you right now?"

Mycroft slowly leaned back and rested his head against the pillows. "If you could just tell me how to best help him, that would be wonderful. Other than that, I don't know. I'll get some rest now."

Miller stood up then and let himself out of the room, leaning his back against the wall as he exhaled slowly. A few moments later he was texting Paul, filling him in on what had happened, for once, not bothering to ask after John. He needed a minute to clear his own head before adding a second patient to the mix. 

Mycroft ended up with Sherlock on his chest. He closed his eyes and listened to his baby brother's breathing as he worked through the day's event in his mind. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Greg began to come awake as the room grew a faint shade of pink. He pulled John closer to him, smiling at the weight of the dog at his feet. He buried his face at the back of John's head and breathed in deep, enjoying the peace for however long it lasted. 

John, who had been awake for just a few minutes, smiled and turned his face to nuzzle against Greg's neck. "Morning, love," he said quietly and kept his eyes shut in peaceful bliss. 

Greg inhaled deeply and smiled in return. "Morning," he whispered, looking up at the window a the quality of the sky shifted. 

"Are you hungry? Can I make you something?" 

"Yeah, food would be great. Just great." 

He stretched his legs out and wrapped both arms around Greg's neck. There was a nagging sadness in his chest, like a wound that wouldn't quite heal. John's expression clouded and he looked down for just a moment. The things Paul had spoken to him about were on a back shelf in his mind. 

Greg watched John's expression change and decided not to push it until after breakfast. He needed John eating. "Wait here and find something on telly while I go get it? I want to laze about for a bit in bed, if that's alright?" 

He got up and stretched his legs, hoping that he'd be able to get a meal into John before the sadness of the day before reached him. 

John nodded and sat up. "Okay. I'll stay here. Thank you." He curled back down in the warm spot made by himself and Greg. He was disconnected from the pain and troubles, but his sense of self hatred was still weighing on his neck like a stone. Not actively painful, but crushing nonetheless. 

Greg was swift in the kitchen, adding the caloric powder to John's food as Miller had instructed, making him two eggs, toast, peeling an orange, and brewing John tea. He grabbed a biscuit for the dog, and coffee for himself. Fifteen minutes later Greg was returning, smiling as he entered the room. 

"Gladstone," he called quietly, tossing the dog the biscuit and scratching his head after setting everything down.He peeled himself a banana as he sat down beside John, brushing his fingers through John's hair. "Let's eat." 

John had the covers over his head and he pulled them down to make room after Greg came in. He started on his eggs happily, with a placid look on his face.

"Greg?" His voice was soft, and he looked up with an honest expression of exhaustion. 

Greg swallowed the last of the banana, licking his finger before setting the peal on the tray. He picked up his coffee and was sipping at it when John spoke his name, turning his attention to him instead of his own thoughts. John always caught him off guard like this, when all that time ago John had looked at Greg with the same fear as he did Sherlock and the hospital staff. Here he sat, eating and happy to be in Greg's company. 

"Hmm?" He responded, brushing his knee against John's warmly, though with worry. John looked ready to drop for want of more sleep, though they'd had nearly ten hours.

John looked down, then back up, clearly indecisive. He reached up and brushed his fingers across Greg's cheek. Greg was beautiful in his eyes, and he looked at him with admiration. 

"You're amazing," he said in a quiet, distracted tone. "I was just wondering...and I know you don't like questions...but I need to know something. I don't know where I'll be in a few years. Before, I didn't even think I'd be around that long. But now, I want to stay. I just need to know what I'll be doing with Sherlock."

Greg had leaned slightly into John's hand when he brushed along his cheek, relaxing at the soft touch. The question, however, restored tension to his shoulders and he very carefully schooled his face. 

"With...with Sherlock," he repeated slowly. "Eh...I...John I have no...what you said to Paul, I took that to mean..." he trailed off and cleared his throat, "it's entirely up to you, John. You don't have to be doing anything at all with him." 

John saw Greg's face change and sat up to kiss his cheek. 

"I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I just hurt you, didn't I?" John looked down and intertwined his fingers with Greg's. 

"I never wanted to say I didn't want Sherlock. I said I want to keep helping him. Why does that...why is that so hard? Why do you keep telling me to leave him be? If...if it's because...because I hurt him..." John's heart twinged in his chest and he shut his eyes tight. 

"If you're just trying to be gentle with me, and I'm really just bad for him, then please, just say it. Am I more hurt than good for him? If so, tell me, and I'll shut up about him forever." 

The last word choked out and John clamped a hand over his mouth. He most definitely did not want that. 

Greg turned to fully face John, brushing his own fingers through John's hair. "Hey, hey," he whispered, trying to get John's full attention before he began to explain, "let's just...slow down and make sure we are both understanding one another, okay? I really need to be sure you are hearing what I'm meaning to say." 

He took a slow breath as he gathered John's hands in his, brushing his thumbs over John's knuckles. 

"First, I need you to know that if you have questions, you should ask them. You didn't hurt me, John. Some of this stuff is just...difficult." 

He took a moment to make sure John was still with him. "Paul talked about something really hard for you the other day. Do you remember?"

John had retained Greg's eyes until he spoke of the previous day, at which point he dropped them away. "He said things that hurt, but you stopped him." 

Cautiously, as one would open the lid of a box containing a live snake, John reached back for the memory. Immediately he felt a sharp stab of confusion, fear, and self loathing.

"I remember," he gasped, and shied away from Greg's gaze. 

Greg kept hold of John's hands with enough pressure to let John know he very much wanted to hold them, without squeezing down so that John could not escape. "Stay with me, John. Stay right here with me, I'm not trying to get into the details of that with you. I had to bring it up so that I can answer your question." 

He brushed his thumb over John's knuckles again, very gently, and spoke quietly and with great care. "Paul said that...that as long as you are still...stuck....you're not going to be able to help him. I...I have to agree, John. I love you, no matter what you chose to do, hell, I don't even know if it is a _choice_ for you or not. Maybe you'll be ready someday, maybe not. John, please hear me that it doesn't change how I feel about you, okay?"

John began to take quicker breaths, and he squeezed Greg's hand, afraid he'd let go and draw away. "I'm confused," he whined. "I'm confused! I...I'm not... I can't be the same man! I'm not him anymore! He's bad! He was bad! The person I became was awful and terrible!" 

While he spoke so violently against it, something in him didn't believe that he was anything other than the hateful creature he had been shaped into by Moriarty. 

He verbally rebelled against it while the sheer horror of it took root in his mind. "No! I'm not! I c-can't be! I've been doing so well! I've been trying to help! I didn't hurt...I hurt him though...but I didn't mean to! It doesn't count!" 

Tears burned in his eyes even though he had only half finished his breakfast and the day was still young. "Greg, p-please, tell me...tell me I'm not him! Tell me I'm not!" 

Raw desperation laced heavily with pain dragged his voice to something low and gravely. 

Greg spoke swift and the words came easily. John typically reacted in opposite of this, holding on to the idea of Pavlov with rabid desperation. 

"Of course you're not him, John. You're John Watson, and every day you heal a little more. You are a good man. Hey," he shook his head and pulled John into his arms, "breathe for me, John. Let's take some breaths. I think you've misunderstood what Paul was trying to say. I know this is scary, please try and calm down so I can talk to you about it." 

John shook his head in confusion. "I don't understand," he whispered and pressed his face down onto Greg's neck. His emotions changed quickly, back and forth, never staying still. He hated Pavlov. He needed to be him to stay safe. 

He wasn't him anymore.   
He still was. 

John could hear Moriarty's soft voice in his mind, purposefully twisting things around so they no longer made sense. "I don't know," John whined. "He wants me confused. I'm confused. I don't know! I don't know! Help, please. Greg, I don't know. Please tell me what's happening." 

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he hated Pavlov. That if he was Pavlov, he deserved punishment. He deserved horrible, unspeakable things done to him. That was not to say that he wanted them done, but he did feel they were justified. He'd been made to believe that he was at fault, and each stripe on his back felt like a reminder of a wrong he'd done. 

But Pavlov, while deserving of pain, was all he had to protect against it. It was the only thing that made Moriarty happy. It was his only tattered blanket between himself and the whip. 

Greg grew very worried, very fast. 

"John, look at me," he said as he leaned back and took John's face in his hands, needing John to stay present. "Keep looking at me. Remind yourself where you are. This is our room, with your massive Gladstone right here," he looked down at the muzzle resting on John's thigh, massive tail slowly thumping on the mattress, "you are safe, and Moriarty is dead. I want to help you with this, but I'm not sure how. You are not the man that Moriarty wanted you to be, and that's a good thing. You are a good man. You do good things. I love you. Sometimes you just forget what your reality is. Tell me where you are, love. Tell me where you are." 

John sniffled and reached back to pet Gladstone. The dog stretched forward and nuzzled his hand happily, which helped John stay in the warm, safe room, rather than finding himself in a cold, hellish warehouse. He scratched under the dog's chin and Gladstone promptly set his massive head back down on John's thigh, effectively trapping his hand underneath. 

John smiled sadly at his dog and looked back to Greg. "Safe. Home. I'm home. I've got Greg. I just..." He pulled his hand back from Gladstone and knotted it in the fabric of Greg's shirt. "I don't know. I'm confused. Am I...? Am I him? Am I still what Moriarty wants me to be?" 

The question held more weight than John had expected, due to it's doubly terrible answers. If the answer was yes, and he still was, then he was a person deserving of pain. John had not moved past blaming himself for each and every mark on his body. He'd done something wrong each time. It was never unwarranted. 

If the answer was no, then he'd lost his protection. He was cast naked onto the cement floors to lie in his own blood, bare as at the mercy of whatever Moriarty decided to torment him with that day. His semblance of protection would be removed, and it terrified him. 

Greg deeply wished Paul was in the room. This was that massive core at the center of John's trauma, and he felt like a layman attempting heart surgery. 

He covered John's hand where he clung to his shirt and took a deep breath, speaking very softly. 

"John...that's..." he shook his head, his own heart thumping hard against his ribs. Oh, he was going to screw this up. "I mean...John...look, okay, first it started as something you had to act as, yeah? Like, first you had to just...go with it, even though you didn't believe it, right? You're sort of like that right now, instead of going into it, you're coming out."   
He watched John very closely as he tried to gauge his reaction to that, holding his breath and praying silently that he'd said something that at least wasn't catastrophic.

John pressed his face against Greg's chest now and felt impossibly small. He'd never been particularly tall, but he'd always made up for it with broad shoulders and the way he carried himself. Now he was thin. Small. Frail. Broken. John drew his knees in close when he wasn't given a definitive answer. Not that he'd wanted one. 

"I w-was b-bad from the first day," John said quietly. "I was bad. Didn't obey. Should have just...I was prideful, arrogant, stubborn...so stubborn...I was bad. I shouldn't have been so bad. And n-now I'm being good. I'm not like I was." 

He believed, in some foolish way, that Moriarty had never done anything he didn't deserve. They had been simple requests, really. In the beginning. He'd be asked to do menial, often submissive things that his pride simply would not allow. He'd be asked to say lies about Sherlock. He'd refused, and been beaten. 

"I'm scared," John whispered, and he was very scared indeed. He was just as scared as he was in an active flashback, though he was completely aware of where he was. 

Greg wrapped John up tight in his arms and began to rock him slowly, hoping the rhythm would help calm him down. "John...you were not bad. You were not meant to obey a psychopath. Sherlock didn't obey him either, but he's not bad. He was resisting a bad man, doing bad things. Same as you were. There is nothing bad about that. He never had the right to order you around and he never had the right to hurt you." 

He stopped talking then, his heart thumping down in his toes. He wanted to call Paul in to help, but John had been so deeply upset by Paul that he chose not to, hoping he could navigate them somewhat.

John could not accept that the things Moriarty had done were anything other than justified. The psychopath had been careful about that aspect. He'd never simply beaten John. He needed to make it a punishment, so he'd wait until John did something against the rules, trick him into it, or give him an impossible task to complete. 

But he knew, logically, that Moriarty was a terrible person. "Confused," he stated again. "He...only what I deserved. If I did it all right he was good to me. If I wasn't an idiot he'd be nice." 

Moriarty had made certain he never hurt John without cause, and always rewarded him for good behavior. In fact, while he did not punish him randomly, he did give John random blessings, such as a blanket, or a pillow, or morphine. "Always reason. He always had a reason to h-hurt me. I was stupid. And if I-I wasn't stupid; nice things. Sometimes nice things just because."

Greg shook his head, tamping down on furious anger that this had been done to John, that he'd been played with so horrifically. 

"Never just because, John. No. I...how do I help you see this? You already do see it though,it's not...connected," he was talking out loud from sheer nerves. John knew he'd been trained, he knew Sherlock had to a much more crude degree. He knew at times what Moriarty had done, he just couldn't connect it when he felt like- 

"John...what if he did just do it for no reason? What if you didn't deserve any of it, and it just was done to you because Moriarty was insane? What would that mean to you?"

John whimpered and shook his head again, not because he disagreed, but because he didn't like what was being discussed. "No. Never for no reason. I...I was stupid. Punishments. Always punishments. I w-was a bad person.He m-made me n-not make mistakes. I hate it. I hate what I was. Never for no reason. Only nice things for no reason.

Greg held John tight and inhaled deeply. "That's not what I asked, love. What..what would it mean if it had been for no reason, the pain, what if it was just because he liked to hurt you?"

John squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears. "No, I deserved it," he claimed in a rush. "I hate him but I-I always deserved it."

Greg reached down with one hand and pulled his mobile up, texting Paul with his arms still wrapped around John's back. 

_Help._

He then set the phone down and leaned back, looking at John and gently taking John's hands from his ears. He held John's hands to his own chest, just under his neck, and spoke softly to him. 

"What if you didn't?"

John flinched again and shook his head. "I did! I clearly did! Didn't f-follow orders, c-couldn't even....couldn't answer right...I'm an idiot. Don't say that. Don't. I'm...I'm an idiot."

Paul very quietly let himself into John's room, leaving the door open and sitting where John would be able to see him, but he was far away. For the moment, he simply listened to get a feel of what was happening. 

Greg was quiet for a moment. Obviously this was where the block was. If they could ever manage to get around it, perhaps some deeper progress could be made and he could reach John, who had not surfaced for more than a month now. 

Greg brought John's knuckles to his lips and brushed his lips over them, eyes closed as he struggled with what to say next. 

"John...you know that I love you, yeah?"

When Paul cane in, John began to cry. He looked up with defeat, not panic, and his shoulders shook gently. He turned away and wrapped both arms around Greg's neck. 

John gave him a sad smile that did not touch his tear filled eyes. "I know. I love you too." 

It was clear that John was upset by Paul's presence. Greg held a hand to the back of John's neck, the other wrapped tight around him as he rocked John gently. 

"You don't have to talk to Paul, John. I only asked him in here because I...I love you so, so much and I'm scared that I'll say something wrong. You don't have to talk to him, okay? If you want him to leave, you say the word." 

He nuzzled against John, his own throat swollen and tight, heart aching for what John was having to experience. It was so deeply unfair that Moriarty was dead and gone, and John was still having to walk through the pain of what had been done to him for sport. 

"John...my John...you did nothing to deserve what was done to you at any time. Sherlock fought, did that make him bad too?"

John shot a backwards glance at Paul, to confirm that he had his mouth closed. At the mention of Sherlock being bad, John's tone grew serious, as if trying to explain something. 

"No, no, Moran is...he's not good. He doesn't follow the rules. He hurts whenever he wants to because he's bad. Fighting Moran doesn't make a difference. If you're good to Moriarty, he's good to you. If you fight him or disobey, he hurts you. Rules. Moran just hurts." 

John pulled back a bit to see Greg's eyes, as it was important to him that Greg understand this piece of information that had been pivotal to his survival. When John was the subject, Moriarty was a grizzly and Moran was a black bear. You lay down and hide from Moriarty, but Moran you fight like hell. 

Perhaps Moriarty had arranged it that way. He liked seeing John struggle, but wanted him to be perfectly obedient at the same time. Two captors would make sense. 

Greg's stomach twisted and he was very careful to keep eye-contact with John, not wanting him to feel as though Greg was not connecting with him. 

"Okay...okay...that....I understand what you are saying. It was different for him, and you're right, it was. I shouldn't have brought him up, I'm sorry. John...John, is it _bad_ to resist a kidnapper? Does it make you bad, or stupid, to do so? If...if it had been _me_ taken, would if be the same for me? Would I be bad if I fought Moriarty? Because as I sit here today, I can tell you I'd have fought, I wouldn't have followed his rules. So...am I bad?"

John felt his insides churn at the idea of Moriarty with his Greg. "No! No, if he...if you get caught...he's dead, but if you got caught...I know you won't...but...oh, God, he's been dead before, hasn't he?" 

He'd been about to plead with Greg not to fight Moriarty. He was about to explain that it hurts less to be beaten if you're not struggling. He was about to plead with Greg to be good if it happened. But the notion that Moriarty had been dead before struck panic into his chest. Moriarty had come back. He'd come back and disappeared, but he was dead, and then he wasn't. 

"He came back before, didn't he?"

Greg was glad it had come up. "Look at me, John. Stay right here with me, this is _very important_." 

He waited, making sure John was focused on him. "I know this hurts, but I want you to think about this. Remember it with me. Do you remember how he died? Tell me how he died, John." 

John's chest heaved. What if this was a trick? What if all of this was just another elaborate game? 

"He's...Sherlock shot him. Shot him...But last time, he shot himself in the head. He told me so. I...I'm..." He could feel himself slipping and grabbed at Greg to keep afloat. "Blue p-pills," he stammered. "Hurting. Hurts."

Greg kept one arm around John's back, keeping John flush against his chest, reaching to the side as he leaned them over to grab the pills. He tipped three out into his hand and offered them to John, rocking him slowly and brushing soothing kisses to his forehead and temple. 

"Let's take a break for a minute, okay? Let's take a break. Rest with me," he said quietly as he rubbed his fingertips at the back of John's ear, palm against John's face he held him to his heart. 

"I love you, let's take a break. Hey, do you remember..." he trailed off into a recount of the time John had tried to teach Greg proper CPR, and Greg's hilariously botched effort that had nearly broken the dummy. John had laughed at him for days, it had been one of his more favored moments, and he'd all but forgotten about it. 

Slowly he rocked John, waiting for the pills to work, running his fingers through John's hair as he held him tight. 

John's mind latched onto the story as a way to escape the possibility of Moriarty being alive. By the end of the story, John had a pleasant smile on his face, and even laughed once. Thanks to the pills, there was a pleasant fuzz around his mind to keep it insulated from himself. 

When he was calm, he let the silence stretch out for several minutes before speaking again. "Thank you," he whispered and kissed Greg's cheek. It was a euphoric relief to not have slipped into panic. 

For _once_ , Greg felt as though he'd properly managed to help. He exhaled in audible relief and carried on rocking John, though his grip gentled to comfort, not protect. He smiled and kissed John's cheek in return, allowing the silence to stretch a bit longer before finally speaking. 

"Now...back to your worry. John, I was right there, beside him. I can tell you with no doubt in my mind that he is truly, properly dead. There was no trick like the last time. Sherlock held him at the foot of your bed and put a round through his face point-blank. I can get into the gory details if if will help, but John...I don't need to be a police officer to tell you that he is dead and gone. He's dead and gone. Sherlock...Sherlock would _never_ trick you with that. He...I've never seen him so enraged in all the years I've known him. I was right there, James Moriarty is _dead_." 

John felt the weight of it off his shoulders immediately. Greg spoke with such conviction, and John knew by now that if he could trust anything in the world, it was Greg. 

"Oh...oh...no more, then. No more. No more. No more. I'm...it's done." John looked up to Greg with wide eyes and tugged at his shirt. "Done forever, right? No more hurting ever? You promise me? No more cutting? I don't want it. You promise me no more?"

Greg inhaled slowly and took a moment before responding. This had to be done very carefully. 

"No one is ever, _ever_ going to torture you again, John. _Never_." 

He phrased it as such because John would decidedly feel pain again, that was just life. "No one is ever going to do what they did. No more mind games, no more tricks. You are safe and it's done." 

John broke down hard. He'd not accepted that it was well and truly done. "Oh, God," he whimpered and the weight of it came crushing down, washing over him. He practically climbed Greg again and wrapped his legs around his waist, both arms around his neck, and held fistfuls of his shirt. 

His small body shook with sobs as he finally felt secure that he would never be tormented again. 

Greg wrapped him up tight and held him, rocking from side to side very slowly. "It's alright, love," he whispered over and over again, very gently rubbing John's textured back, now well familiar with the location of John's scars, "you can let it go, it's alright. I've got you."

John took a very long time to calm down. He cried of grief and relief in equal parts. It was finally over. In captivity, his torment had seemed never ending. It dragged on and on until he lost all concept of time. 

But now, it was finally over. John leaned back and kissed Greg with tears still streaming down his face. 

Greg slid his palm very gently over one side of John's face and then the other as he kept his eyes to John's. 

"When you're ready, will you please tell me what's going through your mind?" He spoke very softly, keeping his posture gentle and calm. 

"I love you, you can tell me anything," he added, not wanting to guess what was happening for John then in that moment. 

John held Greg's hand against his face and leaned into it. "I'm glad it's over," he said, as id the simple statement would cover his emotions on the subject. "I love you. I'm glad it's over. Now it only hurts in my mind. No more body hurting."

Greg nodded as his gut twisted again. He'd thought that John knew there wasn't going to be any more active pain, and had simply been getting lost. "No more body hurting...no," he confirmed, sweeping his thumb along John's cheek. 

"I don't want it hurting in your mind, either. That's why we are talking about this, to make it stop hurting in your mind." 

"Oh...oh...talking, right. I was saying...what were we talking about? I'm sorry, I got lost. I'm here now. I'm sorry." He nuzzled under Greg's chin and settled in for something difficult.

Greg whispered to him, "Wait...here, with me," as he shifted, moving them so that he could rest his shoulders back against the wall, leaving room for John's feet at his back. He propped up a pillow so that he was more comfortable, patting the bed beside him for Gladstone. This gave John a view out the window and Greg a view of Paul, so that he could look for a bit of silent direction. 

Greg gathered John's favorite blanket over him and carried on rubbing his back, letting quiet hang for another five minutes, very careful to keep John's stress level as low as possible. 

With a deep breath, he very gently pressed forward. "We were talking about you, John. About how what happened...the abuse you received...how that was not your fault. I very badly want for you to understand that you did not deserve that." 

John actively held on to Greg as he moved, then addressed the subject in a subdued voice. "I am sorry. I don't believe that. If you had seen who I was, you would agree. Please...there's tapes. Don't ever watch them. You won't love me anymore if you watched them."

Greg flicked his eyes to Paul, who made a gesture to urge caution. These were dangerous waters they were wading in. 

Greg licked his lip as he let himself think. "James Moriarty kidnapped my best mate, John Watson," he whispered very quietly, allowing the intense grief of that statement reflect in his tone, "John Watson is one of the best men I have the privilege to know. Is that who I'd see on the tapes?" 

John took a gasping breath and shook his head. "I was bad. I did terrible things to survive. I was stubborn at first, then in was a coward. You won't love me anymore. Please, please don't watch them." 

He pulled away a bit so he could meet Greg's eyes. 

"You won't love me. I need you to love me. Don't watch them."

For a moment, guilt tore through Greg as he looked back to John, feeling as though he'd terribly invaded his privacy. He'd not watched many of the tapes, but he'd seen some of the footage. He kept his eyes to John, not daring to look at Paul in such a critical moment. 

He took John's face in his hands and spoke very quietly, to not admit this would be to lie, and he'd not lie to John. "That's not true, John. None of what you've said is true. You fought bravely for so, so long. I love you. I absolutely love you." 

John shook his head again and clamped his hands over his ears. "How would you know? I was awful! I did terrible things! If you saw them you-you-" 

Horror twisted his features and he scanned Greg's face. 

"Oh, God, you've watched them, haven't you?! You've seen!" John's eyes were wide, his mouth open, and his brow drawn up and together. 

Greg's ears began to ring, panic roaring in his veins. He carefully tamped down on it as he swiftly answered,   
"Only a little, John, I've seen very little and that was just after you got back." 

He gently took John's hands in his again, glad that John was sitting so wrapped around him. "I did not see anything later than the first two months, John, and only random bits of that. Breathe, please breathe."

"You've seen it!" 

Black spots appeared in John's vision and he thought he might black out. 

"Oh, God....Oh, God...." Terrified he would be pushed away in disgust, he clung to Greg actively. 

"P-Please don't hate me! Please! It h-hurt! He h-hurt me! It wasn't...I couldn't help it! Please! I'm sorry! I'm g-good now. I'm good. I'm- PLEASE!" 

The possibility of losing Greg's love, which was the only thing that kept him sane, seemed very real to John, and he locked his ankles together behind Greg's back.

Greg wrapped him back up tight in his arms, bear hugging him, returning the desperation John was showing. 

"I _love you_ ," he said as he pressed his cheek to the side of John's head, rocking them side to side very slowly, "John I love you! You are so brave. You were brave there, and you've been brave here, and there is _nothing_ disappointing about you." 

He repeated the words several times, needing John to hear them, not letting up on his grip for a second. 

"I love you so much, John. I love you." 

John sobbed into Greg's shoulder without restraint. "H-How? How...I'm...I w-was s-so awful and...y-you watched them and..." 

John screamed once, low and burning, as all his muscles locked up in fear. Greg could not possibly love him after what he'd seen. 

"What d-did you see? Tell m-me h-how much y-you saw!"

Greg looked to Paul before pinching his eyes closed, burying his face against the side of John's head. 

"John, oh...John, please breathe for me. Please. You were not awful, I don't know how you see that. Please. I...I saw them hurting you. I saw you fight. I...I saw you after you'd not slept for days...I saw him dressed as Sherlock and..." he shook his head and held tight to John. 

"Please, I love you, please John." 

John let out a small cry of pain. "You saw him as Sherlock. Y-You saw-" The air in his lungs suddenly became solid and John ceased breathing. 

"The c-coat and- I- what d-did you s-see?" He had a desperate need to know exactly what Greg had seen. Two months in seemed too soon, but then again, time had been very distorted. 

"Did y-you s-see...that?" Shame pulled his eyes down and he withdrew despite his need to be close. 

Greg shook his head, "No, no John I didn't see...no...no I wouldn't have...no one watched that, John, we didn't watch that." 

He kept a very tight hold on John, as though he'd be able to keep him from leaving with the force of his grip. 

"Please stay with me, I swear it John I didn't watch that. I saw him giving you scars, I saw a few of the beatings, I never saw...no...John no one watched that happen to you." 

John let out a whimper and and his eyes reflected the terror of the torment. "Don't watch it," he begged. "P-Please don't. Don't ever. I want y-you to love me. I n-need you to n-not look at me with disgust." 

His entire body was shaking, and he sobbed loudly once again. 

The words tore right through Greg's ribs, punching through his heart and stealing his air. He closed his eyes and shook his head, tears burning behind his eyes. "I swear I'll never watch it. I'll never watch it, John." 

He rubbed at John's back as he rocked him. "But, god, John...John that would never… _never_ make me disgusted with _you_. Don't put that on yourself, you did _nothing wrong_. I love you, nothing on those tapes could change that." 

John shook his head and suddenly wanted to draw away. He loved Greg, knew him to be good, but still could not stand that he had seen him in such a state. He scooted away a bit, pried himself out of Greg's arms, and curled into a ball on his lap. He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed them together. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please d-don't hate me. I love you. Don't hate me. I'm bad.I'm disgusting."

Greg did not realize the near whimper of distress had come from _him_ until John spoke over the sound. His chin trembled for a moment as John pulled away from him and he lost a tear as it rolled, heavy and unwanted, down his cheek. 

John's words burned and he shook his head, folding down to wrap around John even in such an uncomfortable position. This could not be allowed. 

"No! _No_! You are _not_ bad, and you are _not_ disgusting. I'll not hear it, those are lies. You are a beautiful, brave man and _I love you_. What was done to you was not your fault and I'll not sit here and let them make you believe otherwise. I know you don't believe me, damn it I'll tell you until I can't speak anymore. I love you, you did not do this!" 

John cried into his hands with a ragged, broken voice. 

"H-How can you still l-love me? How? I d-did bad things! I was a b-bad person! I'm good now. I'm very good. I'm n-not hurting anyone! I-" 

John looked up to Greg and took in his tear filled eyes with despair. 

"Hurting you...okay. Okay. I...Can..." 

He could not think of a way to fix what he'd done, who he'd become, or what Greg had seen. Greg claimed he loved him, but how could he after seeing what John had done? It would be easier to just leave, but he couldn't die. 

"C-Can I be quiet f-for a bit? Can I go away for a bit?"

Sharp, metallic fear spiked through Greg, washing his skin cold and making his ears snap to a shrill ring. His grip tightened as though he could keep John with him, too frightened to speak for a few terrible moments. 

"Please," he managed to whisper, leaning back to give John some space, afraid that's what had set him off, "I...I'll shut up...I'll stop talking, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice ragged as he watched John.

"Please?" John reached up to touch Greg's face imploringly. 

"I need to be quiet for a bit. Just like sleep. I- okay, nevermind. I'll just go to sleep." 

It was a lie, but John needed to not be where he was. He needed to be gone. 

Away.   
Disconnected. 

Greg's expression crumpled and he nodded slowly, tears rolling down his cheeks. He drew in a sharp, deep breath in an effort to stave off the panic seizing up his heart. He'd done this wrong, so _wrong_. 

His lips moved for a moment as his heart thundered so fast it made him ill, wanting to ask John if he would come back, fully unable to choke the words through his swollen throat. 

Instead, he tried to give John a tight, brittle smile as he touched John's face, simply nodding under the crushing weight of failure. 

The confirmation, no, the permission from Greg was all he needed. "Thank you," he stammered, then John's face went slack. He exhaled slowly and settled down onto Greg's lap as his body went limp. 

Suddenly he was soaring, high above his worries, looking down on the clouds and the trees below him. There was a special tree there, one he could curl up under, but John did not land. His gold wings had no scars like his arms did, and he had no worried of being kicked or beaten when he was larger than his tormentors. 

"Greg," Paul said swiftly as Greg collapsed in on himself. He sobbed as John left him, slumping to his side and gathering the limp man to himself, wrapping around him as he fell apart. 

Paul was quick, catching him before they went off the side of the bed. "Greg, breathe, breathe. You're okay, breathe," he repeated as Greg pulled John away from Paul's reach, shaking as he turned his face to the pillow. He shouted as loudly as his lungs would allow, dragging a desperate breath in and screaming again, the sound almost completely muffled. 

Paul walked out long enough to grab a bottle of water and pills for the man, deeply troubled at Greg's nearly instant collapse. 

"Greg, here," he said quietly. It took Greg another ten minutes before he'd look up at Paul, letting go of John only long enough to grab the pills and swallow them down. He curled around John, starting to pet his hair gently, eyes locked to John's face. 

"He'll..h-he's going to come back," he whispered, mostly to himself, "I...g-god I fucked that up. I...wh-why did I talk to him about-" his voice died out as he whimpered in fear, pulling John closer, "I didn't mean to, I...g-god I'm such...how b-bad can someone be at this? He's _gone_." Greg's voice broke over the word and he fell apart, ignoring Paul's attempts to reach him. 

Paul finally gave up, drawing the blankets around the men and taking a seat across the room, allowing time to do its work. 

John's eyes were all but closed, with only a tiny sliver of dusty grey-blue between gold lashes. He was limp in Greg's arms, unaware of the suffering around him as he tunnled deep into his mind to find a safe place. Moriarty had never let him have a safe place. Electric shock worked to pull him out if it, usually. Or being held under water. However it had been done, Moriarty had always been able to pull him back. 

Now John had been given permission by the one he had given control over his life, and he'd sank deep. Reality was left behind as John soared through clouds, out over grassy plains, and around mountains. It wasn't until he spotted something out of place that he stopped flying and spiraled down. 

On the rolling, verdant hills that might have been Scotland, John saw an ugly grey rectangle that was unmistakably a warehouse. He came closer without a hint of fear in him as he approached and heard a voice from inside. 

It was a soft voice, one John knew well, and one that he no longer feared. He tore through the side of the building, no longer with weak and frail hands, but with claws five inches long. He ripped the building apart and found someone standing tall, broad shoulders squared and a metal pipe in his hand. John roared and sank his teeth into the hateful creature below him and tossed it against the wall. 

The other voice spoke up, the calm one, and John attacked it too. He dug one claw into the abdomen of his tormentor and slowly ripped down. 

Outside his mind, John was still. 

Greg's sanity faded with the light of day. As minutes ran together, dropping into hours, Greg slowly came to understand that John was yet again gone far, far away from him. Would it be days this time? Weeks? 

_What if he never comes back?_

He groaned and pulled John closer to him. Paul had taken to popping his head in the room every now and again to check on them both, each time attempting to reach Greg and getting no response. 

When darkness finally enveloped the room, Greg shifted so that John was flat on the bed, careful to keep most of John's weight off the more tender parts of John's body, positioning a pillow under John's knees, resting his arms on the blankets. Greg's cheeks were never dry as he moved in the darkness, wavering between silence and bitter, frightened sobbing.

He sat up nearly twelve hours after John left him, crossing his legs and just watching John breathe, holding his hand and staring off into the distance. 

John was still as silence. The only change was the occasional drifting into a light sleep, where he'd wake up with no sign of ever dropping off, and stay in the same dreamlike state. 

He'd killed Moran and Moriarty dozens of times in the safety of his own mental world, while in reality he was far too afraid to contemplate acts of violence against the two. He might have continued on that way forever, were it not that he still had a body to attend to. 

John was pulled from his reprieve by an empty stomach and cramping legs nearly a full day later. As he felt himself drifting up, he fought hard against it. It was more like falling than surfacing. John was falling from the sky back down to earth, and he hated it. A quiet whimper escaped him and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to stay under.

Greg had just been unhooking the bag of fluids he'd hung in a desperate attempt to keep John physically cared for without another fucking tube in his nose. He heard the whimper right as he was capping off the line, worried that he'd hurt him. 

"John," he whispered roughly, his face a puffy, swollen mess, eyes bloodshot and hair a mess. Gladstone was slowly licking John's other hand, though he had been so often that Greg frequently stopped him, worried over John's skin being made raw. 

He looked up at John's face without any real hope that John would come back to him.   
John squeezed his eyes shut; the first expression his face had made in just over twenty four hours. He clawed at his dream, but it was like trying to catch wisps of smoke, and his peace soon dissipated. A choked sob escaped him and he drew his arms to his chest. 

"John?" 

Greg let John pull his arms in, heart locking up at the expression on his face and the sound of tears, "John it's alright, you're home. You're safe. John?" 

John took far too long to respond to Greg's voice, as he was still clutching for his dream. Even the sharpness of the memory was fading, as if viewed through dirty glass. He knew where he was, and who he was with, which was just fine. The current heartache wasn't his location or his company, it was simply who he was. 

John shifted his hands up to cover his face and he let out another sob. After a moment, he recalled that Greg had called his name in question. "H-here," was his shaky, robotic reply.

Greg watched him with a sinking heart, not expecting him to be lucid. John was aware, but still in tears. 

_You fucking idiot, what did you do?_

Guilt seized up his lungs and he simply sat there, lost, no idea what to do. His lips parted as though speaking, though he said nothing. He looked away from John as tears welled up and blurred his vision. 

"I...do you need m-me to step out? I'm..." he trailed off. What was he? _Sorry_? Not good enough by half. He blinked rapidly and looked back to John, gently tucking a bit of blanketing down over him. 

John slowly opened his eyes, which he knew would abolish the beautiful view of his pasture, dotted with wrecked warehouses and factories. He blinked at the room, then to Greg, though his face did not immediately reflect love and relief. He turned his face away in shame and drew the covers up so they would conceal his ugly, scarred hands. 

"I-If you want," he replied. "I u-understand if you w-want to leave."

Greg nearly choked, the detached way that John looked at him nearly more painful that watching him leave. 

He crawled forward, putting himself between the wall and John, not touching him as it seemed John didn't want that. He lay face-to-face, his own hands drawn up to his chest. He was in open tears as he spoke. 

"I don't want to leave." 

"Then don't." 

John couldn't think of anything else to say, and was confused with how monotone his voice sounded. He did not want to be here. Or rather, he did not want to be who he was. He wanted to be something magnificent like he was in his mind. He was tired of John and Pavlov in equal measure. 

For several seconds, Greg could not breathe. His lungs physically refused to work. He looked away from John, hurting as though he'd been struck. 

John...John had pulled away from him emotionally, he could see the walls as though they physically stood between them. 

_This was the plan. He isn't yours. You're not his. This was the plan. Take a fucking breath and get it together._

He found his voice, rough and breathy, minutes later. "Would y-you like something to eat?"

John gave a perfunctory shake of his head. Eating was pointless. It was only mildly stressful for the foods he wasn't quite used to yet, but it was still pointless. "You okay?" Something in him was still worried. He hated who he was, but knew that he was prone to hurting those he loved. "Am I being bad?"

Greg shook his head, "You're...no you're not being...no, I'm...please let me make you something to eat, it's been a long time." 

He swept his hands over his cheeks, not daring to touch John though he wanted nothing more than to hold him and undo whatever he'd done. 

John stared up at the ceiling without any expression on his face. "I was being bad, wasn't I? I'm sure I was. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be bad. You want me to eat?" He blinked once and looked vaguely in Greg's direction. 

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'll eat."

Greg bit his lip, heart racing. "You were not being bad, John. You were not even here, how could you have done anything wrong? Please..John, please come back."

"You don't like it when I go away." John remembered this now, and his expression grew pained. "I knew that. I knew. I KNEW THAT!" 

He sat up abruptly and doubled over his knees. His fingernails dug into his scalp and he clenched his jaw until he felt his teeth creak. 

Greg cried out when John reacted as he did, wrapping around him as he pulled John's hands from his hair. "John," he breathed, pained, thrown back to their first weeks together, "John please, it's alright."

John screamed at his knees again. "I KNEW! I-" He turned and looked at Greg abruptly. "See?" His voice was calm, broken, and very quiet. 

"See why I'm disgusting? I knew it would hurt you, and I did it anyway. That's the sort of man I am."

Greg jumped when John screamed and his gut twisted as John used his own heartbreak against him. 

"You were hurting! I...I messed up and you needed time, you...that doesn't make you bad!"

"Yes it DOES!" John looked at Greg and suddenly crawled to him, eyes wild and his expression far from stable. 

"I knew what I was going to do would hurt you, and I did it anyway. That is bad. It doesn't matter if I forgot, or if I was hurting or scared or confused. I still did it!"  
Greg took John's face in his shaking hands. "Stop. Stop this right now. I refuse to allow you to do this to yourself and say nothing. Stop. You are going through hell. You are NOT bad. Stop." 

He spoke as firmly as he could, hoping to pull John out of it.

Obediently, John fell silent as soon as he was told to stop. He lowered his eyes to his knees and stayed still as stone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?"

Greg let go of John's face, doing his best not to show his horror at what he'd done. He exhaled slowly and nodded in broken resignation. The damage was done. There was nothing for it, may as well use it.

"John, go use the lav. Then come back and change into clean, comfortable clothes. I'm going to make you food and then, once you've eaten, if you want to go away again you can."

John gave a small nod and turned without asking any questions. He went into the lav, avoided the shower, and washed his hands with the sanitary wipes they kept by the sink. He came back out a few minutes later, head bowed, and changed into new clothing. Next he sat down on the sofa to wait obediently for the food he did not want. 

He did not speak. He did not look up. He knew he'd been bad, and would accept whatever happened.

Greg came out and placed eggs, fruit, toast, and cool tea in front of John. He say beside him quietly and clicked on the telly, close enough that John could lean on him if he wanted.

"Please eat," he said quietly, doing his best not to fall apart.

John gave a small nod, but he did not give the 'yes, sir' that he wanted to. He started to eat slowly and deliberately. 

"I'm sorry," he said softly when he'd finished half of the eggs.

Greg shook his head, absently watching the images of whales on the screen. 

"You did nothing wrong. I know you are not trying to hurt me, John. Thank you for eating, I-" his chin dipped on him and he stopped talking, drawing in a deep, slow breath through his nose to keep himself from dissolving into tears. 

He shook his head and rest his elbows on his knees before resting his joined hands against his lips, feeling each of his own slow exhalations across the top of his knuckles under his nose, throat swollen and chest tight. 

"It's going to be okay." 

John looked up with a submissive expression of guilt and slowly reached out one hand. He held it palm up on the couch, where it was clear that he wanted it to be held. But he did not want to impose. He did not eant to assume that he deserved comfort. 

"I'm sorry. I'll not leave. I'll be good."

 

Greg looked over to John and immediately took his hand.   
"We have to get you past this, I just don't know how. I didn't mean to upset you so deeply, John. I'm so sorry. You've done _nothing wrong_ , please don't shut out what I'm saying, let me help. Please let me help." 

John let out a sob as Greg took his hand and slowly moved Greg's hand to his chest. "I hurt you," he said softly. "I did something intentionally that I knew would hurt you. What does that make me?"

Greg spoke softly, looking John in the eye even if he did not return it, "Overwhelmed. It makes you overwhelmed. We were talking about one of the worst things to ever happen to you, and it was too much, right after you had a good breakthrough. It was too much, and you even _asked_ before you went away. John...please hear me, you are a _good man_." 

John slowly finished his food, as he'd been told. 

"I'm sorry. I'm here. I want to stay here, but it hurts sometimes. It's easier to leave. Please don't hate me." He looked up to Greg, his eyes sad. 

"I need you to love me."

Greg carefully reached out and wrapped his arm around John's shoulders, pulling him against his chest. "I love you, John. I couldn't hate you, I don't hate you. Do we need to go lie back down? Thank you for trying to eat."

John pressed himself against Greg's chest and cried once more in relief. "You're good to me, Greg. Someday I'll be good to you. I'll be so good to you, and I'll stop hurting you. I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. I won't leave again. I won't." 

Because it was about the same time the next day, John was greatly confused as to how long he was gone. 

Greg closed his eyes and gathered John as close as John would allow, nearly biting through his own lip as he rocked John, trying to calm himself down. He could not afford to fall apart, not when John was so close to coming back to him. 

He forced himself to breathe slowly and finally, after several minutes, he spoke to John despite the gravely quality of his voice. 

"I love you, you deserve to be taken care of and w-watched over. Please don't worry about me, I will be just fine. I love you, too." 

John whimpered and grabbed hold of Greg's shirt. "You love me...you love m-me...okay...okay." He tried to breathe slowly, but his chest felt too tight. 

"I am so sorry. I'm sorry. I feel bad for what I did. I should have been better. I know you don't believe that, but I did so badly."

Greg closed his eyes and just carried on rocking John, wondering if John would ever believe him. "I wish I could do something to help you, John. I don't know how to help you see."

"You say you love me, and I want to believe you, but I just can't. I can't. I did bad things." John looked up and wondered if it was still okay for him to kiss Greg on the cheek. He decided it was not. 

"I don't know why I should believe you. I have no reason."  
Greg flinched before he could catch himself, feeling the words as though they were affixed to cinder-blocks falling from the sky. 

_I have no reason._

He was so, so tired, having spent the night sitting vigil, soaking in his own panic. The words ripped through his foundation and he was left crumbling, tears hitting his chest before he'd even felt the burn of them behind his eyes. His lashes fluttered as he absorbed the cruelty, shocked down to his core. What had he said to make John...

"I...n-no reason?" 

He stared at John for a moment before it became too painful, only narrowly moving air in his lungs, hands shaking. He swallowed hard and looked down and away, feeling his heart pounding in his ears. John had no reason to believe what Greg said? He did not let go of John despite the way the room began to spin, leaving him feeling as though he were falling. 

_John is sick, he can't help this. Don't make this about you. He is sick, this isn't his fault. It's not your fault._

It sure as hell felt like his fault. He stared down at some random spot on the floor, feeling as though he'd just been dropped out of a plane to the center of a churning ocean without warning, lost and drifting. 

"Oh, oh, that hurt you! I'm sorry! I meant...I just meant to say that I don't know why I should believe you when you say you love me. All I've ever done is scream and hit people, blame and mistrust everyone, eat your food and sleep in your bed, and do nothing in return. I can not offer you anything. I can't even clean myself properly. I trust you...I want to believe you, but I don't see how you could love me. We've done this before. I know this speech. I know it. I know how this goes. You love me, I don't deserve it. I just don't understand." 

John decided perhaps he could risk kissing Greg on the cheek, and he sat up a bit. "Love you," he whispered, then curled back down. 

Greg dragged a hand over his face as he tried to settle himself down, deeply wounded. 

_I know this speech. I know how this goes._

Greg sat there wondering if he could possibly be more worthless to John. It was just song and dance to him. Empty words that meant nothing to John's mind. None of the work, none of Greg's actions seemed to do fuckall for him, after all this time of trying to communicate that John had value, that he was loved. 

Greg could hardly breathe, failure physically rounding his shoulders down, his heart seemingly filled with shards of glass as it worked overtime. 

John kissed him and he closed his eyes, touching his cheek where John had shown him a flicker of kindness. 

"I..." his voice broke apart, but he pushed through it, "I'm f-failing you...I'm..." he shook his head as his voice cracked again. "Y-You know...this sp-" the air rushed out of his lungs, loathing calling his honest effort at love a _speech_ , his mind suddenly providing him with the image of his wife walking out the door. 

He cleared his throat and tried again. 

"You know this speech, because I've f-failed to h-help you thought this."

John heard the pain in Greg's voice and took it deep into his heart where it could prick him like a burr. "I'm sorry," he gasped, after Greg repeated his line back twice. 

"Bad word, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I love you. Please...I'm...I'm..." He grit his teeth and pulled a handful of Greg's shirt over his face. Greg smelled warm and familiar, and John closed his eyes. 

"All I want is to stop hurting you," John whimpered. He opened his eyes and locked them on Greg's. "Please. That is all I want. I love you dearly. I hate hurting you. Whatever you can think of to make this easier for you. I'll do anything. I'll be anyone you want or need me to be. Just don't let me hurt you. Tell me what you want."

Greg shook his head and pulled John closer to him. "I'm just t-tired and you're still in the thick of this. L-Let's go to bed, I know it's early but I want to sleep and you...you're hurting so badly right now. I don't know what to do. Let's just go to sleep. I'll put a movie on and we can just lie down. I love you, I'm sorry that you don't...that it's not been..." he hated himself so actively that the thought of reaching through his ribs and tearing out his heart was wildly appealing. What good was it, anyhow? 

"I just need to sleep, it's been a long..." he checked his watch to look at the time, "day." 

John wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and pressed his face against the crook of his neck. Body heat was incredibly comforting, and John didn't realize how wonderful it was to be warm without having to pay for it. 

"I love you. You love me. I don't know why, but I know you do. Can that be enough for today? Do I know enough for today?"

Greg nodded and simply picked John up, unable to do this for another minute. There were a few perilous seconds when he was sure his knees were going to give, still dizzy and rocked hard by the unanticipated blows from John. Gladstone walked with them, he'd not even realized that Paul had been in the room, watching. 

He got them into bed and pulled John to his chest, burying his face in John's hair as he failed to keep himself together, very quietly crying until, less than five minutes later, he dropped off into a restless sleep. 

John stayed very quiet when Greg dropped off and very slowly brought his hands to cover his mouth. Tears leaked down his cheeks and he had to work hard to stifle sobs of self disgust, bitter sadness and pain for a hurt friend. His breath came in short, nearly panicked gasps that he kept as quiet as possible to avoid waking Greg. That would be bad of him. 

Paul stood at the door and spoke very quietly, making a bit of sound with his feet so that he'd not startle John. 

"Can I give you your blue pills? You don't have to talk to me, I'm just here to help you and Greg." 

He did not let himself in the room as Greg was asleep, and John had not expressly given him permission, "He's going to be alright, John. He's just tired." 

John looked to Paul with intense fear. "I'm hurting him," he whispered, and his voice was a cracking whisper. "I don't know what to do. I did something that hurt him and I knew it would hurt him. I'm weak and I hurt him. Please, tell me what I need to do. Tell me what I did wrong and how to help him.”

Paul kept his body language very relaxed and immediately responded to John, nodding his understanding. "Okay, John. I will help you with this. First you need to take your pills, alright? I'll help you help Greg." 

He pointed to where he was going, getting the pills off the dresser, both the blue ones and John's normal regimen for pain and support. He handed them over and then looked to Gladstone, pointing to the space on the bed between John and the edge, intentionally putting the dog between them to help John feel more safe. 

"Let me know when you are ready to talk." 

John took his pills and waited until he thought Paul was a safe distance away before he spoke. 

"I need you to tell me, without lying or skewing things for the sake of my emotions, exactly what I can do to help Greg, as well as what I did wrong to start this."

Paul was back in the chair by the door, more to the foot of the bed but well away. If John asked him to leave, he could do so in a matter of seconds. Greg was down so hard that none of this was waking him, where normally any sound at all around his John would pull him right out of sleep. Paul made a mental note as he addressed John. 

"You both do that, did you know?"

"Shut up. Of course I know that. Answer the damn question." He scowled hard at Paul with anger stemming from a burning need to not hurt Greg anymore. His eyes softened after a moment and he curled back up next to Greg. 

"Sorry."

Paul gave John a moment before continuing. "What I mean is that you both assume the other is having a reaction due to some error. You assume he's hurting because you did something. He assumes you are hurting because he did something. I am answering the question, John, I know you want it faster than I'm explaining, I am sorry it's upsetting to you." 

"I want a list," John corrected. 

"I want a list of things that I can do to make Greg happier. I want you to tell me exactly why I disconnected even though I knew it was wrong. Tell me how to fix it! I know he assumes he's done something wrong. He's wrong. I know that I said things and he flinched. He repeated them sadly. I said 'I know this speech' or something like that, and he got sad. Why would that hurt him? If I know why, I won't do things like it."

Paul hummed and shook his head, "I can't give you a list, John. Just like I can't give him a list for you. Let's talk about his reaction to what you said in the sitting room, I was there, I heard it all. I know it's confusing, but can you think of any reason why that might hurt him?"

John shook his head. "No, I can't! If I knew it hurt him I wouldn't have said it. I just wanted to tell him that I understood everything he was saying, and I knew all the things he wanted to say. He thinks I'm wonderful. He thinks I'm brave and strong and good. I disagree. I know the conversation. It doesn't fix anything."

Paul nodded the moment John said 'fix.' 

"Another word for fix, John, is 'help.' It's alright that it doesn't help, it's not your fault or your failing. You've just explained why it hurts, though. Greg has recently lost a family, failed to help Sherlock, and is deeply invested in you. He knows it doesn't help, on some level, but it causes him pain to face it. He has failed to do what he wants for you, and it upsets him. You did nothing wrong, these are his issues, not your's." 

"So he's upset the conversation doesn't help? I mean, I know he loves me. I know that. I just can't see why. I get that he has reasons, but he just blindly ignored what I did to him. He just made excuses for me." 

John pressed himself against Greg while he slept and looped one arm over his waist. 

Paul watched John carefully, trying to gauge where his mind was. 

"Believe me when I say he did not blindly ignore, he's been up with you since you went away. Is it wrong of him, John, to be understanding of your pain? He's allowed to hurt. I highly doubt he was that upset that a conversation did not work, John. It very, very likely goes deeper than that."

"If not that, then what hurt him? Because I didn't mean any harm by it. I know he's allowed to hurt. I just want to stop saying things accidentally that hurt him. That's all I want." 

He looked at Greg's sleeping face and drank in the peacefulness of it. 

Paul shook his head. "You already know, John, you already know these answers. John Watson knows these answers. I will not do this for you. I will help you through it, but I will not aid you in evading your own awareness. It is frightening, I understand and I am honestly, truly sorry that you have to work through this, John, I am. Believe it or not. That does not change the fact that right now, you're hiding behind a persona that is not you, and is _not_ safe, but feels that way. You're angry, because you want to be yourself, but fear is stopping you."

"I don't know why it would hurt him!" John's voice was desperate, and he sat up to look at Paul. "I don't! I don't know! I love Greg. I would never do something I knew would hurt him." 

John quickly remembered that he had done just that very thing not twenty four hours ago, and tears rolled down his face. 

"Just tell me why it hurt him! I don't know! Please, y-you can't say I have those answers! What does any of this have to do with who I am?"

Paul held off for a moment before he answered. "John. You know Greg. You know him, you know what he's going through better than I do. You've put up a wall, there is a wall up now that wasn't there a few days ago. It's safe, John. He's safe, this house is safe, Moriarty is dead and gone, Sherlock is not here. You are perfectly safe, come out and talk to me without your armor." 

"I don't have any armor!" John gestured to his faded grey t-shirt and chest. "I don't know what you're talking about. All I want is to know why me saying that I'd heard it before would make him so sad. I didn't cut him off or anything. I waited until it was my turn to talk. Please just tell me! I know I'm safe here. I know I'm fine. You're talking in circles! Just answer my question!"

Paul answered in kind, though without anger. "You are on the surface of it, go deeper. He doesn't care if you cut him off or talk out of turn. Your armor isn't physically on your body. Put Pavlov away and tell me why telling Greg you've heard his song and dance would hurt." 

It was harsh, shockingly forward, and intentionally abrasive. He held still, deeply curious of John's reaction.

John flinched and his eyes snapped shut as if he expected something to hit him. After a moment of processing, he ventured to speak. 

"I...I don't know! I don't..." He could see that would not be accepted as an answer. "I...maybe I offended him? It could sound like his speech isn't good enough? But I believe that he loves me! I believe that part!"

Paul tilted his head slightly to the side, still trying to find the correct pressure point to help ease John away from this more shallow, child-like state to something closer to the man he truly was. He flicked his eyes to Greg's sleeping form and then back to John, taking a risk. 

"Why would you believe him? He doesn't beat you to make you love him. He doesn't punish you when you do things that he doesn't like. Doesn't that make him too weak for you to believe?" 

John flinched hard and was suddenly wrapped back around his Greg in a clearly defensive posture. "I did not say those things! I would never! He doesn't beat me because he is a good man! It has nothing to do with weakness!"

Paul carried on, touching along this edge that was shifting John's response. "But you insist you've been bad, and he won't listen! You've heard the speech before, haven't you? But he won't punish you, because he is weak. Surely if Moriarty was right for hurting you when you are bad, that makes Moriarty good. That makes him know better, know when you should hurt. Greg doesn't know when you should hurt. He's weak, at least in your mind." 

Paul took note that Greg was very obviously awake, holding his breath and keeping his eyes shut tight, doing his best to remain quiet. 

John looked stricken. He held one hand over his chest and briefly considered screaming to get out of the conversation. Nobody would blame him, would they? They couldn't blame him for being afraid. 

John reached out and covered Greg with his arms. "No! No, no no! That's not what's happening! Greg isn't weak! He loves me!" John was abruptly crying, and he glared at Paul loathingly. "I don't deserve his love, but that doesn't make him weak! That makes me bad, and him...he's...he's just much better than I deserve. I don't deserve Greg. I deserve the three that hurt me. Two. Sorry."

John slipped around the issue, right on the horizon of it but refusing to look in. Paul refused to back off. 

"But Moriarty knows better than Greg! Silly, simple, sweet Greg who doesn't know anything, really. How sad for him. You're apparently this terrible, bad person and he's too dumb to know it. So how could he know he loves you? How could he? He's weak, and simple, and just doesn't know any better." 

John was weeping by the end of Paul's words, and he brought one arm up to shield himself. He wanted to run indescribably far away. 

"He's not dumb! Don't you dare talk about Greg like that! Greg is wonderful, and he's smarter than I am! You shut up! Just shut up! He doesn't beat me when I do wrong things because he's good. And because he's good, it hurts for me to hurt him. In the end, it doesn't make much of a difference now, does it? I do bad, I get hurt. Even if it's just me hurting myself, I still get hurt. It's not ever Greg's fault. Greg is wonderful. I love him. You don't know anything about him if you say he is weak." 

John was practically snarling by the end of it, and he crawled over Greg to shield him physically from Paul's harshness. 

Paul pushed on, glad to see John angry and defensive. "But he won't listen to you! You keep telling him you're bad, that you deserve to be punished. He always says otherwise, but Moriarty told you differently. You yourself think Moriarty is smarter than Greg, that Moriarty's word is heavier than Greg's, worth more. How else do I say it, John? How else can that be true, unless Greg is weak?" 

"Of course Moriarty is smarter than Greg!" John spoke it in a way that showed he did not mean it as an insult, but rather as a fact. 

"He's smarter than everyone 'cept the Holmes. I am a bad person sometimes. I've gotten better. I try to be a good man. I'm a good man. I just...I was bad, and sometimes I'm still bad. I don't want to hurt my Greg anymore. Please just tell me how! You're saying things that aren't true!"

That was an odd bit of logic coming from John. Paul caught the tear that slid down Greg's face, doing his best to keep John's attention away from him. 

"I don't mean in academics, John. I mean smarter, in that Moriarty know you better than Greg. Is this true? Greg isn't clever enough to know a man he calls his best mate? Does a dead man's word mean more than Greg's?"

John was trembling and he turned to bury his face on Greg's shoulder. He took a few gasping breaths there and held his shirt up to his face, as was his comforting habit. 

"M-Moriarty knew h-how my mind worked," he began. 

"He knew what I was thinking every second of the day and he knew what thing to say when whipping to make me believe him. He knew what I could physically take before passing out. He knew how many lashes it would take to get me screaming. He knew those things. But Greg..." 

John trailed off and settled his weight down on his love. 

"He knows what shows I like to watch, and what foods I can eat without getting nervous. He knows how I like my eggs and that I feel safer when Gladstone's head is resting on me. He knows when to hold me tight and when to let me have freedom to come to him. Moriarty's words are branded into me with hot iron! I can't help it if I listen to him sometimes! It hurts!" 

He stopped and held out his arms for Paul to see. 

"I don't think you understand what happened to me when I didn't believe him. I don't think you know what it feels like to have pliers under your skin. Have you ever been beaten with a crowbar? Have you ever been raped? You can not accuse me of holding a dead man's word above Greg's when he carved his name in my skin."

Paul had managed to get a seed of awareness where he wanted it. 

"No, John. I've never felt those things. I'm not accusing you of anything, only trying to help you see. Moriarty didn't know what you were thinking, until he _made you think that way_. He didn't have some sort of insight into John Watson, he had fire, and knives, and _pain_. Greg knows you, John. He knows you, and has held you close to his heart for years. It's okay to consider now that perhaps Moriarty was wrong, and Greg is right." 

Greg, meanwhile, was hardly breathing. He could do little more than slow how swiftly tears were rolling down his face, biting down on the insides of his cheeks until the skin slowly split, bleeding into his mouth to keep his chin steady. 

All this time, and he'd not made a _dent_. 

"Moriarty always knew what I was thinking. I hate him. I hate Moran more. He was meaner. He didn't follow rules. I hated him." 

John wanted to deflect, but he was sure Paul would just bring them right back on subject. 

"I was bad, and Moriarty punished me. Now when I'm bad, Greg gets sad. It hurts me. When I do bad things, I get hurt. Moriarty was right about that. Even here, I'm hurt. It's not Greg's fault. I hurt myself in my mind. He doesn't know. Maybe he does. I hit my head trying to get in the shower to punish myself. It was for hurting Sherlock that time. Greg didn't like it because he loves me and doesn't want me to have pain. Greg is a good man. I love Greg."

Paul was about to speak when Greg lost the ability to keep himself quiet, wrapping his arms around John and drawing him in close as his chest caved in on a sob he'd been working very hard to hold back. 

_I have to leave._

How he was going to do this, he had no idea, but he was now the whip. John used Greg to hurt himself. He'd suspected, but not known for sure. Now, in the face of reality, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he knew was he was hurting John and the horrific cycle went round and round in a seemingly unstoppable momentum. John didn't believe him. John found him too stupid to know better. The knowledge slid across his heart as effectively as a razor, tearing open the agony of loss from his family, of Sherlock, and now of John. Though he never had John in the first place. He was supposed to do a job, and he'd failed at that. 

Furiously he tried to stem the tears, bitterly angry that he was doing anything to make Moriarty right, to confirm to John that he wasn't safe and that he couldn't escape. 

_Take a shower. Slit your wrists. Let people who can do this properly care for John. Enough, Greg. This is enough. You're hurting him._

"I..." he rasped, eyes still pinched closed, "I'm s-so...so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm...I've...I n-need to t-take a sh-shower I-" he forced himself to look at John, his eyes moving back and forth between John's, bordering hysteria. 

"I love you. I'm...I'm...it's n-not..." he couldn't, he just couldn't. Carefully he began to sit up, trying to move John off of him. 

"No! No, love, please!" John latched himself to Greg with arms and legs in such a way that he would be honestly difficult to pry off without injury or sedation. 

He grabbed his wrist behind Greg's back and crossed his ankles. He pressed his face down on Greg's shoulder and spoke wildly. 

"I didn't mean it! He said bad things about you and I didn't mean it! I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry! Please stay! Please, I can't be without you right now. I'm scared. Greg, I'm scared and confused and hurting and please, please you can't leave me!"   
Hot tears poured down his face and he felt them grow cold as they reached his jaw. 

"Greg, I CAN'T! I can't do this! Everything hurts and I don't know what to do! I can't think right and my mind is too broken and Paul says mean things and I don't like it! I don't know what t-to do and I'm so confused and I-I can't! Please, y-you love me! Y-you love me, so you h-have to help! P-Please shower l-later. I can't g-go in with y-you and I won't let go and-" John broke hard and squeezed Greg hard enough to make his limbs shake. 

Greg lay back down, careful not to hurt John's legs, using the pillow at his hip to create a pocket for John's limbs. He did not speak, only held John quietly, rubbing his back in slow, even circles. What could he say? Nothing that he tried made any difference. It had been what? Close to a year, and still his word meant nothing. 

He was still just stupid, _stupid_ Greg. 

His breathing was shallow and clipped as he tried to spare his heart, which was in physical, visceral pain at this point. He knew now, for fact, that John felt little more than gratitude and pity for him. Just an idiot who helped. That was all. No one loved Greg, and this was to be expected. He was a goddamned fool for allowing himself to attach like this to _anyone_. So, as he lay there, sure he was bleeding to death, he gently rubbed John's back in the only fucking move that he knew would not send John screaming over the edge. 

John stayed latched on to Greg and continued to babble in desperation. "I love you, I-I didn't m-mean to hurt you. D-Did you hear that p-part? Where I said I don't w-want to hurt you? Did you?" 

He pulled lightly on Greg's shirt, and before he had time to answer, twisted around to look at Paul. 

"I FUCKING HATE YOU!" John screamed it at the top of his lungs, so loud it startled Gladstone, who hopped to his feet on the bed and went over to touch his nose to John's cheek. 

John promptly went back to nuzzling on Greg, with almost no indication that he'd had an outburst. "Please, love, just talk to me. I'm sorry."

Greg nearly came out of his skin when John screamed at Paul, tightening his grip reflexively on John, trying to relax when John turned back and began to nuzzle down against him. 

"I n-never thought you meant to hurt me, John," he croaked, sounding nothing like himself, still terribly exhausted and now so hopeless he hardly even wanted to attempt to fix this. Were it not for John's distress, he'd have simply gotten up and stopped his heart. 

"I'm not upset with y-you. I'm...I'm sorry I'm j-just me. I...I know I'm not as smart as the lot of you. I'm not a doctor and I couldn't have ever been one if I tried. I'm...I've the intelligence of a fruit fly next to the Holmes brothers. I'm not in that league." 

He was choking on his own self-loathing, slowly rubbing John's back, ignoring the worried, massive dog over them. "But..it is m-my life's work -not that it's meant much- to know the g-good men from the bad. I hope someday...someday that might mean a little something for you." 

John held tight to his Greg and shook his head. 

" _Just_ yourself? That's...you are my world. My entire world. I don't know if you understand that, but you are truly my everything. I would scream until I died if you left me. I don't mean to hold that over your head, but it's true. I need you to stay with me. It's like what you said to me. You be nice to my Greg, alright? Be nice to my Greg, because I love him." 

John released Greg just enough so he could pull back and give him a chaste kiss. Directly after, John's cheeks flushed red and he worried that Greg might be disgusted with him for it. 

Greg slid his fingers through John's hair, letting John's words roll off him like water on a duck. He was John's world right now out of necessity. He tried to give John something of a smile even as tears rolled relentlessly down the sides of his face, dripping into his hair. John likely loved him as he did the dog. 

He could not swallow down the fact that he was too stupid to do John any good. He'd no idea John held him in such low regard. All this time, he'd honestly, _foolishly_ thought that he'd been making progress. But it was only in showing John that he wasn't going to beat him into Sunday for taking care of his basic needs. That's it. Now that there were far bigger things to tackle, he was no longer anything more than a simple security blanket. John's attachment to him was as artificial as he'd feared it to be, only he'd been too much of a coward to see it. 

John decided that he would ask a direct question, then. 

"What else do you two want from me?" He spoke to Paul as well, but as he was facing Greg, his voice was gentle. 

"I eat. I sleep. I drink tea and juice. I can have normal conversations. I don't panic as much. Sometimes not for days. I can walk around outside where there are people and not panic. I add new foods often. That is improvement. I can see it. It's real. And we're stuck on...what, who's voice I value more? Whether I listen more to the words that were carved into my skin or the ones spoken softly with love? Really? I've come so far! How am I less of a burden but somehow more of a pain?"

Greg felt the words boil up and spill over before he could think or filter. They errupted out in a flash of brilliant pain, woefully unrestrained. 

"I've never tried to get anything from you, John! I'm trying to help you heal, I feel fucking horrible that I'm not able to do that! You talk to me sometimes, it's not been for a long time but _you_ , without thinking you're bad and worthy of torture and needing to earn things, just _you_ and I know you need help and I can't fucking _do it_!" 

When phrased in desperation as Greg had said it, John fancied that he might have felt something stir in him, as if responding to Greg's claim that he needed help. 

"I don't want to feel like a bad person," John whispered. "I'm sorry I'm being stubborn against your words. I don't mean to be." 

Greg closed his eyes, wishing he'd just gotten up and gone to the shower. "You're not being stubborn, I'm f-failing to provide what you need. I can't find you, all I'm doing is holding this rope like a jackass. I'm sorry I'm not enough, John. I know I'm not, I never am for anyone, but god, please know that I so desperately want to be."

John was silent for a moment as he let the words sink in. He hated it when Greg spoke poorly of himself. "Quit it," he said in an attempt at making the conversation lighter. "You don't like it when I say bad things about myself, and I don't like it when you say bad things about yourself. You're a wonderful man." 

He released Greg with his arms and instead cupped his face with his hands. "I wouldn't lie about this. I love you. Truly. Dearly. I think you're wonderful. No room for argument." 

Greg refused to look at John, dizzy with exhaustion, dripping in failure that squeezed the air from his lungs. "You don't n-need a good man...you n-need someone whose judgement you trust. I'm...I thought...I thought I w-was...g-god all this time I- and- I'm t-t-" his words stuttered out as he broke down, covering his face with his hands. 

"I'm sorry! G-God I've..." he shook his head, unable to articulate. 

John felt crippling self hatred swell in him with a sharp pain just under his breastbone. "I do trust your judgment. I touched the rain because you said it was okay. I eat because you told me I could. I realized Sherlock was innocent because of you. I go outside because you insist it's safe. But...but if you were to tell me that I would be alright if I put my head under water, I still couldn't do it. Not because I don't value what you say, or I don't trust you, but because some fears are carved into my bones. It goes too deep. You say I am a good man. Greg, I want to believe you! It's not your words, it's my bones. My scars." 

He looked down and took a breath. It was taking an incredible amount of energy to not simply curl up on Greg's lap and cry. 

Greg couldn't calm himself down, even as John spoke rationally. He wrapped his arms around John and pulled him to his chest, quietly sobbing as he clutched to the man he so desperately wanted to help. 

_Too stupid. Too slow. Too stupid. Stupid Greg, such an idiot. Too stupid. Not Sherlock, he needs Sherlock. Not you. Fucking idiot, idiot, idiot._

Paul watched in quiet wonder as John managed to shine in his attempt to help Greg. It had been the least ethical move he'd ever made, attacking Greg while Greg was in the room, but it had seemed to break at least a little ground. 

"Love, please tell me you understood what I just said." _I worked so hard to speak clearly. I can't do it again. I'm tired. Please understand._ He kissed Greg's forehead and stayed there, eyes closed, his fingers locked in Greg's hair. 

Greg just nodded as he cried, holding on to John, battered down to nothing. 

"Y-yes," he breathed. _I'm the champion of eggs and rain drops. Fucking bravo for me._ He could get John past the tiny things, but not the sticking points that made the difference between surviving and living. Maybe Sherlock could get him there after Greg took himself out. His hopes for the future slowly shifted from optimism at his own involvement in helping John through this, to a wish that Sherlock and Mycroft would. 

_Of_ course _he's smarter than Greg._

John tried to repeat himself, but the words lost their calm grace from before. Still, they were honest, and he tried once more.

"It's not that I don't value what you say, but you can't talk me out of my fears because they run too deep and with too much pain. They'll take time. How about...why don't we find something I can do that is consistently useful to you? Or make a system of words for when I think I've hurt you? Let's get some sort of solution above all this mess."

There was no solution. Words didn't soothe, actions meant nothing. If it had been a short period of time, he'd have been encouraged. Fact was that he'd been trying for a year to show John that he never deserved any of it, and had _honestly_ thought that some bit of progress had been made. 

But now, now he knew that John found him too stupid to know better. There was no fixing that. He'd hit a wall, and the issue was inherently that _he was not enough._

It cut deeply that John was telling him, of all people, that he couldn't just talk John out of fear. After Greg had physically held him and coaxed him slowly to liquids, to food, through the terror of outside. 

_That's because he knows you're an idiot._

"O-Okay, John," he breathed in an effort to settle John back down, "we'll...w-words that's...we can do that." 

"Greg, you've practically carried me through the progress I've made so far. Those things Paul was saying were bad and not true. He doesn't know what he's talking about. Okay, he's right about many other things, but not that. I don't think you're weak and stupid. You're good. You're a good man. I don't think you're weak for not beating me. I think that makes you a good man, who I love." 

His nerves were beginning to fray and he laid his head down on Greg's shoulder. "I wish I could draw you as I see you, so you could understand, but I don't have the skill."

Greg reached up and sank his fingers in John's hair, lightly rubbing at the back of John's head, doing what he could to soothe him. He'd known Paul was pushing to get John in a headspace where he was angry and defending Greg, but it had foolishly surprised him to hear that John agreed. 

_James Moriarty knew everything about me._

Where as Greg...John had said that he knew what fucking television to put on, and when not to bloody well hug him. He'd never felt smaller or more foolish in his life. He was so deeply glad that John was not an artist, he had no interest in seeing himself in the mirror, not to speak of how utterly pathetic and simple he must appear through John's eyes. Being 'good,' had fuck all to do with strength or intelligence. 

"I love you, too," he whispered.

John wondered if Gladstone would kill Paul if he commanded. Likely not. He's take him down though and tear up his arm. Maybe he could get him to kill him. 

John turned and smiled at Gladstone, who'd settled just next to him. He couldn't kill Paul, and he didn't want to, but he still wondered. "Maybe someday we'll see why we love each other," John whispered. He looked over at the wall to Greg's drawing and locked eyes with a man he could not see as himself. 

It was as though John was going for a finishing blow. 

Greg absorbed the words to his understanding, letting them fill his lungs and choke out the air, not even flinching. He already knew why he loved John, but knew he knew that John had no understanding of why he'd bother with Greg. 

_That makes the pair of us, mate._

He looked up at John, following John's line of sight to the drawing on the wall. 

_Make more before you go. He needs those. Make more._

"Maybe s-someday," he breathed, letting John do as he liked, keeping a gentle hand on John's back out of his own selfish want to pretend to do him any good. 

John could not fathom why Greg loved him. He knew why he loved Greg. Those reasons were obvious to him and plain as daylight. The fact that Greg did not see them confused him greatly, and he realized it must be how he sounded to Greg. John pressed his face against the crook of Greg's shoulder where he could feel the warmth of his skin. 

"I hope it's soon. I'll give you my reasons again, but I don't think you'd absorb them. We're both stubborn. We both hate ourselves and love each other. You've no reason to hate yourself, Greg."

Greg's mouth moved before he could stop himself, voice cracking. "I have _plenty_ ," he whispered, dripping with self-loathing. Though, in the next moment, he calmed somewhat. He'd misunderstood John, who claimed to have reasons of his own for loving Greg. He could set that aside for now, at least. He was so incredibly tired. 

He let his mind wander, debating the idea of slipping John a sedative after John fell asleep and then perhaps overdosing himself. He knew in his heart that just as sure as the sun would come up in the morning, he'd not be able to remain away from John while he was still breathing. Perhaps if forced into a situation where it was a hospital or Mycroft's, John would properly progress. 

"I...I do love you, though. I'm...I know you, and I know your heart. I'm not too stupid to know your heart. I l-love you, and I'm just...so deeply sorry." 

John leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to Greg's lips. "I am sorry you feel that way, love. I don't see you as anything other than perfect. I want you to know that. Please, just understand how much I love you. I know you feel like you hurt me, but often it's just me having a reaction to something going on in my own mind. Others, it's me having a very abnormal reaction to something I shouldn't. Like you trying to give me a shower. You love showers. They make you feel safe and you can be sad without people looking. You wanted to share the comfort with me. I understand that, and I don't blame you." 

He rested his hand on Greg's shoulder. "Please, be nice to my Greg. I'm really quite fond of him."

A choked sob tore its way out of Greg's throat as he wrapped John tight in his arms and buried his face against John's neck, a veritable dam of relief breaking and rushing over him abruptly and unexpectedly. He cried against John's skin as he tried to speak. 

"Oh god, you...I th-thought you'd...oh god you u-underst-tand what I...w-was thinking when-" his voice snapped off and he snuggled John down against him, dizzy with the words he latched onto with everything he had. 

John understood now what he'd been trying to do. He'd gone about it like a complete idiot, but John finally understood where Greg's heart had been. 

John had little comprehension that such a small thing could make such a big difference, but he held on to his small, sparking gem of good that he'd done. 

"Of course I understand, Greg. Everything you do, you do out of love for me. Even if I don't see it, I know it's there. That's why I listen to you when you say it's safe, or that I should do something. It's always what's good for me to do, because you love me. I don't look at your mistakes as mistakes. I view them as me reacting wrongly to something loving you tried to do." 

He held Greg's head in place and ran his fingers up the back of his neck and through his hair. "I understand you, remember?"

Greg could see nothing but his failures with John, knew that he constantly drove John to leaving for hours, sometimes days on end, failed to help him bathe or to understand that what had happened was not his fault. He failed Sherlock so catastrophically he'd not been able to force himself to text Mycroft to see how he was doing, terrified to hear that Sherlock wasn't alive any longer. His home was an entire shrine to failure. 

But John, at the least, knew now that Greg hadn't intended him harm or punishment. He'd locked Greg out for _weeks_ after that, leaving him to pace the halls in nauseated, eternal worry. Nearly a year later, though, John seemed to understand that Greg, in a moment of panic, had just been trying to share his safe place. He was a fucking idiot for doing so, but to hear that John knew he meant him no harm was a weight off his shoulders. 

"Th-They are mistakes, but I...I'm...I'm glad you see-" he broke down again, simply losing it, "I keep driving you away! I don't mean- and I'm not Sherlock or- I'm just m-me but I-" he couldn't get it out, hoping John understood, hating that he was such a mess at the moment as he clung to the man. 

John moved so he could let go with his legs, which were quite sore by now, and pull Greg down into an embrace. "I know. I know. It's alright. I've never doubted that you love me. Never. Not once. I don't know why you do, but I've always felt loved by you. It's the only reason I didn't kill myself back when it was bad. You kept me alive because you genuinely thought I could have a good life, and now I get to stay with you. You haven't failed, Greg. You're human. I love you. I understand that you don't know why, or you have a list of your failures, but I challenge you to find one that I blame you for."

Paul listened to John Watson, nearly free of _Pavlov_ , speak calmly to Greg to soothe the distraught man. Greg responded brilliantly, no longer deflecting what John was saying but absorbing it to the best of his ability, clutching John to him as though his physical grip could help keep _John_ present. 

"Then why..." Greg pulled back enough to look up at John's face, "why can you not hear me when I...oh, _please, please_ John stay with me for just another minute, please I'm begging you, stay with me," his voice cracked in his plea and he took hold of John's face, tipping their foreheads together. 

"I don't know how to shift your idea that you _deserved this_. It's killing me, I don't know what else to do. How do I show you? What do I need to do to prove this to you? Please, John. Help me." 

John realized with a shock that he was watching Greg cry without believing himself responsible. Was this him being good? No, this was him being _John._

He took a deep breath and gently brushed Greg's cheek. This was what he could do. Not beg or apologize. He would be kind and soft and comforting to Greg, express his love and understanding, And say nothing negative about himself even if he felt it. 

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I hate hurting you, but this issue is difficult. Don't carry it yourself. Talk to Paul. Ask me. I might not be helpful, but I'll discuss ideas. For now, I think it's not something you can show me. I think I need to find it on my own." 

He brushed another soft kiss to Greg's lips and smiled. "But that doesn't mean I don't need you. This stuff hurts. I'll need love."  
Greg clung to John with such force he could possibly be bruising, his knuckles blanched and hands shaking. He had his life on the table, happily willing to toss it away, and if there was ever a time that he needed John with him, it was now. 

And so, to hear from what sounded like _his_ John, his old friend, the man who'd shown up with beer and a shoulder when Greg's life fell apart, that there was nothing he could do was devastating. He closed his eyes and nodded as he absorbed that deep into his heart. He had failed, and would never stop failing. Greg was doing his best to keep his expression from reflecting how he felt. He wasn't anything comforting to John. 

_I don't want to leave._

_So don't._

His brow dipped down and he breathed in sharp and deep. He didn't help, he drove John and everyone else away. There wasn't anything more he could do. He'd walked John as far as he was going to be able to. 

Just like that, the road they were on ended, John's path going one way and Greg's at a dead stop. He couldn't talk to Paul, the last time he'd tried that he lost John for days. There was nothing to share. There was...nothing. 

"I do l-love you," he whispered, forcing himself to meet John's eye, "please...please always know that."

John rocked Greg gently and whispered soft things to him. "You know I love you, right? I love you so much. You're wonderful, Greg. My Greg. So strong." 

The tears in his eyes dried and he grew calm. If there was one thing that made John rise to the occasion, it was his friends needing help. 

Paul watched in quiet awe, almost wanting to get up and introduce himself, so striking was the change. This could possibly be their saving grace, if only they could maintain it. Greg honestly seemed on the edge of true breakdown, which troubled Paul greatly, but perhaps it was needed.

Greg lay there in John's arms, holding on to him as he whispered soft little apologies, sobbing quietly, taking John's words as a benediction.

"You're alright, love. You're alright." John kissed the top of his head and rocked slowly with each breath. "Things will be alright. It's not your fault that I hurt sometimes. Mental scars. That's all. You're the most wonderful man I know, and I love you. You can cry. It's alright. I understand."

Greg shifted in John's arms so that he was less being held, the position more equal, each holding the other. He wanted to protest, to shout that it was not alright for him to accept this from John, but oh, he could not resist it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered for the hundredth time, "I want so badly to be...I...I'm sorry I'm not..." forming the words was too hard, too beyond him. He suddenly understood Sherlock's need for a goodbye. John had to know, had to remember that Greg knew he wasn't enough but loved him and wanted to be anyhow. 

"You shouldn't h-have to deal w-with me, I'm...I'm so sorry."

John hummed quietly and tried to think of a way to console him. He already had his three things that worked tucked safely away in his mind, but he needed more. "Would you agree to something with me? Every time one of us feels like we're hurting the other, we'll explain, and the other will explain why they're actually having a reaction."

Greg watched John, aching with a confusing mix of relief at having his dear friend there with him, and grief over how much he missed him. The last few times he'd been granted this, they'd paid dearly, with John utterly gone from him for days.

"I'm scared you're g-going to leave me," he breathed, watching John's face. "I'll do as you asked...I'll- explain," he agreed, though truly, it would likely be John explaining to Greg the things that Greg had fucked up, not the other way around.

John held Greg tight to his chest and a small sob escaped him. "I'm scared to leave you, because I know it will hurt to be confused. I want to help you, love. That's all I want. I feel terrible when I hurt you. I feel like an awful person and it has nothing to do with you. I know you say otherwise, but...I wasn't a proud man with Moriarty. I'm ashamed of myself for what I let happen. It will go away with time. I don't hurt myself unless I'm confused. I'm trying. Please, I've made progress. Love me, and I'll understand if you make mistakes."

Greg just closed his eyes, nodding sadly. "You've m-made very good progress, you've done so, so well. I'm not taking that away from you out or making light of it. I already do love you."

Exhaustion was getting the better of him, and he'd mostly taken what was said as confirmation that his ability to be useful was done.

"I still feel like a bad person," he whispered, "but I realize that...it might be...due to my torment..." He dropped his head and grabbed Greg's hand. 

"I don't think that's true, but I'm willing to consider it's like  
How I thought Sherlock was bad. It might help if I did something useful. Can you think of anything? I could clean, or work on your shoulders when they get tense...I'd say cook or wash up, but the water is a bit too much. I'll practice that. It would help for me to have a use."

With eyes still shut, Greg tried to think of work John could do. "You are free to do anything that sounds helpful. I...I don't want to make you do anything. I just want to help you. You don't have to do things around water. You really don't. Maybe you feed Gladstone and brush him for me every day."

He would need to know how to care for the dog anyhow, Mycroft likely wouldn't want to.

John nodded and kissed Greg's head in response. "Okay. Feed Gladstone, brush him, and maybe...sweep? I can sweep the kitchen when we're not cooking to get used to the room. I really think this will help." 

Greg nodded, keeping tight hold of John, simply defeated. He did not for a minute believe that anything he personally could do would make a difference.

"Can we sleep?"

John ran the palm of his hand over Greg's hair and slowly calmed what rising sadness he had. "Okay. Did I say anything in this conversation to hurt you, or anything that helped? If so, I'd like to know. You can be honest."

Greg was silent for a few minutes, long enough to make Paul wonder if he'd fallen asleep.  
"You forgiving my utter, incompetent idiocy from all those months ago is...is more than I ever expected," he whispered, hanging on to John.

"I understand and forgive every mistake you've ever made. Every single one. I hold none of them against you, and I know all you've ever done is acts of love. You've done so much good for me, Greg. Get some sleep, and in the morning I'll tell you why I love you and how much of a wonderful man you are in such great detail your ears will fall off." 

He ruffled Greg's hair playfully, and John made no effort to fix it. It looked strangely flattering on him. 

Greg simply remained quiet, tears leading down his face, breathing sort and pained until sleep abruptly pulled him down. Paul watched as Greg's fingers slowly relaxed on John, hand finally dropping down to the bed.

John kept composure until Greg fell asleep, then dropped his head down and pulled his Greg closer to him. "Please leave," he whispered and raised tear filled eyes to Paul. "Just go." 

Paul quietly stood up and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

He waited until he'd reached his room and texted Mycroft:

_Are you still interested in updates from this end?_

Mycroft shuffled Sherlock closer to him each time he started to fall away. 

_Very much so. How are they doing? MH_

Paul considered how much to say, deciding that Mycroft would most benefit from the truth. 

_While Greg is in a sharp decline, John has made significant progress. He seems to finally accept the physical danger has passed, which I firmly believe will eventually open the door for him to walk away from that which inhibits him from helping Sherlock. -P_

Mycroft’s reply was swift. 

_Sharp decline? I'll need updates about that, if you would. Is the situation stable? If not, I could always bring them here, though not near Sherlock. MH_

Paul answered shortly after.

_I doubt John will continue to improve if I relocate him. I made a tactical move today, making him very protective of Greg. He has been more lucid and logical than I've personally ever seen. I believe Greg and Sherlock are correct in that their old friend is still within John and can be salvaged. P_

_Protective anger. That's good. When I first met him, I offered him money to spy on Sherlock. He refused. I think he'd spent just over four hours with him at that point. The man is loyal. -HM_

_I'm not saying to exploit it, but it could draw him out. Whatever the basis of his personality is, whatever is the deepest, will be what is deeper than the fear, and thus how you'd pull his old self out. -MH_

Paul’s reply was a bit delayed.   
_It doesn't take much to exploit. Off the record, I think Greg may be at the end of his road. I'm using this to John's advantage. -P_

Mycroft was not particularly pleased with that. 

_Be careful with Greg. Make sure he doesn't do anything dangerous. He's attempted to kill John before, though that was before the progress. He's decided against it, I believe, but it shows he is willing. Keep him from hurting himself. Get him talking. If anything comes up, let me know. -MH  
_

Much as Paul wanted a good outcome for them all, he very much doubted it would happen. 

_Greg is far past the point of being a danger to John. He's a danger to himself, but I believe that in itself is escalating John's willingness to expand himself and push through the fear. Greg has refused to speak to me ever since the first incident. My hands are relatively tied with him, but it is John who our focus is on. If something unfortunate happens with Greg, I will bring John to your home. -P_

There was a delay before Mycroft responded. Paul noted it curiously. 

_I would prefer Greg stay in the picture, if you can manage that. What fear of John's are you currently working on? -MH_

Paul fell into conversation with him. 

_He is very hung up on the idea that he was 'bad,' and 'disobedient,' and therefore deserved what happened. He's only just tonight seemed to finally believe Moriarty dead, though his prior faked suicide likely made that exponentially more difficult to believe. Greg set that to rights. He must, and I do mean must, move past the idea that he is somehow deserving of torture, that he caused his own rape, before he can have any hope of restoring a relationship of any kind with Sherlock. -P  
\---_

__Paul, Is there no way to just cut Sherlock out of the whole mess? Get him truly believing in Sherlock's innocence?_ _

__I will trust your judgment. Consider what I have said about using John's most basic personality trait to pull him out._ _

_Lastly, could you send me a list of books to read that could be helpful? I've gone through several volumes this morning, but wish to be thorough. -MH_

\----  
 _Divorcing the idea of Sherlock as a real individual and Sherlock as what he associates with pain is likely the only way to go about this. I truly expect that once John is able to see that this was simply done to him through no fault of his own and regain himself, that it will all fall into place with your brother. Sherlock has a tie to John now that no one else in the world could ever replicate._

_Attached is a pdf reference of the most used trauma psychology manuals in the last three years. The field is fledgling, so you will find some conflicting data. It is obviously a very trial and error branch of neuroscience. -P_  
\---

Mycroft shook his head in agitation and responded a final time. 

_I hope to repair their relationship for just that reason._

_I agree that it is often conflicting, and I must admit I formerly held disdain for the subject before. Do not take offense to it. I need it now. I'll read those tonight. -MH_

Sherlock shifted in Mycroft's arms and whispered roughly, "What's h-happened?" 

He'd been aware of Mycroft's texting for the past few minutes, growing more concerned. His brother loathed texting. ' _Too much lost without the aid of tone and inflection_ ,' or some rot. He reached up and pulled at his brother, the fear from the night before still obvious in the tremors that ran across his body, but he was more lucid at present. 

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock and smiled pleasantly. "Checking in with Paul. They're having a bit of a breakthrough with John. Everything is alright. How are you feeling?" He brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair and set his phone down. 

Sherlock flinched at John's name and looked away, fingers up to his lips, staring across the room. He ignored the question, not sure how he was feeling and not sure what to do about that. His eyes traced the outline of the door as he recalled that he needed to stand up again today. 

The idea of which was horrid in either direction. Either he would stand, exert most of his energy, and end up in pain or he would not try, and carry on knowing that he was no closer to avoiding a fate locked in a wheelchair or crutches. 

His chin dipped for a moment as he very quietly responded, "I w-wish I could st-still read." 

"I was hoping we could work on that today," Mycroft said cheerily as his heart rotted out of his chest. 

"I'll bring some things up and we can practice. It would be good for your mind too. What do you say? It only took you a month to learn to read fluently in the first place. Before the other children had even started school." 

Of course, Mycroft had learned earlier, and faster, and thought Sherlock terribly stupid for what little trouble he had, but that had been before they knew other children. That was before they knew their true mental standing in the world.

_You have to learn how to read. Grown man, and you have to learn to read._

_And walk_

_And write_

He closed his eyes as his face pinched in a shadowed moment of pain, though he did not, the tips of his fingers sliding past his lips. He began to very lightly nip at the raw ends, watching the door as though he expected someone violent to come through. 

"I'll have someone leave supplies in the hallway. They won't come to the door." Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's and gently pulled it away from his mouth. "It won't be too hard. You already know how to read. You just need to remember. Do you know how to spell some words?"  
Sherlock frowned, not ever having considered that. He called a word to mind and spoke quietly. 

"E-L-A-B-O-R-A-T-E," he grit out, forcing himself to look at Mycroft, holding his breath to see if he'd managed it. 

Mycroft smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "Good. So it's just a visual thing, then. You haven't forgotten the letters or spelling. You just can't see them." 

He spent a minute on his phone, waited or a text, then went to the door. There was a small notebook, a stack of blank printer paper, and several writing utensils. He slid back into bed and gently helped Sherlock sit up. 

Sherlock eased up and sat there, looking at the paper and the different writing implements in Mycroft's hands, belly churning with nerves. His brother was not a kind instructor, all demands, insults, and belittlement. 

_Such a stupid little boy._

His palms began to sweat as he chastised himself. 

_Don't be an idiot, we don't need coddling. Just figure this out, it's only letters for god's sake, you don't care what he thinks, when did you go soft? Stop being stupid._

He flicked his eyes up to Mycroft and then back down at the paper, his vision already blurring. He wasn't going to be able to tolerate the disappointment in Mycroft's voice if he failed at such a simple task. 

Mycroft took a thick marker from the pile and drew his knees up. He made a large circle on the first sheet of paper in an effort to start out pleasantly. 

"Can you see this properly?" It was a circle, or an O, depending on how well Sherlock saw it. Hopefully it was simple enough. 

"If you've drawn a v-very l-lopsided circle, then y-yes," he answered quietly, shoring up all his defenses against Mycroft, masking himself to be as aloof as possible. 

Mycroft made an approving noise and got another piece. He drew an A this time, large, block lettered, and clear. "And this one?"

Sherlock looked down at the paper, fully expecting to recognize what Mycroft had put there. He blinked at the contrast of black on white. registering nothing. He reached out and traced the lines with a shaking finger, deeply ashamed. 

_Lines, one, two, three. It's an A, it must be an A, surely A._

"It..." he swallowed hard as his lip trembled, "it m-must be an A. I do n-not recognize it as s-such." 

Mycroft nodded and smiled, but he was dismayed on the inside. "Yes, very good. Next." He drew in large, block letters an M and a Y, in very clear writing, each letter spaced apart. "These two?"

Sherlock reached out with a trembling hand and again traced the letters, shame nearly choking him. "V...n-no it's...W..." his brows knit and as he traced the letter again, "no..w-wrong, that's...I know th-that's w-wrong..."

He reached out and took the marker from Mycroft, doing his best to trace the lines with the cap on, wondering if the muscle memory would help him recall what the letter was. 

"I...I d-don't know," he whispered, repeating the motion of tracing the M over and over again, hands shaking terribly as the color drained from his face, "I...it's n-not...oh g-god I _don't know_." 

"You were close with the W," Mycroft said gently. "Very close, little 'Lock." 

He was determined to be gentle. He could not call out how ridiculous it was that Sherlock couldn't read, as one should never make fun of something that they can't control. Especially if it's trauma induced. 

"An upside down W is an M. Mmmmm."

Sherlock closed his eyes as Mycroft went so far as to make the goddamned sound for him. He looked away, opening his eyes and staring across the room. 

"A, _ah_ or _Aa_. B, _buh or_ Be-" he whispered, sure that he knew the alphabet. If he could spell, surely he knew the whole damned thing. Just to be sure, he carried on with the rest at a rapid pace, lips moving and silent. When he completed English, he began to whisper the French alphabet, followed by German. It all seemed to be there. 

"I...kn-know the d-damn alphabets. A,E,I,O, U and the dreaded occasional Y. I after E except after C, u-unless it is one of the m-myriad of w-w-ords wh-which do n-not follow the absurd rule. I- j-just cannot...c-cannot r-read the..." he waved his hand, deeply ashamed. 

"I think some form of head trauma disconnected the visual aspect," Mycroft said quietly. "We should be able to recover it." 

He held up the paper with his name written on it in two letters. "First one is M. Second is...?"

Sherlock did not bother to look back at the paper. "L-Likely a 'Y' g-given your j-ump to M." He was irritated, per usual, but it was nearly overshadowed with swelling panic. He stared across the room, heart thumping hard enough to be felt in his back, hands trembling in his lap. There was so, _so much_ to struggle to regain, and for what? His prognosis was assisted ambulation and...board games with his brother when Mycroft had the time. 

He looked down at his hands and drew in his fingers, again testing their dexterity, putting his focus to the nature of the healing scars and twisted bones, watching how the made his fingers move now. Could he operate a microscope? Would he regain the ability to handle a pipette? 

"You m-must f-f-find me s-so intolerably _st-stupid_ now. A-Are you s-sure th-this is w-worth the r-risk to your career?"

Mycroft put the paper down and gave Sherlock the most serious look he had since this whole business started. "You are worth losing my career for, Sherlock. I've never had any doubts about that." 

Oh, it had been plenty painful to him, but it was like the choice between cutting off one's hand or dying. The loss of limb is felt, but not so strongly as a loss of life would be. 

"I will help you through this. Already you've been lucid for a long time. I like having a purpose."

Sherlock's voice was very quiet as he replied, "Y-You already had a purpose. M-Much m-more fascinating th-than n-nursing an...inv-valid." How he despised himself in that moment, looking over the parts of his body that he could see. He wanted to lie back down and mesh with the bedding, fade into the fabric and vanish. 

He glanced back at the paper in Mycroft's lap, seeing only wavering lines and contrast where his brother's name should be. 

Mycroft took another piece of paper and drew a very simple X on the page. "What of this one? What does it look like to you?" He would not simply leave Sherlock to cope on his own. Not ever. 

Sherlock drew in a slow breath and again took the paper, holding it down on the bedding to keep it from shaking. He stared at the page, the wavering lines morphing and blotting out in shifting locations, making his stomach roll. He reached out and traced the lines with his finger, missing the bottom portion completely. 

"It's...th-this is 'V'" he whispered, frowning when the upper portion twisted away, blotted out. "N-No...it's..." he traced the bottom portion, not at all seeing the top now, swiftly forgetting it was there. "A, it's...but th-there isn't..." 

He smoothed the paper and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose and exhaling through his pursed lips before looking again. His finger started at the center of the X and he held still, not sure which way to move, groaning before covering his face in shame. 

Mycroft handed him a marker, a thick one, which would be easier to hold. "Sherlock, I am not upset with you. Do you think you could try and trace it?" 

He took the top of the marker off and looked at him expectantly. "Please?"

Sherlock took the marker and looked down at the paper. His head was beginning to ache and his stomach clenching as he attempted to focus. He wrapped his hand around the marker like a sodding two year old and put it to the paper, arm shaking, dragging back at his elbow as he tried to follow the line. 

When he was done, he'd made something close to a 'V' with an additional half leg to the side, his lines more like rivers on a map, wavering and jagged. 

He set the paper down, marker on top of it, and looked away. "I kn-know I've j-just scribbled. That's n-nothing. I've...I c-can't e-even manage..." a single hot tear of frustration rolled down his cheek which he dutifully ignored, drenched in self-loathing. 

Mycroft gently took Sherlock's hand and helped him draw the last leg. "You got seventy five percent of it! Just missed the last leg. It's an X. See?" He moved Sherlock's hand in two straight lines. "X. Try on your own?" 

Mycroft smiled lightly despite Sherlock's pain and ruffled his hair. 

Sherlock turned his focus back as Mycroft moved his hand. He looked down at what they'd made, unable to see it clearly. "It...it's a-as if...I s-stared at...s-several b-bright lights. The l-lines m-move and v-vanish." 

He explained as he attempted to recreate the shape, finding _nothing_ of a visual representation in his mind for the shape of x, only knowing it's sound and usage. 

"X marks the spot. Try and picture it. A big, red, pirate X. Picture it clearly." 

He thickened the lines of the X and held it up again for Sherlock to see. "Pirate X. Angry X. X's over the eyes."

Sherlock closed his eyes as the childish imagery came up. The shapes were simply lines, it did not register as 'X' to him. "I...it is a sh-shape, only. I don't kn-know wh-what the _fuck_ is w-wrong with m-me. S-Suppose h-he t-tore into m-my d-damn f-f-face one too m-many times." 

His _mind_...what the hell was left of his mind? "W-Was...y-you said w-we were in the car f-for an MRI. What d-did they find?"

"You have some mild brain trauma, but they expect it will heal fairly quickly." He gave a reassuring smile and pet Sherlock's hair. "You can see it. We can bridge the mental link, or we can make our own letters to form a bridge."

Sherlock grit his teeth as he listened to Mycroft suggest _adding_ to the intolerable mess inside of his head. 

"It's not...you assume th-the bridge is all th-that's broken...there...it's ch-chaos. _Chaos_. L-like a h-home in Kansashit by tornado. J-Just," he held his hands up around his own head, fingers curled in as though holding a ball, "m-madness. I h-have been...working so hard to g-get an-anything to st-stay put and I've o-only manage to c-cage away-" 

He shook his head, dropping his hands. He couldn't say aloud that he'd caged John, feeling that cloying guilt. 

Mycroft pet Sherlock's head as if he were a child. "I'll do anything I can to make this easier for you. I've been trying to help. Would you like to finish working for today, or keep practicing?"

He was careful to keep his voice soft and gentle despite his own frustration with himself. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as Mycroft touched his head, leaning in closer to his brother despite how disgusted he was with himself. "I..." his voice broke but he swiftly cleared his throat, forcing himself on. "n-need to st-stand...n-need to w-work m-my hands." 

"How about this? You'll practice tracing the X a few times to work your hand. Then, we can stand for a bit. I'd like something to eat, too. You don't have to if you don't want to, but I can have something called up for you." 

He smiled over at his brother as affectionately as possible. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, humiliated to be putting anything on paper that showed how absurdly terrible he was with his writing. "I d-don't want t-to eat," he whispered, reaching over and taking the paper. He picked up the marker and paid close attention to his fingers, attempting to position them properly. He could not move them as he wanted, and so used his free hand to push his own fingers into position. 

Nearly three minutes later he was as satisfied with his grip as he was going to get, putting the marker to the paper and starting a line. Pain flared up his forearm from pressure applied at his fingers being held in such a way, though he simply grit his teeth and pressed on. He drew what he thought were two crossed lines, when really all that he'd done was manage two shaking attempts at a line that brushed together close to the bottom. 

"W-Wrong," he hissed at himself, rolling his shoulder to try and ease some of the brilliant pain, pushing past it as he tried again, and then again, carrying on until the trembling at his fingers had spread up his arm, past his elbow, and across his shoulders. Not once had he managed it. 

He dropped the marker without intending to, his fingers spasming before his hand began to curl in, cramping terribly enough that it made Sherlock cry out with fear that he might be having a seizure, not recognizing the muscle reaction for what it was. 

Mycroft was heartbroken by his brother, who used to be able to write complex reactions and equations, now struggling to draw an X. 

"I'm proud of you, Sherlock. I am so proud of you. Truly, you are amazing." He capped the marker and set the things on the table. 

"I'm here, it's alright." He took Sherlock's forearm in his hand and gently began to work on the tight muscles and tendons. He started close to Sherlock's elbow, where there wouldn't be pain when he massaged.

Sherlock allowed his brother his hand, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee. He covered his eyes with the hand that was not locking up, face down towards the mattress, fighting hard not to fall apart. 

"I'm s-sorry," he whispered after the pain began to ease back a bit, "I'm s-sorry, M-My." 

When Sherlock didn't fall into panic about the cramp, Mycroft gently put his hand down and wrapped him up in his arms. "It'll get easier. I promise. I'll be here with you to help you along."

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if it was going to get better. He felt as though he'd made no progress at all, had simply lost one thing after another after another until he was left with...the ability to drink water, be held bodily in the shower, and watch telly. If there was a hell, this was it. Everything he loved, outside of his brother, was gone. 

"Wh-what if...if th-this is all...all that..." his voice died off on a whine as panic at the thought of the future grabbed him by the throat. 

Mycroft did not want to consider that as an option. "It will get better. I promise. You just have to get the letters connected again. Things should get easier." 

He flipped the telly back on and looked to Sherlock. "Are you sure you don't want food?"

Sherlock thought on it for a moment as his stomach growled. His mouth watered at the idea of bacon and eggs, or slightly sweet pancakes, but a flash of memory at the price they cost made him suddenly wrap an arm around his stomach and shake his head. Hungry was far, far better than… _that_. 

With his right hand throbbing and his spirits crumbled, Sherlock eased back down to his side, curling his knees up as much as he could, slipping his fingertips back up to his mouth as he stared listlessly at the telly screen

Mycroft texted Miller. 

_He won't eat after the incident. Is there anything we can do about that?_

He then wrapped one arm around Sherlock and pretended to be interested in yet another nature documentary. 

Sherlock stared at a frog on the screen, eyes unfocused, and walked very cautiously back along the path in his mind. 

_The sky swirled angry gray streaked with clear white, the hues twisting and morphing together, undulating without any logical physics behind it. Sherlock stared up at the towering house, eyes settling on the open window of his childhood bedroom, out of which hung a knotted sheet, the tail gently swaying in the light breeze. He did not want to walk through the house, fearing Moran._

_His footfalls crunched along the mix of dirt and gravel on the path, and soon he was stepping over shrubbery, listening to tiny twigs snap and give as he wrapped his hands around the sheet and began to haul himself up, making progress before slipping down, then regaining himself, scaling the rust-red siding._

_His room was empty, lights on, but a projection flickering on the wall stopped him from even putting his feet on the ground, perched and seated on the windowsill as he watched an old film blink in and out over his childhood bed._

_Mycroft sat next to him, holding up flashcards with block letters as Sherlock, pirate hat askew and wooden sword with a mud-smudged tip on the floor next to him, spoke. There was no sound, only the expressions on faces. His tiny self gave an answer, and a pre-teen Mycroft's shoulders rose in an obviously long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes and shaking his head._

_He watched as his childhood self had yet to learn to mask what he was feeling. The small boy's eyes crinkled down and he looked away, starting to rock himself very slightly as he picked at the end of the sword, speaking again, and again getting the wrong answer._

_'Enough!' Sherlock bellowed into his mind as his chest tightened and he was sure he'd stop breathing, remembering the feeling of those drills as though it was happening to him right in that moment. His feet hit the ground and he charged over to the chair holding the reel-to-reel, kicking it over and listening to the wheels spin off track, film tickering until the light slowly faded out and it went quiet._

_He walked over to his bed and dropped down on it, curling tight on his side with his fingers fisted in his hair, sobbing bitterly as lonely isolation weaved with his grief, blanketing him there._

Mycroft's phone chimed with a response from Miller. 

_We can keep him on a liquid diet for a few days, allow him time to settle from that experience._

Mycroft could recognize the look of Sherlock deep in his mind, and he let out a sorrowful sigh. "I love you," he said hopefully, then fell silent when there was no response. 

_I'll get him a smoothie then, if that's alright with you. He tried to read today. He can spell in his own mind, knows the alphabet in several languages, and can not distinguish between an M and a V when drawn on paper._

Miller responded swiftly. 

_That is highly encouraging. It's an issue in his physical brain, which likely means the pathways will either heal or, in the worst case, simply have to be relearned. Ultimately he should regain this ability. I will have the kitchen send up a smoothie, though we should carry on giving him feedings, he is still drastically underweight._

_I'll give him a feeding when he's asleep so it doesn't stress him. He also claims that the letters fade in and out, and is unable to trace them. They are not just unfamiliar, they seem actually difficult to see._

Miller texted a few minutes later. 

_May I come up and see him?_

Before replying, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and have him a gentle squeeze. "Lock? Could Miller come see you?" 

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd never been pulled from his mind so effortlessly, one moment on his childhood bed and the next fractured second in Mycroft's. He turned swiftly with a sharp cry to see who was touching him, taking in Mycroft's face and exhaling shakily. "My," he whispered to himself, shuddering hard. 

He'd been asked something. 

"W-What did...y-you s-said something?"

"I'm sorry I startled you," Mycroft said, though he was not sorry at all it had worked. "Could Miller come up and see you for a bit?" 

Sherlock looked away, nodding quietly. When he was lucid, Miller did not bother him. The flutter of nerves was unexpected and unwelcome. He turned his attention back to the screen, watching ants run along a crevasse in the pitted bark of a dead tree. 

"Pl-please don't m-make me e-eat." 

"I won't make you eat," Mycroft echoed and texted Miller.

_He says you can come up. Be gentle on the subject of eating. Don't tell him about the feeding. He's a bit raw about the subject._

The next few minutes were mostly silent, Sherlock's stomach rumbling, his breathing bordering too fast, the steady narrator speaking softly of things neither brother cared about at the moment. 

Miller knocked gently before letting himself in, carrying a tray and intentionally walking to Mycroft's side, setting down the thing with a smoothie for the both of them, fruit and yogurt for Mycroft. 

"Good morning Sherlock," Miller said quietly as he walked over to Sherlock's side, crouching down so that he was lower than him, "Is it alright if I look at what you wrote today? Mycroft said you can still spell, that's fantastic." 

Sherlock looked down at the doctor and ground his teeth, loathing every single thing about this, feeling like a fucking child. "B-Bravo f-for me. Look all you l-like." 

Mycroft looked gently to Sherlock and shook his head. "It is a big deal for you, Sherlock. It is difficult, and you worked on it. For that I am proud." He picked up the papers and handed them to Miller. The X had clearly been difficult for him, as there were wavy lines in odd directions on the page. 

Miller took the papers and quietly looked at them. "Alright, Sherlock, I'm going to let neurology look at these, okay? We'll figure out what's going on." 

Sherlock shrugged and looked away, biting at his fingertips. 

Miller put his focus to each of the attempts, looking through them calmly. He then looked back to Sherlock, studying his body language. "Your hand is hurting. Arm and shoulder too. You know you can always ask-" 

Sherlock cut him off, eyes sharp and furious, nearly gray in his anger, "A-Ask for m-my brother to carry me to toilet, to t-t-teach m-me to read, t-to h-hold m-me like a f-fucking _infant_ when I'm t-terrified of sh-shadows? Y-Yes, I am f-fully fucking _aware_ th-that I may a-ask for h-help." 

"Hey, it's alright. It's okay. You're okay. Miller didn't mean any offense. You're alright. I'm happy to help you and you don't need to be ashamed." 

Mycroft cradled Sherlock against his chest and covered his ear with one hand. He looked up and mouthed an apology to Miller. 

Miller had taken no offence, holding up an easy palm and giving Mycroft a bit of a smile to show that he was fine. He stood back up, setting the papers aside before going into the lav and washing his hands. 

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, hot, angry tears slowly falling down his cheeks, jaw set and muscles locked up tight. He was so _angry_ , entire body shaking with pent up rage. He struggled to force himself to listen to Mycroft's heart, anything to settle himself. 

Miller returned and drew up Sherlock's medication, including something for pain. He walked around and spoke softly, not at all keen to come at Sherlock with needles until he was sure Sherlock wouldn't lash out and hurt himself. "May I give these to you, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock tensed further and opened his eyes, lashes clinging together, looking at the syringes in Miller's hand. "F-fine." 

Mycroft watched Sherlock's face carefully, with a pleasant expression on his face that in no way matched what he was thinking. "Something for pain would be wonderful, as he'd like to try standing later on today."

Sherlock said nothing as he offered his hand, glaring at Miller as though the man had personally was at fault for all the things Sherlock no longer had. He bit his lip as another tear tracked down his face, ready to scream himself hoarse. 

With a dejected sigh, Mycroft tried once more to reach Sherlock mentally. “These things will come back with time,” he said in an even tone. “I’m sure of it. You can relearn the letters, and since you already know how to spell, reading should come back easier than learning it again.”

Miller's fingers on his hand _burned_ and Sherlock clenched his teeth, struggling to keep himself grounded. The moment Miller withdrew the last syringe Sherlock pulled his hand back sharply, holding it to his chest and breathing wildly. It was too much, all of this was too much. He sat there, overwhelmed and panicking. 

"I can't," he breathed, "I...it's...I- h-how am-m I to..." he clipped off, tears streaming down his face, sucking in a sharp breath as his chest caved on a sob. He ached for John, for home, for anything normal and calm. Everywhere he tried to allow his mind to wander only escalated his panic. His palace was terror, thoughts of John cut like razors, thinking of home hollowed his gut. "M-My," he sobbed, turning his face to Mycroft's chest. 

Mycroft hated Sherlock's sadness, but it was a better response than blind terror, and at the very least he knew who he was. "I'm here for you. I'm here. You're alright. Everything is going to be alright."

Sherlock pressed his face to Mycroft's chest as frustration and grief balled up into a scream and ripped up out of his chest, knuckles blanching in the fabric of Mycroft's shirt. Now that John was done with him, he had no focus, no direction other than his own recovery. The road stretched on farther and wider than he could ever hope to cross. 

_John._

All he wanted was John. Could he walk out of his room, he'd run and fall to his knees, beg John to forgive him until he'd exhausted the whole of the English language, and then he'd start in on all the rest, running out the words in the world until he was forgiven. 

But John...John was gone. Same city, and yet for Sherlock he was light-years away. Greg gone, all of them, gone. He had _learning to read_ and _learning to walk_ to look forward to, at least until he starved to death, because there was no way on god's forsaken earth that he was going to indulge that again. 

He screamed again, full of agonized loss, holding to his brother as complete and devastating defeat nearly drowned him. 

The sheer agony behind Sherlock's voice pulled painfully at his older brother, who made a furtive attempt to calm him. 

"Sherlock, it's alright. It's okay. You're safe. Everything is safe. I've got you. Mycroft's house." 

He didn't seem to be descending into panic, so Mycroft left off with the reassurances of where he was. Instead he tried again to speak of the beach, which had worked well before. 

"Warm sand," he said in a rush. "and bright blue skies in the day. Stars at night. Lots of stars. We brought out charts, remember? We could do that again."

Sherlock had dissolved into defeated, pained sobbing as his brother began to speak. After a few minutes, talk of the beach helped to bring his distress down to something less than screaming, though Sherlock wept throughout, not particularly believing that he would ever again see the ocean. He was going to die in this bed, knowing that John no longer cared what happened to him, abandoned by all save his big brother. The thought flared warmth in the frozen void of his belly, making him pull at Mycroft in an attempt to get closer to him. 

Maybe if he didn't verbalize his desire to read, Mycroft would stop trying to teach him. He wouldn't fail if he did not try, and that was preferable than disappointing the only person on earth who gave a single damn about him. 

John's lying voice whispered cruel and clear inside his head, _I love you. I didn't abandon you. I'm never leaving._

Was it now because he was still so damaged? Could he perhaps draw John back if he were...something worthwhile? If he learned to read again, or to walk? If he regained his fingers or learned a new way to play his violin? Some purpose that he could serve? 

_Fuck John Watson, let him have Lestrade._

The voice sounded perilously like _himself_ when strung out. He physically jumped in panicked surprise at the very idea. How could that even reside in his head? 

_Shut up, Sherlock Holmes. You damn well did this, this is your fault to begin with. Fuck you, you twit._

Oh, and did _this_ not feel like madness? 

Mycroft turned Sherlock's face to look at him and tried to get his attention when he flinched. "Hey, hey, I'm here. Mycroft. I'm here. Whatever is happening in your mind is wrong and bad. If it isn't good, don't listen to it. I'm here. I love you. I've got you. Please, we can go to the beach this summer. We'll sit in the sand and in the water. We can make castles and do nice things. It will be good. Please, look at me. Tell me what is wrong."

Was there even a way to articulate the vacuum surrounding his heart, leaving him feeling as nothing more than a battered shell? 

"I- he- a-and y-you...I'm...n-no o-one...I c-can't- and- if-f I f-fail and y-you-" he shook his head as his voice cracked on another panicked sob, struggling to keep himself aware. He let go of Mycroft's shirt to cover his face, nearly hyperventilating. 

Miller shook his head and stood back up, going to fetch a sedative. 

Sherlock's chest rippled with faint electric shocks as he stressed himself to the point of activating his pacemaker, which only served to make him cry harder, wanting the damned thing out so that he could fucking die properly. 

"I d-don't- he's- and you'll...h-how...I- it's...I c-c-can't I c-can't and th-then I'll...it's-" he bit down on his fingertips, forehead slick with sweat. 

Miller held up the syringe to show Mycroft what he needed to do. 

Mycroft held up one finger to Miller to show that he wanted just a bit of time to explain something to Sherlock. 

"You can not possibly fail me," Mycroft said loudly to be heard over Sherlock's panicked breath. 

"You're not going to fail me. I don't care! I promise you, I don't care what you do. I love you unconditionally. Remember that word. That is how I love you. You are my family. You are the only person I've ever been able to have an intelligent conversation with! You're the only person who would ever consider spending time at the beach with me. I will not leave you."

Sherlock tried to listen to his brother over the chaos of conflicting voices in his head, as John, Moran, even his own voice, all shouting in reason for why this could not possibly be the truth, could not be trusted. He was going to lose everything and there was fuckall he could do about it. He was 90% there already. 

He sobbed around his bleeding fingers, honestly wanting to believe. He forced himself to open his eyes and look up at his brother. "I-It's s-s-so _loud_ ," he wept, eyes glassy and frightened. 

"Okay, okay, one moment. One moment." He put on some classical music and put the volume up. "Sherlock, listen, I love you. I promise. If Moran is in your head, don't listen. Do not listen to him at all. I am here for you."

Sherlock kept his fingers in his mouth, the music only adding to the chaos. He watched his brother's face, not particularly responsive as his mind assault him. 

_If...if you'd t-told me this wouldn't have happened!_

_What did you do to John Watson?_

_GREG! PLEASE! D-Don't l-leave me!_

_I look forward to it._

_Want to watch me fuck him? Oh, how he thought it was you. Begged you to stop._

_I didn't hurt John!_

_What did you do to John Watson?_

_It w-was m-m-me! I- I h-hurt-_

_I love you, I didn't abandon you! I'm coming, I'm coming Sherlock. Let me get used to the car!_

_Maybe in a year or two, you can say a proper goodbye._

Tears streamed down over his temples from unblinking eyes, his fingers bloodying his lips, watching Mycroft as though he were a great distance away. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hand out of his mouth and waved for Miller to come over. "It's alright, Sherlock. We're just going to go to sleep for a bit. I'll be right here with you. I'll be right here the entire time. Please, just get some rest."

Sherlock did not react as Miller took his hand and began to push the sedative, staring up at his brother, his breathing ragged as he waged a war in his own mind. He fought against the sedative out of pure instinct, putting all his energy into keeping his eyes open. With a pathetic whimper, eyes still locked on Mycroft, he finally lost the battle. The tension bled away from his muscles and his eyelids fluttered before finally closing, forcing the last of his tears to fall before he was well and truly asleep. 

It looked too much like dying to Mycroft, who clutched Sherlock even after he was under. He rocked just a bit faster than would actually benefit him, but he was nervous and far past stressed. "He needs a feed," Mycroft said roughly after a moment. "It's been days since he's had a proper bath, too."

Miller nodded, relieved to hear Mycroft say as much. "I'll get a feed together and give you whatever assistance you'd like. I know this is a difficult time, but please try and eat what I've brought up, I'll be back in about ten minutes, let me gather everything. He was lucid for a good while today, that's a positive development." 

"Yes, thank you." Mycroft had completely forgot that Sherlock had been lucid. He'd seen him struggle with the writing, but had neglected to notice how long he'd stayed truly calm and in control of where he was. Numbly he pulled the food over and ate slowly.

Miller returned as promised, close to ten minutes later. He walked over to Sherlock and very carefully uncapped the tube, starting the process of feeding him. 

"I do think that his trouble with written word can be repaired, I've forwarded pictures of his efforts to neurology. I know it has been a few months since he was last so roughly handled, but swelling in the brain can take a long time to go down, and each time his blood pressure raises, it exacerbates that. I do very strongly believe he can heal." 

"He needs to be able to read," Mycroft countered with worry in his tone. "I'm glad you believe it will heal, but it's better if it's sooner. He has nothing to live for. Absolutely nothing. You saw him with John. He loves that man more than life itself, and he is mourning him bitterly. He has no cases, no drugs, no reading, no experiments, nothing active... I wouldn't like to live like that."

Miller watched Sherlock carefully as he gave the feed, backing off how fast he was pushing it any time Sherlock's expression shifted at all. "I know, I agree. I am doing everything I can, and so is Paul. We can't change John. He gave a very valiant effort to move past this, it's a testament to how much your brother meant to him. Perhaps when he's well enough to properly say goodbye to Sherlock, it will be easier for your brother to let him go." 

Mycroft looked very cross as he drank his fruity smoothie. He glowered at the opposite wall, all dark anger and morose thought. 

"I'd hoped to see them back together," Mycroft said quietly with a forced gentleness. "I'd hoped they would be friends again. John seems set on it, does he not?"

Miller nodded, "He did seem so, yes. From what Paul has been telling me through the day, it sounds as though he feels tremendous guilt in not being able to do so. Though, he's not expressed that he misses Sherlock, it unfortunately sounds more like a sense of obligation than missing a friend." 

He shook his head, gently moving Sherlock's hand where it looked a bit pinched. "It's almost a shame he killed Moriarty, Moran had him for one fourth the time and did...it's shocking that Sherlock survived, Moran must have had quite the twisted medical team. I loathe that they made both men fear doctors."

"Moran likely had access to Moriarty's resources at first. Probably kept the web together just long enough to do this. He was mostly on his own when we found him. He was an attack dog Moriarty kept on a tight leash. The only consolation was that we might not have been able to find him if it was Moriarty. He could have gone to a different continent or an island somewhere. He likely would have, if he knew he was running from me. Before, we didn't even know to look." Mycroft finished his food and set the tray down.

Miller stopped the feeding and flushed the tube with a bit of water, capping it all off and then taking Sherlock's pulse, nervous of his color. "Yes, your rescue efforts were quite remarkable. He's exceedingly fortunate to have you as a brother. Perhaps we can find something to keep him occupied while he's learning to read and walk. I wish that we could bring in an occupational therapist, but I understand that likely would not go very well. Have you considered any of the aids? Perhaps he will enjoy puzzling out someone new?" 

Mycroft reached for his laptop and dragged it over. "I've narrowed it down, as well as read several books. I am going to call them in soon. I wish to speak with each of them alone, so it would have to be scheduled around Sherlock's sedation. After that, I'll pick the most suitable few and introduce them to Sherlock."

Miller nodded, "Alright, well, I can keep Sherlock down for the next six to eight hours through sedation if you'd like to get some headway done there. I'll sit with Sherlock after we get him bathed and change the bed, and you can make some calls. The sooner that aid gets here, the better chance you have of returning to your position in at least some capacity." 

Mycroft cringed. "I don't have any desire to leave him with some aid after having told him I wouldn't leave him. I'll only go in when I absolutely need to. The rest of them are so inefficient. I can be at par and spend a tenth of the time." 

He reached for his phone and sent emails as well as texts to the aids on file, asking if they were prepared to take a phone call. He himself hated being sprung upon with such matters. 

Miller nodded, "I know, Mycroft, I understand. But even were you not returning to work...Greg's losing it as it is. You need help with him, you cannot be on all day every day without pause, it is an inhuman feat. An aid will enable you to go to your office here in your home and work, knowing that you will be alerted the moment Sherlock needs you, also knowing that someone you both trust is with him. I wish I knew what made him mistake me for Moran so frequently, or I would volunteer. I've seen pictures of the man, I don't particularly look like him. Ah well, it does not particularly matter. Any help I can give, I will. I'm committed far past a strictly professional level, I'll admit. This case is...as nothing I've ever before encountered." 

"I'm sure Paul will write a book," Mycroft said grimly. "Give lectures on it and such. I'll get an aid, but I wish for it to be clear that the first few weeks, they will be working with me in the room." 

A few of the possible aids were available for a phone interview, and Mycroft looked up to Miller. "If you wish to be in the room while I do these, you may. I'll be recording them either way."

Miller took the offer of remaining in the room as a veiled request, choosing to stay. Sherlock seemed aware as was possible that Mycroft was going to require an aid one way or another.

"I'll stay, I can fill in with any medical questions they might have."

Mycroft nodded and waited for the first caller to pick up. When she did, Mycroft began a brief explanation of the case again, then asked several questions that she was to answer. 

He ended the call sooner than he ha planned and rubbed at his temples. The woman had been annoyingly perky, and Mycroft doubted Sherlock wanted someone patronizing. "I hope they aren't all like this," he muttered and rang the next. 

Miller shook his head as the line rang. "Decidedly not," he said quietly, reaching forward and taking Sherlock's pulse, still not liking his color. He listened as Mycroft spoke on the phone, still deeply impressed with his ability to handle so many things all at once. 

Mycroft cradled Sherlock with one arm and held the phone with the other shoulder. The next aid he did not like either, as he responded just a bit too shortly when Mycroft asked the same question for the fourth time. Impatience simply wouldn't do. The next seemed lovely, but a bit too easily offended when Mycroft suggested she might not be strong enough to help. A tough skin was needed. 

The third to last he interviewed proved to be the most suitable, though Mycroft marked another to bring in to meet Sherlock. He finished the last call, and set down his phone nearly three hours after the calls began. 

Miller was walking back in after Mycroft ended the call, having prepared a feed for Sherlock and a meal for Mycroft. 

"Any luck," he asked quietly as he set the tray of food down beside Mycroft and then moved to the side opposite to give Sherlock another feed and dose him with his evening medications. 

"Two or three," he said quietly and opened up his laptop. "I'll arrange a time for them to come meet Sherlock. I'm hoping he'll be lucid through it, and I'll only bring one a day." 

Miller hummed as he kept a careful eye on Sherlock. "Though, it may be good to see them around Sherlock when he's not lucid as well. I hope for his sake, though, it is difficult to watch him be so frightened." He paused and then looked over to Mycroft, frowning at the laptop. 

"I know you've a lot on, Mycroft, but do please try and eat. Do you want me to keep him down longer? I imagine he'll be up in an hour or so if allowed." 

Mycroft looked at the food with disinterest before finally pulling it over. "Right. This can wait, I suppose." He hated eating around Sherlock, who was so touchy about it. It seemed wrong, as if he shouldn't be allowed to eat or read until Sherlock could do the same. 

"I've chosen only males, as Sherlock still seems to hit rather hard even though he's weak."

Miller did not laugh, but the corner of his lip ticked up in incredulous admiration. "It's quite remarkable. I believe we are fortunate not to have had more physical struggles with him. That is something to keep in mind though as he heals and regains his strength." 

"We're just lucky we haven't been elbowed yet," Mycroft said with the same admiration in his voice. "You should have seen him when he was young. I followed him on more than one occasion during his various drug habits. He'd get low on cash and absolutely dominate in the ring. Most were bigger than him, too." 

Miller watched Mycroft with a tightening in his chest as a deep wave of sympathy rolled over him. He was quiet as he finished pushing the feed, flushing the line and capping it off. When he next spoke, his voice was very soft. 

"Greg always says that he has moments where he can see his old friend in John," he let that hang for a moment as he drew up Sherlock's normal medications, "have you ever found that to be true of Sherlock?" 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock's face for a long time. "He snaps at me sometimes, just a light attempt at banter, but that's not his entire personality. Sometimes he quietly says he wants John, or his home. He sounds like Sherlock, just a very damaged version. Other times, he's not himself at all."

With a gentle nod, Miller stood up and put his things away. He came back to take Sherlock's vitals and then spoke gently to Mycroft. "You said you wanted to bathe him, and I'd like to get a look at his incisions. The sutures are all dissolving at this point, but I'd like to be sure everything looks alright. I'm not sure how willing he'd be to strip down for me." 

He looked at Mycroft for permission, honestly needing a look at his patient though sympathetic of the situation. 

"You said we have an hour. I'll get him clean, then bring him back in here. He doesn't need to know." Mycroft got up out of bed and capped off Sherlock's tube and port.   
"Nothing he'll feel without talking to him about it first." 

Miller quite agreed, standing up to go draw a bath before leaving. "I will not perform _that_ exam. I want to check his healing incisions is all, namely the pacemaker. We will need to ask him permission for the more...invasive exam but that can wait a day or so." 

Mycroft lifted Sherlock gently and carried him into the bathroom. "That should be alright. I'll let you know when we're finished." 

He brought Sherlock to the edge of the bed and sat down with him in his lap. Sherlock's limp state made undressing him a bit hard, but after a minute Sherlock was in the warm bath with Mycroft supporting his head. He cleaned him thoroughly and gently with the soft sponge and light soap that wouldn't bother his sensitive skin. When the water was drained, Mycroft wrapped Sherlock up in two towels and brought him back into the bedroom. 

Miller had Sherlock's bedding completely stripped and changed while Mycroft and Sherlock were in the lav, waiting out in the hall for permission to return. 

Sherlock had begun to rouse during the bath, though he did not yet return to consciousness. His hands occasionally moved, attempting to grasp things that were not there, and his face pinched from time to time, though otherwise he was limp and docile. 

The temperature shift between the bathroom and the bedroom truly began to wake him and he stirred restlessly, hand flexing and his breathing picking up. 

Mycroft called for Miller and nestled Sherlock into the blankets. "It's alright," he whispered and pet Sherlock's hair, "I'm here. You can stay asleep. Everything is alright. You're okay. My is here for you."

Miller responded quickly, coming into the room and seeing that Mycroft had Sherlock close, meaning he was likely coming to. He moved to Sherlock's side, grateful Mycroft had left him undressed, using a small penlight to get a proper look without turning on bright overheads. 

Sherlock was clearly struggling against the sedation, though he wasn't much getting anywhere. An occasional whimper broke through the silence, but he had yet to open his eyes or make any movement that seemed lucid. Miller was swift as he examined him, running through as many physical checks as he could think of in the time Sherlock was still under. 

As he was pulling the blankets back up, Sherlock's eyes abruptly snapped open and he had vicious hold of Miller's wrist, glaring at him with startling intensity.

Mycroft put his hand over Sherlock's and spoke gently, as if to remove the gravity of the situation. "He was just checking up. It's alright. I've been here. I've made sure nobody hurt you." 

Mycroft was braced for a fallout, which would be terribly inconvenient given that Sherlock was not wearing clothes. It would be much harder to explain things. 

Sherlock's only reaction was a marked increase on the pressure he was exerting on Miller's wrist. He did not look away, glaring at Miller with murderous intent. 

Miller rounded his shoulders down and did not challenge him. "Sherlock, it's safe. I'm Miller, you know me. Your brother has you, it's safe."  
Mycroft gently tugged at Sherlock's arm. "'Lock, speak to me. Say something. I need to know what you are thinking if I am going to help you."

Sherlock's grip tightened to a point that was surprisingly painful given his physical state, and Miller began to crouch down in an attempt to be less intimidating. Sherlock was ignoring his brother, and his entire body was locked up and coiled like a spring. 

"Sherlock, please breathe, let's be calm. Nothing has-" He was cut off as he realized what a crucial mistake he'd made in lowering himself. Sherlock managed to throw a vicious left hook, catching Miller across the face hard enough to make his teeth shred the inside of his lip. 

Sherlock kept hold of his wrist as he managed to sit himself up, seemingly oblivious to Mycroft, every shred of his attention focused on Miller. 

"Okay, Sherlock, stop!" Mycroft grabbed hold of Sherlock's left arm and held his other hand up in some attempt to protect himself. He shouted at Sherlock in a few languages to be calm, and tried to look him in the eyes. 

"Listen to me. I am My! Your brother!"

Rage flared through Sherlock as his movement was restricted. He twisted his wrist and abruptly pulled down, too much adrenalin in his veins to feel the pain of it in his damaged arm. He managed to not torque his pins through sheer luck, and the moment his hand was free he grabbed at Miller, fisting a hand in his shirt and growling at him, swiftly burning though his strength. 

"D-Don't f-f-f-king-g t-touch m-me," he clipped out in broken rage, his teeth chattering with the overwhelming mix of medications, adrenalin, and underlying terror. 

Miller kept Sherlock's eye, and despite his want to prize Sherlock's grip off of him, he put his hands up, nodding solemnly. "I won't touch you, Sherlock." 

Sherlock looked down at himself as he kept his grip on Miller, trying to assess the damage done. 

Mycroft very gently reached over and pulled the blankets up a bit higher where they'd slipped and put one arm around Sherlock's shoulders. 

"Little 'Lock?" The man he saw, burning with rage, did not look at all like his little 'Lock. Mycroft wanted to call him back. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Look at me, please. Please. I'm here. Listen to me. Once Redbeard helped us find our way back from the woods. John wrote on his blog about you more than he did the actual cases. Vatican Cameos. Je suis ici. Please. Sherlock, respond!"

Sherlock's focus abruptly snapped up to Mycroft. He stared without recognition for several beats before pure horror slid over his features, tightening his grip on the man he found to be a threat in that moment. 

" _My?_!" he cried, shoving Miller back hard as he grit his teeth from the flair of pain the action caused him, suddenly putting his hands on his brother as he searched for wounds, "n-no...oh g-god, what's- a-are you h-h-hurt? No, _no_!" He was frantic in his searching, panic swiftly replacing the rage. 

Mycroft found it terribly concerning when Sherlock looked at him with such terror, and he reached out to pull him in a hug. 

"I'm safe. Nobody hurt me. You just punched Miller. Miller, the doctor who helps us. That's who that was. You're safe. Everything is safe. I've got you. You can stop fighting now. I'll fight for you. I'm here. Everything is safe."

Miller kept back, doing his best not to bleed on himself as he was afraid the sight might trigger Sherlock further. He didn't give a damn about his face, he was deeply worried over Sherlock's arm and hand. The hit had been solid. 

Mycroft's calm, followed by his embrace, served to calm Sherlock down to a point where he was not ready to strike. He leaned hard into his brother, panting as adrenalin and fear held him in a merciless grip. He whined in fear as Mycroft chastised him, flinching and swiftly feeling his body. His left arm was throbbing horribly, fingers felt as though Moran had only minutes ago snapped the delicate bones. He pulled his arm up and cradled it protectively against his chest, swiftly in tears. 

"I'm s-sorry! I- I d-didn't s-s-see h-him I-" pain and fear kept him confused, his exposed body leaving him struggling to keep himself present. 

"It's alright," Mycroft continued as gently as possible. "You didn't mean to. It's okay. I don't blame you. Please don't hit anyone else, okay? You can be calm. I won't let anyone hurt you. Can I get you a painkiller?" Mycroft was heavily worried about Sherlock's hand. A solid punch like that could hurt a strong hand on a good day. He couldn't imagine what it felt like so Sherlock's already mangled one. 

Sherlock said nothing as he leaned against Mycroft. How could Mycroft be asking him not to fight when he clearly saw...

The fight was utterly gone from him, every second that ticked by allowing more and more pain to work it's way through the filter of adrenalin. He slowly began to list to the side as his strength faded, leaving him in tears, quiet as he huddled to Mycroft. 

"I...I w-won't f-f-fight," he breathed, whimpering quietly after the declaration, feeling exposed and raw as he carefully guarded his arm.

Mycroft rocked slowly and looked to Miller. "If you're alright, would you get him something for the pain?" The way Sherlock guarded his arm was worrying. 

"'Lock, I promise I won't let anyone hurt you. That is Miller. He's a good man."

Miller swiftly nodded and began to move. He'd been put down harder than that in his lifetime, but it was still a hell of a punch. Mostly unfazed, he began to draw up something a bit heaver than the morphine, deciding to give Sherlock a bit of Dilaudid so that he could properly look at his arm. 

As promised, Sherlock did not fight. He held his breath as Miller took his good hand and pushed the medication, whimpering in relief nearly as soon as the warm narcotic began to rush in his veins. He was having to work extra hard to stay upright, pleading for Mycroft's help. 

"I'm s-s-sorry, pl-please don't l-leave. I d-didn't...I'll...wh-what do y-you want m-me to do?" Fear warped his expression and he was struggling to keep his eyes open, still holding his arm close. 

Mycroft brushed Sherlock's hair out of his eyes and bent over to kiss his forehead. "I don't need you to do anything. You can decide. I would like it if you would..." He couldn't say _relax_ , apparently, and went a different rout. "You must be tired. If you need to sleep, or rest, I'll be here to keep you safe."

Sherlock had no choice but to go lax in Mycroft's arms, blinking up at him and then trying to get a look around the room, still very deeply afraid. Already his knuckles were swelling up and purpling. Miller left the room, leaving the brother's as he went to fetch ice. He had cold packs, but nothing helped as well as crushed ice. 

Sherlock cradled his arm and let his eyes fall shut before jumping and opening them again, breathing fast. "C-Cl-othes...c-can...pl-please I...p-pants or s-s-something please, pl-please I'm...t-t-to, it's t-to e-easy I- he'll-" he pinched his eyes shut, heart fluttering wildly as his stomach rolled. 

"Okay, alright. I'll get them." He slowly transitioned Sherlock out of his arms and on the bed, where he pulled the covers up and put them in Sherlock's hands to hold. "I'll just go to the dresser. I won't leave."

Mycroft kept his eyes on Sherlock and fumbled blindly for sweatpants, t-shirt, and a robe Sherlock could tie on as well. 

Sherlock pulled his quaking fingers up to his lips, deeply confused by the pins and the familiar pain, though narcotics brought that down and blanketed the agony. Mycroft was there...but he _hurt_. Deciding that he couldn't figure it out just then, he curled protectively around himself and held on tight to the blankets, tears sliding down his face, loathing being nude. 

Mycroft came over and knelt by the the bed. He would risk a punch if he seemed unassuming to Sherlock. "Would you like me to help you," he said gently.

Sherlock met his brother's eye and nodded slowly, tears slipping down his face. "I...I don't understand," he whispered as he began to once again cast his eyes around the room.

Mycroft draped the robe over Sherlock as he pulled the covers down and aside just enough to pull the pants up Sherlock's legs quickly. "Thank you for being understanding. I'm glad. Is your arm alright now?"

Sherlock looked down at his arm, his fingers swelling. He whimpered at the sight, panic flaring hard through his gut, soaking him in confusion.

"My," he cried, sobbing in fear.

Mycroft pulled the covers back up and took Sherlock's hand gently in his. "You hit Miller, remember? Nobody hurt you. You just hit a solid punch and your hand isn't used to it."

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his face down to the blankets, frightened and unsure of what they current dynamics were. 

"I...I d-didn't m-m-mean...it....h-he was t-touching me and...h-he...I d-don't w-want...m-my hands were f-free and th-they w-were n-never free unless-" he choked off, trying to hide himself, deeply afraid and ashamed. "I- I'm s-s-orry pl-please… _please_." 

"I'm not angry with you," Mycroft said gently and slowly stood. "I just want you to remember that nobody hurt you. You were just confused and hurt your hand. Nobody has been hurting you, and Miller only checked to make sure you were waking properly."

Miller knocked lightly on the door and entered just to the inside, bag of ice in hand, his own lip cleaned up as much as possible. "Need to ice that straight away," he said very quietly, not wanting to upset Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked up at his brother and then pinched his eyes closed again, rocking himself slowly. He'd done the wrong thing, he'd fought when he should have...not. He curled in tighter on himself, breathing swift through his nose, frightened and confused, whispering again and again that he was sorry. 

Mycroft took the ice and gently placed it on Sherlock's hand. "I know you said you don't like cold, but this will help with the swelling, and it won't be as bad tomorrow. I'm not mad. Miller isn't mad either."

The ice was the last push, sharp cold pushing him well over the edge. He cried out, drawing his hand back before he swiftly remembered he wasn't to fight. He sobbed as he went still, breathing fast and scrambling back up into his mind. He starred out with half-lidded eyes, desperately scrambling for his childhood bedroom.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock, I'm here. Please, stay with us. You're okay. You recovered from panic so quickly. You are very strong. I'm very happy you're strong." 

He held the ice persistently to his hand even though he had a strong desire to let him be. 

Sherlock hid from his brother's voice, wrapping himself up in his childhood bed and burrowing deep in the covers, grabbing his pillow and throwing it over his head. He sobbed into his fists, having curled them up to his lips, incredibly frightened and unsure. The cold was inescapable, layered over the pain, and the combination of two sensations he hated more than anything tipped his understanding of reality. It could simply be that his mind had imagined all of this as a way to escape Moran. 

The thought made his heart roll in his chest and he pulled at his hair, pushed up against the side of the wall in the center of his bed, willing it all to stop. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock slightly up off the bed for a moment and tried to get his attention in all the ways he always had. Eventually he gave up, lowered Sherlock back down, and took a deep breath. 

"He might be like that for a while. I can't call him back."

Miller came closer then, "I've got to look at that hand, he really put his back into it," he said quietly, approaching without touching. 

"I don't want to scare him again, do you have any ideas?"

"He isn't responding to me at all. Maybe if I hold it and you look, he won't know the difference." 

Mycroft removed the ice pack and held Sherlock's hand carefully in both of his. 

Miller very gently moved forward, examining the knuckles and walking his fingers up both radius and ulna, letting go and shaking his head as Sherlock's breathing sharply sped up.

"It's impossible to tell, his bones are already so damaged and the swelling is pronounced. I'd have to have films done to know if there are new fractures."

Mycroft gave a dejected sigh. "I'd feared as much. Is there any way we can simply wrap or splint it and let it be? Does he need pictures done?"

Miller shook his head, "Not unless something drastic is going on. I know this isn't the most ideal method of handling it, but at this point I'm struggling to find reason to worry over one more fracture when his hands are already in tough shape. My primary concern is the area being treated with the pins, but let's just keep an eye on the arm for the next few days, keep it elevated, and let it be. I don't want to splint it, I'm honestly not even sure how to position the bones if that's what's needed. No splinting without films." 

Mycroft covered his face with his hands for a moment and dragged them down. "I'll be sure to restrain him sooner next time he begins to show signs of aggression. We were just talking about this. He was a fighter."

Sherlock's breathing settled back down without Miller touching him, and so he gave a bit more ground and spoke quietly. "I should not have gotten within range, I honestly didn't think he'd take a shot from his back. I could have prevented that, I didn't want to scare him. If that situation comes up again, I'm going to prioritize his body over reluctance to frighten him. He's strong, but not more than you or I at this point. If you don't need anything right now, I'm going to let the two of you be, he might calm down without me here." 

"My main fear is that he'll further damage his hands on one of our faces. I should have put basic knowledge of martial arts on the requirements for the aid." Mycroft took one of the sheets and used it to cover Sherlock's hand before putting the ice on again. Hopefully the barrier would help ease him into the temperature. 

"Likely normal combative patient techniques will work while he's still...disadvantaged as he is. I agree though, someone with sufficient body size to handle this. A small man or woman isn't going to cut it." 

He helped Mycroft elevate the arm above Sherlock's heart and stepped back. Sherlock had begun to struggle just with that small bit of manipulation. 

Mycroft ran his hand back through his hair. "I took height and weight into the consideration. The highest candidate is fit. Irritatingly so." He brought up the picture on his phone with one hand. "One of these three."

Miller leaned in and looked at the pictures, nodding. "All good choices, it will basically come down to personality compatibility, really. They are all competent."

"Of course. I'll bring them in once this business with his hand and his meals is settled. I'd like to see their interactions with Sherlock while he's lucid and panicking, just to see how they handle it." 

Sherlock was very suddenly talking, though his eyes were still closed and he appeared not to be present. It was a bit unnerving and Miller was not sure what to make of it. "I d-don't w-want to eat," he fussed quietly, trying to slowly draw his hand away from the sharp cold. 

Mycroft doubled the sheet over Sherlock's hand to reduce the sharpness of the cold. "I won't make you eat. I promise. I'm here. You can sleep, if you want." 

Miller caught Mycroft's attention and pointed to the door to indicate he'd be just outside, wary of Sherlock's mental state and suspecting that the sight of him might set Sherlock off. He quietly excused himself, closing the door behind him. 

Sherlock did not speak or move for several minutes. Again, though still in his mind, he began to speak. 

"J-John has...h-has a d-dog."

"Yes, he does. He has a lovely German who protects him. If you want a dog, we can get one." He was hesitant to suggest it, as Sherlock had literally screamed in protest against the idea when Mycroft suggested it when Redbeard died. But perhaps it would do him good. 

Again Sherlock went quiet and still, his brow occasionally twitching. Nearly twenty minutes passed before he spoke, behaving as though no time at all had gone by. 

"N-No...John can care f-for a d-dog. I...I cannot. W-would not be fair to the d-dog."

"I have a full staff," he said softly. Mycroft was quickly getting used to the long pauses in their conversation. "And a large backyard. Mother said it was perfect for grandchildren and puppies." 

Sherlock flinched when Mycroft brought up their mother, finally outwardly reacting. He sat at the windowsill, watching the sky churn. And then just like that, he opened his eyes and was shockingly torn from his mind, shoved to reality. 

He glanced over to Mycroft and then down at the ice over the sheet on his hand. Immediately his breathing reflected his panic, chest heaving as he stared at the bag as though Mycroft held heated razor blades to him, "M-My?"

Mycroft had no inkling as to what caused Sherlock's sudden panic, so he did as he always did; asserted he was there, assured Sherlock was safe, and bundled him up in his arms. 

Sherlock cried out desperately as he was bundled into Mycroft's arms, struggling with the command not to fight as he kept his eyes locked to the bag, unable to form words in his acute fear. This was _My_ holding ice to him, and oh god he did not _want it._

"S-Stop," he wept, doing his best to resist the urge to fight, "p-please!" 

Mycroft drew away immediately and raised both hands in surrender. The ice slid off Sherlock's hand and onto the blankets beside him, and Mycroft locked wide, worried eyes on Sherlock's. 

"It's me," he gasped, "It's me. Just Mycroft. I'm sorry. I won't touch you." His insides tied into knots as he watched, hands itching to hold Sherlock again. 

The melted, freezing water began to seep through the blankets and Sherlock's heart slammed against his ribs, draining the color from his face and locking up his muscles. He struggled in the blankets as he tried to push them away, scrambling as though the bed had been set ablaze, too petrified even to cry. 

"Why!" he shouted through the tightness in his throat, nausea roiling up faster than he could breathe, making him gag in anticipation of agony. 

Mycroft grabbed the bag of ice and tossed it over the edge of the bed. Next he hurried to the other side of the bed, picked Sherlock up, and placed him on the smaller one that had been set up next to his. "I'm sorry," he said breathlessly and pulled the blankets of the other bed up around him. "It's okay. You're okay."

Sherlock had a hand pressed to his chest, wheezing through the panicked tightness. He stared down at his lap, struggling to move air, utterly terrified. He'd been abruptly moved and he was incredibly confused with the whole affair.

Mycroft guessed, based on the previous event with Sherlock's fear of being in cold water, that low temperatures somehow set him off. He laid down under the covers next to him, though not touching, and was glad he kept the room relatively warm.

Sherlock drew in on himself, gulping down lungfuls of air and holding his breath for as long as he could in an effort to calm down. Tears finally broke through the terror, more now from sharply recalled memory than fear for his active safety. "I- I- I-" he tried, speaking like a child in the throws of a massive panic trying to explain himself. He sobbed and shook his head, his good hand reaching up into his hair to pull at it, utterly falling apart. 

Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pushed his own fingers out. "I've got you. Is it the cold? We can stop with the cold. We can have a warm bath or a heated blanket if you want those things. Warm tea. Anything."

Sherlock sobbed as Mycroft touched him, both relieved and horrifically confused from the day. He struggled to get enough air to his lungs before blurting out, "I d-didn't m-m-m-ean...h-hit...the d-doct-tor! I'm _s-s-sorry My!_ I'm s-sorry! Pl-please!" 

He curled his throbbing arm to his chest and cradled it there protectively, sobbing as confusion made him believe Mycroft had been punishing him. Not once since his return was he introduced to ice or freezing water, and it jerked him back to the concrete room. 

"I know, I know. You were just scared. We're both impressed that you can hit so hard. You're doing wonderfully. I'm not upset with you." He folded Sherlock into his arms and hoped his own warmth would help.

Sherlock reached for Mycroft with his good hand, grabbing the material of his shirt and pulling himself as close as he could. 

_How long can you tolerate this, Sherlock?_

All of a sudden he was trying to sit up, terrified to be on his back, head splitting as his blood pressure spiked and made the blood pulse against his eardrums. He covered his face as the burn of freezing water shadowed down the back of his throat and stung his nose. He leaned forward, head hanging, gasping through his fingers for breath. 

Mycroft could only guess what made Sherlock want to be upright so quickly, and none of his conjectured reasons were pleasant. "I'm here," he said and supported Sherlock with one arm. He arranged the pillows behind him so he could lean without using any of his precious energy. 

"I've got you. You're safe."

Sherlock leaned his shoulder gratefully against his brother as he fought for air through panic. "I- h-hurts, I c-can feel...god-d it's...wh-why did I _f-fight_ l-like that? S-Stupid so f-fucking _st-stupid_!" 

Tears rolled down his cheeks as his entire body shook, constantly touching his face to remind himself that he was not actively being drowned.

"Not stupid! You were being brave! Brave and strong. That's what you are. You're a brave man and you fought when you thought you were under attack." 

Mycroft kept Sherlock more supported than he actually needed. "I'm sorry you woke up like that."

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft's shoulder, sobbing as he tried to breathe in the scent of his brother. "I h-hurt," he wept, still feeling the narcotic in his veins and soaking in a deeper form of agony. 

"I know. I'm sorry. I wish I could help you. I love you so much. Please be calm. I don't want you to get hurt." He was incredibly glad that Sherlock was no longer pulling away from him. He couldn't bear that.

"T-Trying," he whispered, shaking his head as he tried to free himself of the mold-stench of the fetted rag, the acrid, freezing drip in his sinus cavities, the rush of his heart in his ears. Sweat broke along his brow and he was suddenly talking aloud to his brother in an effort to work through the hell of it. 

"It's-" he began, sobbing the words, gesturing at his face, "the m-mind should...sh-should _protect_ f-from the illusion! Why the f-fuck d-d-did I- it f-feels l-like d-dying, t-two seconds of b-bravado before...before the nervous system takes over a-and...it's...b-b-burns and h-heart beats in th-the throat...p-panic and- y-you can't s-s-save yourself, c-can't m-m-move...f-f-freezing and..." he raked both hands through his hair, ignoring the pain of his knuckles, nearly hyperventilating. 

Mycroft's expression was pinched and pained. "I'm sorry that happened to you. I am so sorry. I will never let that happen to you ever, ever again." He reached out and brushed Sherlock's hair back from his eyes.

Sherlock leaned his forehead into the touch without paying attention to his own actions. He was desperate for gentleness, needing help finding a less fearful state. The unfamiliar bed wasn't helping, and there was ice not far from him.

"Is J-John..." he trailed off as he remembered himself, whimpering brokenly as he dropped his face to his hand, shaking his head as another sob clenched his chest.

"John is safe," Mycroft said and continued to brush Sherlock's hair away from his face. "And you are safe with me. I've got you. No more cold. Only warm."

Sherlock nodded as his chin trembled and tears pooled in his palm, wrapping his injured arm carefully around his gut, rocking forwards and back slightly. He knew John was safe, but he'd had a momentary flare of terrible longing, abruptly wanting to find comfort through the assurances of someone else who knew what it meant to be drowned in the dry air. 

But John wasn't his friend anymore, John was gone. 

Grief added itself to the cruel mix of fear, settling like a heavy ache, acid in the muscles, cloaking his back and dragging him down. 

"I _miss him_ ," he breathed through his swollen throat, the truth of the simple statement squeezing his heart.

Mycroft could not do a damn thing about that. He clearly couldn't bring John back. He was even tempted to watch the video feed of what went on in Greg's house to see if he was adequately stressing that Sherlock needed him. 

"Maybe someday, Sherlock. I'm sorry. The two of you react too strongly right now."

Sherlock shook his head, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he eased down to his side, not giving a damn that he was positioned awkwardly on the spare bed. 

"I...I know h-he's..." he drew in as deep of a breath as he could, gooseflesh blooming from head to toe across all of his exposed skin, tightening his scalp and making him shiver. "I know h-he's n-not coming b-back. I know. I st-still miss him." 

Mycroft reached over for his phone and pulled up something he could read just in case he needed to pull Sherlock back. "Is there anything you want that I can give you? More blankets, warm bath, something to drink...?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes pinched closed as he wept. He was doing his best to forget the melting ice, the throb of his knuckles, the overall feeling of gravity slowly crushing him down. 

He managed to keep himself present for nearly ten minutes before the overwhelming weight of loss became too much to endure. With a deep breath, his eyes relaxed and he turned back into his mind. At least there he could move. 

_The sky was still churning in the strange mix that reminded Sherlock of the first moments after gray pain was poured into pure white, just starting to mix, lines between the two hues still clearly defined. John was screaming in the caged corner of his mind, and Sherlock slowly moved in his direction._

_The cage was free-standing on the front lawn this time, never in the same location. He was always able to keep John contained, but that was the extent of it. His feet crunched on the gravel as he approached, watching John slink to the far back of the cage, begging and sobbing, blood dripping from his hairline onto his battered body. Sherlock came to a stop just at the front of the bars and sat down slowly, leaning his forehead to the bars._

_He was silent as John carried on begging and pleading, occasionally screaming himself hoarse as the fear became too much for him._

_'This is all I have left of you,' he whispered under the churning sky, knowing that this John would not speak to him other than to plead mercy, 'well, this and the strange-' he waved absently in the air, 'moving picture of you in your chair. I wonder if they took your chair to Greg's, or if it's back at Baker Street? I don't think you'll ever go back there. Or...or me...for that matter."_

_He looked up at John in time to watch him drag in another breath, screaming again. Sherlock closed his eyes and absorbed the sound, waiting for it to fade away before speaking again. 'I wish you hadn't told me you love me. That was cruel. For anyone, really, more my area than yours. But you were not trying to get anything out of me, I don't think. Maybe revenge. Maybe."_

_He went quiet and simply watched his John, defeated and mourning._

Outwardly, Sherlock was gone. His breathing slowed drastically as his eyes completely closed. He went boneless against the bed, not quite sleeping, simply absent. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock fully into his lap now that he had no fear Sherlock would react negatively. In all honesty, that would be welcomed. At least then he wouldn't be stuck in his mind, seeing god only knows what. After nearly an hour had passed, Mycroft slowly lowered Sherlock down and scooted to the edge of the bed. He needed to stretch, to walk, to take care of himself in some way. His limbs were knotted and tight from staying in bed for so long, and his usually perfect posture was slouched.

Sherlock immediately relaxed against his brother, very much soothed to be in arms.

"Thank y-you," he breathed in obvious relief, already starting to drift off to sleep.

Sherlock did not surface for the remainder of the day. Miller came in at several points to bring Mycroft food, helping to change the bedding where the ice had spilled and checking on Sherlock's arm. 

It was well after dark, close to midnight as Miller walked back in, speaking quietly. "Just need to give nighttime meds," he whispered, gaining no reaction from the still-gone Sherlock, "how is he?"

Mycroft had moved Sherlock into the larger bed once the water dried and sat down next to him above the covers. "He's gone," he said in a rough voice when Miller entered. "Stuck in his mind. I tried all the usual things."

Miller began the usual routine of care, quiet next to Sherlock as he worked. Sherlock's arm was still elevated on a pillow at his side, and at present he appeared to be actively sleeping. 

"Is there anything I can do for you," he asked when he was nearly done tending to Sherlock, looking over to Mycroft. 

"I don't think so," Mycroft said quietly. "There's nothing to do. We'll see if he pulls out of it tomorrow, and if so, I'll bring one of the potential aids in to see how they interact."

Miller finished up and simply nodded in sympathy to Mycroft. "I am sorry it has been such a difficult day. If you need anything, please let me know." 

He stood up and quietly left the room, leaving the brother's together in the darkness. 

Mycroft had nothing else to do at this point, and set to trying to rouse Sherlock. He tapped, spoke, moved Sherlock carefully into his lap, and over all pleaded with him to return. After a few minutes though, he stopped. What was the point? What would he be asking Sherlock to return to anyhow?

It was half three when Sherlock came awake, slowly opening his eyes as though nothing had happened, staring up at the dark ceiling without a sound. He did not search out Mycroft, or examine his surroundings. 

Mycroft was bent over his laptop and did not notice for another five minutes. The dark circles under his eyes were worse, and his expression was grim. When he finally glanced over, he did a double take before realizing that he was not imagining it. "'Lock?" 

Sherlock inhaled slowly before speaking to the ceiling. "Here," he replied quietly, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye to race across his temple. Otherwise he carried on as he had been, staring up at the darkness, no interest at all in his surroundings. 

"Would... Would you feel better if I were to hold you?" Mycroft felt rather useless as he sat still, hands in his lap, laptop on the bed next to him. 

The offer reached right through the detached haze, and nearly immediately Sherlock's blank expression crumpled as he nodded, his chest buckling under the weight of grief. 

"Oh, Sherlock, it's alright." Mycroft pulled Sherlock into his arms and rocked slowly back and forth. "Things will get better. I promise." 

Sherlock held his arm to his ribs and turned his face to Mycroft's chest, very quietly falling apart. Never in his life had he grieved as deeply as this, the losses stacked high and overwhelming. He supposed it would get better, but it would never be okay, would never be happy or comfortable again. At best, it would become something tolerable, and as he was, even that low bar seemed unlikely. 

"We'll go to the beach," Mycroft said with some small amount of hope. "That will be nice, won't it? We can do all sorts of wonderful things. Ice cream and sand castles. We'll have fun. Things will be good again."

Sherlock nodded just to give his brother a response, holding himself in a guarded manner, his entire body aching from tossing it about so. When his tears finally stopped, he simply lay against his brother in quiet defeat. Far too long after the fact, he realized Mycroft's laptop was open. 

A shock of fear arced through his chest, seizing up his heart. He forced himself to wait a few moments before speaking, not wanting his worry to reflect in his tone. His voice was soft as he spoke in the darkness.   
"W-Working?" 

"Just a bit of reading, actually. Paul suggested some books that might help me understand how to best care for you." He reached over and shut the laptop. 

"Bunch of mights and coulds. Nothing solid enough yet." 

Sherlock looked up at his brother's face, trying to read him before looking away, drawing in as slow of a breath as he could manage. "Y-You're not sl-sleeping," he said quietly, suddenly realizing that he was doing to his brother what John had done to Greg. 

He brought his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. "H-hire someone to...help me and g-go back to your life." 

"I do plan on hiring someone," Mycroft said gently. 

"But I won't be going back to work for a while. I still want to stay with you. And even then, you know I take half the time to get things done twice as well as anyone else. And that's when I'm being lazy! I could be back in time for lunch, if I brought the paperwork home." 

Sherlock did not reply for several minutes as he struggled with himself. On the one hand, he did not want to watch Mycroft fade away in the monotony that was bound to be Sherlock's existence going forward. An aid was required. Sherlock did not hold any friends any longer. No one would come to his side any longer. It was only through the mercy of his brother that he was not screaming the paint off the walls in some institution. 

On the other hand, though, the idea of facing hour after god forsaken hour without his brother's hand to hold, passed off to a complete stranger, was horrifying. Would they bind his hands now that he was demonstrably violent? He tried to imagine his days with an as yet unknown person in the mix, unable to do so. 

"Y-You don't n-need...need to do th-that. T-Take me to the beach when you have t-time. L-Live your life...I'm...I am hurting you." 

"I will give you time to see if you like the aid. If you don't, we'll move to the next. It's always your choice. I love you, and I will not abandon you. I need to work to keep us supported for the rest of our lives, but I won't need to be as involved as before." 

He tried for a smile, but it felt wrong, and he let it fall. 

"Whenever you're ready, we've picked some people out."

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip, nodding as he did his best not to let his distress show. This was the only path, there were no other acceptable options. 

He closed his eyes as the weight of it settled like ton bricks stacked on his ribs. This was the start. In two months his brother would return to work, and likely by six, he'd be fortunate to see him for any amount of time each day. 

"Tomorrow...m-move us to...to a g-guest r-room so that I can adjust," he asked quietly, proud of how steady his voice was.

Mycroft felt his words in the pit of his stomach, where they settled like a stone. 

"I know I left you before," Mycroft said, "when I went to Uni, but I won't leave you. I'd like for you to stay in here. Please. Later on, if you'd like, I can transfer you to the room just down the hall. I will not abandon you. I won't move you tomorrow. Not for at least a few months, and only when you want to leave." 

Sherlock shook his head, doing his best to be brave, to damn well stop thinking of himself first. 

"N-no...I'm...I'm already...you're not sleeping, l-lost weight...g-going to get sick. Stay in...in the other r-room with me as you w-want...you need...n-need your space."

It would be much better for Mycroft this way, and if Sherlock could not focus on John, then Mycroft would be his project for however long that took. Likely a few days back at work was all Mycroft needed, but for now Sherlock could distract himself from his own inescapable hell with his brother's care.

"No." If Mycroft had children, this would have been the tone that ended arguments. Gentle, but with no room for argument. "I'm not letting go of you yet. Once you have an aid, I can stop working and get more sleep."

Sherlock closed his eyes, lost on what else to do. He'd run off everyone else, and where historically that had not ever bothered him, his life was completely different now. If he destroyed Mycroft…

"Ok," he whispered, sinking in on himself.

He knew he needed to convince Sherlock that he would take care of himself, and so Mycroft rested his head on the pillow. 

"I need some sleep now, if you don't mind. You can wake me if anything happens. I'm a light sleeper, and I'd be happy to wake up if you need comfort." He looked to the lamp, then back to Sherlock. Was he alright with the dark?

Sherlock nodded, deeply afraid of the dark but unwilling to repeat his fear. He turned his eyes back to the dimly lit ceiling and made himself breathe, toying with the idea of mental retreat. Listening to John scream and beg had become incredibly upsetting, which had promoted him to wake in the first place. 

Mycroft got up out of bed for just a moment and turned the light on in the bathroom and left the door cracked before turning the lamp on. He needed sleep, and couldn't sleep with it on, but it was clear Sherlock was nervous. He crawled back into bed and settled down with one arm around his baby brother. 

"Wake me if you need anything, alright?" Exhaustion hit him hard as soon as he began to even contemplate sleeping, and Mycroft blinked blearily.

"Alright," Sherlock answered, starting up at nothing, already struggling with the limited view of the room. It had been dim before, but now it was very near dark.

His heart thumped wild against his ribs, though he was careful to outwardly maintain an appearance of calm.

Mycroft was asleep not more than a minute later. He had one arm under Sherlock's shoulders and his head nestled into the soft pillow. He'd been depriving himself of sleep steadily. When Sherlock was awake, he was tending to him. When Sherlock slept, he needed to divide the time between bathing,eating, working, and sleeping. Needless to say, the last had often been pushed out in favor of more pressing issues.  
Sherlock lay next to his sleeping brother, relieved that Mycroft was resting. For the next hour he was able to keep himself lucid enough to know that Mycroft was with him. At the second, he'd focused on the light, the fine hairs along his body raised as his mind convinced him Moran was lurking in the shadows.

The third hour left him hallucinating, watching John in the corner of the room as Moran took him apart.  
By seven, four hours after Mycroft feel asleep, he was so visually locked in his head that he failed to see Miller come in, lying motionless through the feed and medications.

At eleven he dozed off for a few minutes, and at noon he shifted as his arm stopped throbbing and began sending searing, electric pain down to his fingers and up the side of his face. It was finally too much, and he began to cry as he starred at the ceiling, half way between lucid and gone, Moran and John both still carrying on loudly.

Miller came in with lunch, catching sight of Sherlock lying there, nearly green in his ashen complexion. He dared not approach, simply calling out Mycroft's name from the doorway.

Mycroft woke with a start from the most death like sleep he'd ever experienced. There was not an inkling nor a shadow of a dream, which was quite unusual for him, and the only thing to mark the passing of time was that he no longer felt that he was made of solid lead. 

Mycroft quickly turned to the side, saw Sherlock, and let out a cry of dismay. "Hey, 'Lock, it's okay. I'm here. Could you tell me what is happening?"

Sherlock spoke to the ceiling as tears slipped from his unblinking eyes, "I can't m-make h-h-him _stop_ ," he whispered, as though that made any sense. He kept his damaged arm curled tight to his chest, flinching as John let fly another bone-jarring scream. There was plenty of light in the room from the borders around the curtains, but he'd had plenty of time on his own for his mind to turn against him.

"Okay. I understand that. I am so sorry you have to see those things. John is very safe right now. I have access to his video feeds, and Greg would alert me if anything were wrong. The real John is safe. I am sorry you see this illusion." 

Mycroft put his hand cautiously on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Can I hold you right now?"

Sherlock silently mouthed the word 'illusion' with a frown, turning his eyes back to John and staring at him. He didn't look like an illusion, Sherlock could smell the sick and the blood, and the air was thick with fear. But they were in Mycroft's room. This was Mycroft's room. He turned his eyes back to the ceiling, speaking like an automation of himself. 

"I'm f-fine...y-you need..." again his face pinched in confused concentration. What was it people needed when they woke? John screamed out again and Sherlock jumped, startled at the abrupt sound, "n-need f-food and...a sh-shower and..." there were other things, surely. The whip cracked down, pulling a pained whine from him as he kept his eyes locked to the ceiling, no longer able to watch, "th-things...you need th-things." 

Mycroft shook his head and pulled Sherlock closer, as he'd drifted away in sleep. "I'm not hungry. I'll eat later. I want to help you. What would help you? Should we leave this room? You can have a hot bath, if you want."

A lethal dose of Morphine would help. Other than that, Sherlock knew he was beyond reach. This was life. Sherlock was docile for Mycroft, easily physically manipulated and offering no resistance. He held his arm defensively, having been afraid of increased trauma to it for the last several hours. 

"Y-You...if-f you want to g-go..." he shuddered and closed his eyes, exhaling roughly, "I don't w-want a bath...I..." Sherlock distinctly heard the snap of bone, making his stomach lurch as he whimpered under his breath, pulling in tighter on himself. 

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's back and tried not to despair at the feeling of crossed scars. "Alright then, no bath. I'll stay here with you, because that is what I want. I'm going to call up something for myself to eat. Would you like some water, or a smoothie, or anything to eat?"

Miller cleared his throat, reminding the brothers he was there. He still had lunch for Mycroft in his hands, and the setup for feeding Sherlock as well. 

"I have lunch for you, Mycroft. Sherlock, if you'd like to eat-" 

Sherlock cut him off with a sharp, "No," before looking away, shivering with pain. He stared at the corner where John was cowering, nearly dissolving at the sight. 

To Mycroft, he whispered very quietly, "Th-that's..." he pointed with his good hand, seeing John in such clear detail that he cast shadows on the corners, "h-he's n-n-not there?" 

Mycroft blinked up at Miller, who he had completely neglected to notice. Sherlock consumed his entire perception very quickly after waking. He nodded and reached out for the food, before turning quickly back to Sherlock at the sound of his pained voice. 

"He's not here," Mycroft assured. "Not here. He's with Greg. I can be 100% sure of that. And you know how rarely I use 100%."

Miller frowned at this newest issue from Sherlock, walking over and setting Mycroft's food down beside him. Sherlock was pale and shivering, clutching at his arm in a very guarded way. They'd both clearly had a hard night, and Sherlock had been non-responsive to him that morning. He'd given him something for pain only a few hours ago, but it seemed that what Sherlock was feeling had broken through the more mild narcotic. 

He did not want to speak further while Sherlock was having an active hallucination. It had been quite some time since that had occurred. 

Sherlock looked back over to John, studying him with careful scrutiny. Half of his mind knew, for sure, that Mycroft would never allow this, that _Greg_ would never allow this, that John could not be there. He could see him so clearly though, watching him down to painful detail, every whimpering, pained breath resonating loud through the room. He spoke sadly as he watched John rock with the pain of it, clearly trying to soothe himself. 

"H-He should h-have shot me. M-Maybe he...h-he didn't s-so that...that I would kn-know p-pain." And wasn't that the truth. He'd never known pain before his time with Moran, not truly, not at the depth he now knew existed. 

"H-He..." Sherlock cut off as John's eyes suddenly snapped up to his, face contorting, screaming at the top of his pained lungs, ' _If you'd have told me, this wouldn't have happened!'_

Sherlock jumped hard, crying out in horrified surprise, tears immediately brimming and rolling down his cheeks. He opened his mouth to defend himself but John carried on screaming at him, _'It was YOU! I SAW YOU! I KNOW IT W-WAS YOU!'_

The overwhelming shock of a seemingly corporeal John, bloodied and flayed in the corner, screaming at him with such intense hatred, was far too much for Sherlock's system. His lungs seized up just before his eyes rolled back, electrical activity arcing chaotically in his mind as he tipped hard into another massive seizure. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock towards the middle of the bed, where he would not hit the headboard or roll off the edges. His own heart sped up as if attempting to match Sherlock's, and he stared at his baby brother with wide, tear filled eyes. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing further than holding Sherlock's hand still for Miller to have access to the port on his hand, and that was pitiful help at best. 

Miller had long since drawn up Valium in pre-filled syringes for this, given Sherlock's tendency to seize when overly emotionally compromised. In under three minutes, Sherlock's body lay still, the violent thrashing stopped by the drug. "He's okay," Miller assured Mycroft as he checked Sherlock's pulse and swiftly looked him over. 

Sherlock was nearly immediately combative, groaning and doing what he could to shove Miller's hands away from him, deeply confused in the abrupt wake of his seizure. Five minutes after the first wave of thrashing, Sherlock was babbling in broken bits of French, half-sentences that made no sense, reaching pathetically to get closer to his brother. 

Mycroft wept when Sherlock reached for him. Above all things, he hated when Sherlock did not know who he was, or worse, feared him still. He wrapped Sherlock up in his arms in a hug that he had no intention of releasing. "I love you. I've got you. You're safe. I'm here. My is here."

Sherlock tipped his face down against Mycroft's chest, still carrying on trying to explain as the neurons in his brain carried on misfiring. He clutched at Mycroft, his bad arm forgotten, peddling his feet to get closer still as he hid in his brother's arms. 

He sobbed as he dropped single, disjointed words in French, listing off colors before naming an element, then jumping to John's middle name and then Mycroft's first mobile number, his cadence as though he were stringing together a meaningful sentence. At the ten minute mark, he stopped babbling, and within fifteen minutes was out cold in Mycroft's arms. 

Mycroft tried to find some sense in Sherlock's words, but couldn't string it together. When Sherlock went limp, Mycroft let out a single, hitched sob and dropped his face down to bury in the crook of Sherlock's neck. He rocked swiftly now that he had no worry of upsetting him, and while he truly made an effort to tell himself to get himself together, he could not move from his position curled around Sherlock.

Miller stood back, giving Mycroft a moment before speaking softly. "He'll likely be up in a few minutes, it's not abnormal for that level of confusion after a seizure. He's okay, Mycroft, the medication is working faster for him, we're managing these better. He's going to be okay." 

He did move where he could see a bit more of Sherlock, quite sure he'd be alright, but watching for unanticipated complications anyhow. 

Mycroft took another minute to clutch Sherlock before continuing. "He is handling them better, and I am handling them worse. I'm declining. Like Greg did. I'm underweight, down on sleep...I've been keeping to a schedule as best I can, but I am emotionally frail. The first aid will be in tomorrow to see how Sherlock responds. Wait..." He checked the clock. 

"Sorry. Today. They'll be in today. And Sherlock is...this."

Miller nodded, "Yes, he is. This is...I hesitate to say _good_ , but you need to see that whoever you choose is capable of handling the unexpected very well. His condition when you begin interviewing people is irrelevant, they have to be able to help at all times. As for you...I'd suggest you hire fast and immediately move in the new aid. You need time to heal. A few days caring for yourself will do wonders, and frankly..." he looked down at Sherlock and shook his head, "I don't think he can get worse, honestly. The cost/benefit here is very clear."

Mycroft nodded and checked the clock again. "We have two hours...Jesus, if he hadn't woken I'd have slept through it." Mycroft slowly lowered Sherlock down and his stomach rolled as Sherlock's head lolled limply to the side. He hated that. 

"I need to clean up just a bit. I look like a patient, not an employer."

Miller took that as a queue to sit down and settle in. "If you can stomach food, that would be ideal. I'll stay with him."

He checked his watch, wondering how Sherlock would tolerate this. It had to be done though, Mycroft was not always going to be there. Again Miller was glad that he'd been willing to hire help.

"Right...Yes, food." Mycroft pulled the tray over and ate as quickly as his unsettled stomach would allow. "I don't plan on leaving this room yet," he asserted after some time had passed. 

"Sherlock wants me to move him into a different room. I don't want that. Not at all."

Miller frowned, surprised to hear that. "He does? Why?"

"He thinks I'm burning out. That's why I was asleep. I wanted to show him I can function." Mycroft finished his food and got out of bed slowly. 

Miller looked at Sherlock as Mycroft got up. "He's protecting you," he said quietly, "or...trying to at least. That's...surely that's a good sign?"

"Any time there is danger, he tries to protect me. I will not abandon him. He has...I believe he is still upset with me for leaving after high school. We were close. It broke his heart. I came back to find him on heroin. He was too young." Mycroft stood next to the bed and stared absently at Sherlock.

Miller waved a hand at Mycroft. "Leaving after school is what you are supposed to do, don't put that on yourself. Many a kid brother has been upset over the same thing." He paused, watching Mycroft.

"Adding help to your network and returning to something close to life is not abandoning him, Mycroft."

"Many a kid brother. He had nobody. I was his protection from arseholes at his school. I kept him out of trouble. He hardly interacted with anyone else. He hated school. He hated the teachers and the other kids. I don't know how I thought he would be alright when I left." 

Mycroft turned and abruptly walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. 

Miller decided to leave the therapy to Paul, hoping he'd not just made things worse. Mycroft was falling apart, and understandably so. Sherlock wavered between incredibly lucid and utterly panicked and there was usually very little warning between the two. Thankfully the seizures were spacing out further apart with the added anticonvulsant he'd been getting daily, but each one was still incredibly hard on both men. 

He hoped the applicants were worthy, Mycroft needed a break. 

It was another hour before Mycroft deemed himself ready to accept other people into his home. He combed his hair, which really was far too long at this point, though it wasn't too noticeable when combed back. He ate, washed his face, and changed into a nice shirt that was still comfortable. Then he waited, sitting on the bed above the covers, for either Sherlock to wake, or the aid to come early. 

Sherlock watched his brother return, the sight an incredible relief. He was quiet for a long while, taking in his brother's body language. Mycroft was exhausted and run down, any idiot could see that.

Carefully Sherlock sat himself up, losing a whimper he was trying to bite back as he moved his arm.

"Let me help you," Mycroft said so hastily the words stumbled on the way out of his mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm here. let me help you." 

He checked the clock again. Not much longer now. 

Sherlock allowed the help without much protest. He leaned into Mycroft, abruptly pulling him into a tight hug. He was quiet for a full minute before speaking, 

"I won't be d-difficult, My. I...I p-promise."

"Thank you so much. You can ask any questions you want, and if you get scared, just tell me and I can have them leave. I promise this person is safe." 

Mycroft gave a small smile and waited another ten minutes, at which point his phone buzzed. 

"He's here."

Sherlock drew in on himself, eyes down to his lap. He loathed the way people looked at him on first sight, and despite that, he was going to accept whomever Mycroft liked most. He didn't need to read anything about the man.

His belly clenched with nerves, and he very strictly kept himself quiet.

The man knocked softly on the door exactly on time, which meant he'd been early and the staff had brought him up. "You may come in," Mycroft called in his usual tone of business. He pulled Sherlock over just a bit more in a protective way. "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."

When the man entered, Mycroft noted his life. Dog. Not his dog. A relative's dog. Clean. Close shave. Athletic. Climbs often. Wears glasses to read. Reads often. He smiled amiably and stood just in the doorway with a relaxed posture. 

"Hello," he said kindly, "I'm Jared Hill."

Sherlock allowed his mind to go to John, sitting in his chair with his focus on the paper. His good hand gripped the corner of the bedding and crumpled it until his knuckles blanched, doing his very best to ignore the stranger in the room.

Mycroft spoke in an equally easy tone, though he kept a firm hold of Sherlock. "I'm pleased you could come in so quickly. This is Sherlock," he said and gestured to his brother. They would all be on a first name basis from that moment on. 

"It was no trouble." The man did not step forward and he only glanced at Sherlock occasionally until he was introduced. 

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes daring over his features. He spoke very quietly, his voice rough with narrowly contained nerves. 

"Hello."

He flicked his eyes to Mycroft to see if he was pleased or not.

Mycroft smiled down at Sherlock and nodded happily. 

"I was wondering if there is anything you could tell me about yourself that I should know," Jared began with aim to assess Sherlock's mental state. He had a list of triggers and a write up of Sherlock's abuse already committed to memory.

Sherlock looked back at the man, surprised at the question. How was he supposed to answer that?

"I...I'm...p-poor company," he whispered quietly, eyes down as he stared at his lap, throat tight as a tremor kicked up in his fingers.

The man smiled, and the edges of his eyes wrinkled. "I think I'll make up my own opinion about that one." 

He wanted to mention that he'd read about him, and Sherlock sounded very interesting, but he knew John Watson was a bit of a trigger, or at least a sore spot, and he'd been reading John's writing. "And you'll have to make up an opinion about me."

Sherlock worried the inside of his cheek before looking back at the man who had a dog in his home that did not belong to him. "Y-you won't h-have time to d-dog sit if y-you are m-mad enough to t-take a job offer f-from my brother," he said quietly, the backs of his eyes burning with tears simply borne of stress.

Jared Hill let out a bit of a laugh and looked down at the dog hair on his clothing. Though, he had not the faintest idea how Sherlock knew it wasn't his. "Finished that job up today. I have all the time you need."

Something about the way the man laughed set Sherlock slightly more at ease. He allowed himself to look back at Jared and take him in for a full ten seconds. He looked away, letting his scattered brain run, quiet for a few minutes. 

He paid no attention to them, assembling his impression with what he'd gotten from this potential helper. Abruptly, and without an heed to if any of them were talking, he pointed to Miller's bruised face without looking up from his lap. 

"I...I g-get confused sometimes. A-Are you c-capable of k-keeping m-m-me from d-doing that t-to my b-brother?" 

He didn't care fuck all if he got one in on his aid or Miller, but landing another blow to his brother was unacceptable. 

Jared was careful with the question. He didn't want to go forwards and say that he was strong, as it might give Sherlock all the wrong ideas. 

"I am capable of that, yes. Though working towards it not happening in the first place is a much more pleasant goal." 

He took in Sherlock's weak state, the bruise on his hand, and the bruise on Mycroft's face. Since he didn't have Miller in the picture, he connected the two. "I understand confusion. It's perfectly alright."

Sherlock dropped his hand, nodding to himself. "Okay," that was what he needed to know, if the man could protect his brother for him. 

From him. 

Both. 

He nearly told the man that he did not like to be touched without permission, but he stopped himself. Surely Mycroft had told all the candidates the humiliating details of his injuries. There was nothing more for him to know. If Jared was standing in Mycroft's room, he was as vetted as one could get. 

Mycroft put his arms around Sherlock and gave a small smile to the man at the door. "We'll spend the first few weeks with me in the room while you two get to know each other. Is there anything we should know about you?"

Jared too a respectful pause, then spoke with confidence. "I am honored that you would consider me to help care for your brother, Mycroft. I can tell that you care a great deal about him. And Sherlock, I would like you to know that while I will always protect your brother for you, I will always make sure that you are safe and cared for above all things."

Sherlock shook his head, looking back up to the man. 

"N-Not above h-him," he said very seriously, brooking no room for argument. It took a moment for him to realize that Jared had promised him protection. He blinked then in surprise, looking from Mycroft to Jared before looking back over where John had been, finding him gone. 

"I..." he cleared his throat and forced himself to push on, "I am-m unpleasant, and n-now I'm incredibly d-dull. I n-need help with...e-everything you can th-think of. Y-You should not be honored by the offer, y-you should turn and leave if you've any s-s-sense." 

Jared continued to speak evenly, as he wished to establish himself as someone who could be reasoned with. 

"I am honored because your brother is very protective of you, and he is allowing me in the room. He guards you like a precious gem, and I consider it an honor to be trusted with your care." His eyes flicked to Mycroft, who gave a nod of approval. 

"I intend to help and protect you in any way that I can." He stood with his back straight, more like a bodyguard than an aid. But he'd read the file. Perhaps Sherlock needed protection. 

Sherlock kept his eyes away from Jared for another minute before he spoke quietly, not sure if Mycroft was aware or not. "Y-You...p-please r-refrain from whistling, and n-never...n-never come n-near me smelling of brandy or cigarettes." 

He closed his eyes, loathing the need to talk to a stranger like this. He exhaled slowly and then forced himself to look at Jared again. He seemed physically capable enough. It would be a serious challenge for Sherlock to defend himself against the man should that become an issue. That in itself was distressing, but Mycroft had vetted him, he was as safe as it was going to get. 

Jared nodded and made a mental note to not whistle. He'd never in his life would consider showing up to work smelling of either, not that he smoked or drank excessively anyway. "Yes, sir." He kept Sherlock's gaze evenly, without hint of sarcasm or challenge. 

"Is there anything else?"

That very effectively startled him and Sherlock looked back at the man, not at all feeling as though anyone on earth should be bothering to call him 'sir.' He blinked again and looked away, overly flustered with the unexpected exchange. 

"I'm s-sure My..." he trailed off, not knowing how informal he was allowed to be now that they had an observer. He swiftly corrected his error with a slight waver to his voice, wanting to crawl out of his skin for having made the mistake _already_. "My b-brother h-has...t-told you e-everything." 

Jared gave a small nod and glanced to Mycroft. "I have been told what frightens you. Nothing too personal. I know what to avoid, and how not to scare you. I will do everything I can to make you feel safe, and the presence of Mycroft and myself guarantees that you are safe."

Sherlock grit his teeth as he began to attempt to count the pattern in the blanket, looking for the math hidden in the shape. "I am well aware th-that I am s-safe when l-lucid. The rub of loosing l-lucidity is th-that l-logic and reason often go w-with it." Christ but he _loathed this._

He suddenly remembered his promise to not be difficult, color draining from his face as he turned to Mycroft. "I'm s-sorry," he breathed, his voice cracking. He looked back to Jared and swiftly spoke, backpedaling as fast as possible, "I'm sorry, pl-please f-forgive...I...p-poor company I...n-no insult intended pl-please I-" he cut off, nearly choking on his own throat. He'd promised to behave and here he was already giving lip. 

Mycroft was frankly floored with Sherlock's progress and how well he was speaking, and he let it show on his face. "I'm so proud of you," he whispered and ran his fingers back through his hair. 

Jared took a small step back. "I am not insulted in the least. I understand that what you are going through is terribly difficult, and I will not judge you by who you are when afraid, nor be injured by what you say when panicking."

Sherlock stared at his lap, breathing fast and tight. He nodded, unwilling to say anything else. He'd been awake for a solid eleven hours and then had a seizure, which still lingered with him as a constant undercurrent of exhaustion. Miller had clearly given him something for pain, but he still ached. 

He leaned closer to Mycroft, though moving very slow, allowing Mycroft to pull away without it being very obvious to their company should he want to. 

Mycroft thought that was sufficient, and pulled the blanket higher up over Sherlock. "Jared, thank you very much for coming out today on such short notice."

Jared smiled again amiably and turned for the door. "Not a problem, sir. If you need me again, I'll be available." He knew when it was his cue to leave, and did not need to be asked to do so. He closed the door gently behind him and the staff saw him out. 

Sherlock did not dare move, hardly breathing, horrified with how he'd behaved. Had he no self-control? He stared down at his lap, vision blurring, repeating under his breath once again, "I'm s-sorry, My. It's...t-to n-n-need this...h-humiliating and..." he stopped, ashamed that he was even trying to excuse himself. 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and wrapped both arms around him happily. "Sherlock, that was _amazing!_ You did so well! You gave constructive advice, and you spoke rationally, and you were perfectly hospitable! I'm very, _very_ proud."

Sherlock leaned into his brother in open relief, letting out a small, pathetic sob as he tried to relax. "H-Hate that I...n-need..." he shook his head, struggling with himself. 

He knew he needed assistance, but to interview people to help him get to the damned toilet brought it directly to his attention, unable to avoid it, slamming reality in his face. 

The intensity of his disabilities had somehow just become more real. 

"I'm..." he trailed off, deciding not to finish the statement. He was _worthless_ was what he was, but he could not say that to his brother, it hurt Mycroft when he did so. 

"You're a strong man, that's what you are. You've been through so much. You deserve to have someone who helps you. I will be here for you, too." Mycroft liked Jared well enough, though he still planned on bringing the others in for testing. 

Sherlock pulled gently away from his brother, lying down on his side still facing Mycroft. He was exhausted. He felt weak, and small, and quite defenseless. He did not see obtaining an aid as anything positive. It was the first step in the likely swift progression of watching his brother leave as well. He reached out and took hold of the hem of Mycroft's shirt. _Mycroft deserved the help. Sherlock deserved nothing._

"Do...we h-have to m-meet...more p-people?"

Mycroft shook his head even though he had been intending it. "Not unless you want to. If you liked Jared, then we can have him come back. If not, I'll find someone new."

Sherlock tugged at Mycroft's shirt, insecure and frightened. "If y-you think h-he's s-safe...then he'll do," he whispered, not really caring about anything else. He wasn't going to like any of them. They were paid help, and not likely to care much about him. He was a thing to be taken care of. He had to be fed, and watered, and perhaps taken out into the sun now and again. It was not as though he'd be gaining a friend; these people were coming in so that he could lose his brother. 

Mycroft shook his head. "No, that's not the point. All of them are safe. Would you like to see another, or are you content with Jared? I like him. He seems like a good man."

Sherlock shook his head and again pulled at his brother, wanting this to be over. He did not want to be gawked at by anyone else. If he was safe, and Mycroft liked him, then he would do. 

"H-he's f-f-fine..."

He gave up trying to get closer to Mycroft as he lay curled next to his brother's hip, instead sinking his fingers into his hair and whimpering quietly. This was harder to accept than he anticipated. He set up a slow pace, rocking in an attempt to soothe himself.

Mycroft put his hands under Sherlock's arms and gently lifted him so he could lie down on his chest. "If you're happy with him, I won't have the others come in." Mycroft had deliberately called in who he saw as most qualified first, as he had assumed Sherlock wouldn't want to go through another interview. 

Mycroft ran his fingers back through Sherlock's hair to help him relax. "Anything. I'll always be here to make sure your life is as good as I can make it."

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then made a conscious effort to relax his body. Light tremors chased across his skin now and again, rippling through his muscles, making him shift uncomfortably. Ten minutes later he sighed in exhausted frustration, very seriously needing to sleep. 

_I have to return to work. I'm not abandoning you._

_I d-did't abandon y-you! I'll always come back, Sherlock! I love you, I'm not abandoning you!._

_Perhaps in a few years, you can say a proper goodbye._

_You are my brother, I will not abandon you._

He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth as a sharp sob tore from his throat. He'd not realized he was crying until he drew out of his thoughts, clutching in panic at Mycroft. 

"W-Wait!" he cried as though Mycroft were about to leave at that very moment, pulse spiking. 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands and nodded. "Not going anywhere. Nowhere. I'm staying. Here," he took Sherlock's hand and wrapped his fingers around his shirt where he could hold on. "I'm not leaving. I'm right here."

Sherlock curled his fingers in Mycroft's shirt, his breathing wrecked as he turned his face to the space over Mycroft's heart, shoulders shaking. Pained little punctuations of fear whined on each wavering exhalation. Just the thought of watching Mycroft leave, dressed for work, relief on his face at having something other than Sherlock to fuss over made acidic, freezing fear drip through his gut, pooling in his stomach. 

How was he going to get through this? They were going to have to sedate him. 

"N-not today...pl-please n-not today," he breathed, confusion settling in over the exhaustion, blurring his understanding of their discussed time frame. He broke down into tears, making his head ache terribly. 

"Not today. Not tomorrow, either. Not this month, or next month, or the month after that. You have so much time, and I'll never be gone long. I promise. Just the mornings. Only the mornings. You know how fast I can work when I set my mind to it." 

He held Sherlock to him and brushed his hands through his hair. "I've got you. Not leaving."

Trust had never come easy to Sherlock, who learned very early and very well that words meant very little to anyone of the human condition, easily given and easily forgotten. Now it was more difficult than ever to trust, to take what was said and arrange it as fact. John's affronted reaction to Sherlock's pain at being abandoned, his assurance of love and friendship, insistence that he'd always come back, left Sherlock nearly paralyzed with the terror that Mycroft was on the path to do the same. 

All the same words, all the same promises. 

But this was his brother, surely...surely Mycroft wouldn't make him say _goodbye_. He would distance, there was no doubt of that, but he wouldn't...wouldn't _leave_. "R-Right?" he whined the question in fear, as though Mycroft had been privy to his earlier thoughts. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Mycroft said, though he had no idea what Sherlock was asking. He kept on with his previous promises. 

"I need to go to work at some point, but you will never be a second thought. I promise."

Sherlock nodded, as settled by the response as he possibly could be. Only time would show what was to play out. He shuddered at the continued lack of control over his own situation, exhaling, inhaling, and swiftly passing out against his brother as overwhelming exhaustion finally demanded that he rest, despite himself. 

Mycroft took the time to inform Jared that he had been well received by Sherlock and that he would start work as soon as possible, though not full time. Briefly they worked out a schedule, and Mycroft shut his laptop. He decided to get some sleep then, and slowly relaxed onto the bed. 

\--------------------

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the water boil. He'd left John and Gladstone on the sofa, the telly on some quiet show, Paul sitting in the room as well, though he'd been mostly silent all morning. The last few days had passed in somewhat of a standstill. They woke, they ate, they took Gladstone out. Greg had refused to get into anything close to a conversation, offering to read to John or to watch telly, but otherwise avoiding all other topics. 

John sat with his knees tucked up to his chest and stared at a point somewhere past the telly. He was behaving as well as he possibly could in an effort to keep Greg from hurting, and while he mentally distanced himself from the last traumatic conversation, he had taken one thing away from it. He knew that he was possibly wrong. Possibly very, very wrong about nearly everything in his mind. It had left him shaky and unstable, prone to confusion and fear, but he was keeping a level head for Greg's sake. He'd tried to be more useful, and found that he could sweep out the kitchen with little difficulty. He had been taking good care of Gladstone, and still he did not feel useful, worthy of Greg's affection, or even that he hadn't deserved to be tortured. But, for the first time, he was willing to consider that perhaps he was horribly wrong about everything. 

"Greg?" He looked up from the telly and set his chin on his knees. "Are you okay today?"

Greg set the tea and eggs down for John, sitting beside him on the sofa and sipping his coffee. "I'm alright, John," he answered carefully, having been on eggshells for the last few days. 

"How are you?"

John was frail. It was the sort of frail that came from being entirely unsure of each thought that went through his head. The sort of frail that left him questioning each word that came out of his mouth, and often left him silent and pensive.

But he wanted to be alright for Greg's sake. "I'm okay," he said quietly and started to eat. He did not want to discuss the conversation that had taken place nearly a week ago. It was still too raw, and he too frail.

Greg waited while John ate, not wanting to press the issue while he was eating. He patted his leg, smiling as Gladstone rest his head on Greg's knee. 

Paul broke the silence. They'd had days to recover, and progress still had to be made. They were stagnant, not having made any of their own headway. "John, would you be willing to speak with me a bit today?" 

John felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach and he abruptly clung to Greg. "I don't want that," he whispered and grabbed hold of Greg's shirt. "I always hurt Greg when I talk to you."

Greg wrapped his arm around John and pressed his face down to the top of John's head, eyes closed for a moment as he let the guilt of that settle deep. "You can talk to Paul, John, it's okay." 

Paul spoke after Greg. "I'm sure Greg would be willing to step out, if you're worried about hurting him."

"Greg doesn't like it when I ask him to go away," John countered in a hollow voice. "I'm sorry. Greg, oh, Greg you can shower. You like that, right? You can go take a shower and be by yourself if you want. Just do what you want. Please."

Greg held John tight, flexing his arms slightly to hug him. "I can step out, John, it's alright. I'll go have a shower, I'll just be...I'll go have a shower." 

How he loathed himself for what he was doing to John, for his own weakness affecting him this terribly. He leaned back and gave John his best effort at a gentle smile, trying to assure him. 

John closed his eyes and nestled into Greg's side. "I love you. I love you so much. I want you to just do what you want. I can't form an opinion right now. I don't want to. Just do what is best for you, okay? Please?" 

Greg tipped his forehead to John's temple and inhaled slow and deep. "Okay, John," he whispered, lingering another moment before slowly untangling himself and standing up. He patted the spot where he had been, watching Gladstone jump up and lay across John's lap, a warm, safe weight that John could cling to. "Just down the hall, you shout if you need me." 

He turned and looked to Paul, giving him a look that screamed _be bloody careful_ before turning and going into his room to find clothes, disappearing into the bathroom not long after. 

John turned all of his attention to Gladstone so he wouldn't have to watch his Greg walk away. "I don't feel good," he whispered to Paul. "And you always make things worse. But I'm supposed to talk to you so I stop hurting Greg and Sherlock."

Paul spoke very softly, keeping his distance, changing nothing in the room. "Let's try something a bit different today, John. How about you lead the conversation, I'm interested to hear what you want to talk about. I know you don't want to talk to me, but you are right, you need to so that you can accomplish your goals." 

He watched John as he tried to make it clear that he knew John had no desire to talk, hoping that would help in and of itself. 

John grit his teeth and pressed his face into Gladstone's fur. "I want you to give me a list of all the things I can do to help Greg. I want clear things. I want a list of things that hurt him. I want you to tell me how I need to think in order to make him happy." 

He looked up to Paul then with just a bit of a challenge in his expression.

Paul nodded, deciding to give John a little of what he was wanting. "Alright, John. There are a few things I can list off that are clear, so we will start with that. Things you can do that I've seen help Greg...well, first of all, he is always encouraged when you eat. Eating helps him. He's encouraged when you drink, so that as well. He is encouraged when you take care of yourself, so when you walk, and go outside, when you stretch and exercise a bit. Those things help him. Working on your willingness to be near water will help him also. The more self-care you give, the more he can see that he's been helpful." 

He stopped then, wanting John's reaction to what he'd said, curious to what John would do with it. 

John's tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth and he concentrated on committing those things to memory. "Eat. Drink. Walk. Go outside. Stretch. Exercise. All things based on my own health." It seemed reasonable, and he gave a shallow nod. 

"I can do all those things. What about hurting him? What things should I not do?"

Paul hummed at that. "Not so easy as a list, John. That's where you are really sticking. There is no shortcut, I'm afraid. To really move past this area where you both have been the last few days, we really are going to have to address a few points that are rather traumatic. I understand this hurts, and I am honestly sorry for it. I promise, John, were there an easy way to do this, I would show you." 

John had both arms wrapped around Gladstone and he kept his eyes away from Paul. "I don't like it when we do those things. They hurt and I feel bad. Don't want to remember. What was it last time? Was what we did last time the thing I need to know to help Greg and Sherlock?"

Paul decided to take another route with John this time. "Why are you still interested in helping Sherlock, John?" Perhaps if he could stoke John to be protective of Greg, he could do the same with Sherlock.

"Because he was my friend and he went through terrible things and I care about him." John spoke into the thick fur on Gladstone's neck and tried not to sound as afraid as he felt. Talking with Paul was hellish. He knew it would end badly.

Paul again allowed some time to pass in an effort to keep John calm. 

"But he's not your friend anymore," he said very quietly, neutral in his tone. There was not a hint of judgement there, no hurt on Sherlock's behalf, just a third party gathering information. When Greg addressed this, it was very emotionally charged. It was deeply upsetting for Greg to hear the cold truth of John's feelings towards Sherlock, perhaps with the energy of it removed, John could make more progress. 

Sherlock was nothing like what John would consider a friend. Everything was too muddled for such a simple, clear word. 

"I don't like being around him, but I hate being away from him even more. I know he's suffering. I know that. I want to help him. Even..." John turned his face away. 

"Even when I thought he was...was hurting me and...and things...I still didn't hate him. Not really. I was afraid, wanted him gone, but I didn't kill him. I was hurt. I was sad. It's disgusting. Pathetic."

There was a decent bit to work with there. He honed in on the tail end of that segment, hoping to tug at the tangled ball of conflicting issues with the goal of unraveling the confusion for John. 

"Why do you say that it was disgusting and pathetic?"

"When he started beating me-" John stopped and looked sharply up at Paul. "I know it wasn't him, and so if I say 'him' I'm referring to the way it felt. I _can_ separate the two. When he was hurting me I never asked why. It was because of the things I'd done. Then after when Greg had me and I saw he wasn't a bad person, I wondered why. Now I know it was Moriarty punishing me for the bad things, not him. But even when I thought he was hurting me, I couldn't shoot. I'd rather have him alive and torturing and raping me than dead. That's fucking disgusting."

Paul latched on to the energy from John, glad to see the fire back so swiftly. Greg got in the way of this, John hid this side of himself around Greg. 

"Do you see where the disjoin is happening here, John," he asked, holding up both index fingers parallel to one another, moving them in opposite directions, "There is a very clear glitch in your thinking that accounts for how you felt, not wanting him dead despite what you thought him guilty of."

John looked up to the door nervously. "Don't tell Greg these things," he said in a suddenly pleading tone. 

"He says he wouldn't be disgusted, but...he would. I know it. He'd..." John shook himself and looked back to Paul. "I deserved to be beaten, but I couldn't stand it was him doing it."  
Paul looked to John with a very serious expression. "John, what you say to me is held in confidence. I do not discuss what you tell me with Greg." He paused before addressing what John said. 

"Can you please explain to me why you deserved to be harmed?" Again the neutral tone, no challenge or hint that John was wrong for what he though, just curiosity. 

John flinched and stared at the scars on his arms. "For being stupid, mostly. And hurting people I care about." Absently he rubbed one of the raised scars on the inside of his forearm. It felt disgusting, and he had the strange urge to try and scratch it off. _This is what I deserve. This is how I deserve to be treated._

Paul took note of how John was looking at his scars. "Can you help me understand? Were you hurting people you cared about before you were taken?" 

John nodded. "I've always been stupid. I tried to leave Sherlock even though I think I knew it would hurt him. I..." John abruptly looked up at Paul and his expression changed. "I was a father, briefly. Did you know that?"

Paul had read the report. He met John's eye and spoke very softly, "Tell me about it," he encouraged, having had a point to make but interested in this sudden diversion. It was interesting that John brought it up. 

"No." 

John stared at Paul with eyes that had seen far too much death and challenged him to press the matter. 

"Read about it somewhere. Ask Greg." He dropped his gaze down and stared at the floor. He offered one piece of information, just to placate Paul, and his voice was thick with a hurt that had been in him for a long time. 

"Infants shouldn't die. Not ever."

Paul immediately agreed. "No, they should not. I know that she was a devastating loss. No father should have to suffer what you did. Not ever." 

He gave John a moment to settle with that, sitting calmly in the quiet, listening to the shower running in the far back of the flat. 

John turned away and set his face back down on Gladstone's fur. What would Mary think of him now? It had been years, and his thoughts hardly leaned back to her. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but there were parts he could remember clearly. His daughter's tiny hands couldn't quite wrap around his finger. Her head with a tiny amount of fuzzy, light hair had fit right in his palm when he held her. John squeezed Gladstone and made himself small. 

"I just need to help Greg now. I can't help them anymore. I missed...I missed that window. Just fix me so I can help Greg."

Paul was quiet with John for a few minutes. The man's suffering was intense, and while Paul was a more detached man, he was often times touched with a deep pang of sympathy for him. 

"James Moriarty was not serving justice, John," he said very carefully, marveling at the connections John's frantic mind had made to make sense of the horrific crimes against him. 

John gave a shallow nod. 

"Yes, I believe he was." 

There was nothing else to say. It was simply being honest. He had no desire to be belligerent. "I'm sorry if that is wrong. I don't want to cause trouble."

Paul shook his head, "You don't need to apologize to me, John. You feel the way you feel, and that's not wrong. Can we just follow through with that thought then? If James Moriarty was serving justice in what he did with you, then what were Sherlock's crimes?"

John shot Paul a withering glance. "Don't be ridiculous. You know what happened to Sherlock. He didn't have rules. He didn't have order. He didn't do bad things. Moran hurts people because he likes it. Moriarty does it because we've done something wrong. With Moriarty dead, Moran had no leash. Trust me, Moriarty kept him on a tight one with me."

Paul shook his head and pulled out his phone, speaking softly to John. "That's not what I'm talking about, John," he said very gently. He called up one of the many files he had on the case, from far back at the start. Mycroft had shared nearly everything with him. 

"Moriarty sent this message to Sherlock after the attack on Bart's, where you decided not to kill Sherlock. Perhaps it will shed some light on what was done to you." 

He cleared his throat, and then began to read. 

"Sherlock, in an effort to get Moriarty to back off and stop threatening you, messaged him with this: 

' _If I die, will you be satisfied?_ " 

He paused to allow John a moment to understand the exchange he was reading. He carried on, giving an explanation before the responding text response. 

"Moriarty answered, _'I would be very satisfied for about fifteen minutes. Then I'd be bored. Without you around, I'd have to entertain myself in other ways. I wonder if I could make John fear breathing. That would be hilarious._ '" 

Again Paul paused, knowing this would be difficult to hear and giving John a moment to process. After a short moment, he continued to explain to John. 

 

"He carried on before Sherlock could answer, saying ' _And it wouldn't be terribly hard. He was so affectionate to you before. I told him my plan for you before we started the training. He was so angry with me. Not because I was going to torture him, but because I was going to hurt you by doing it. I'm going to burn the heart out of you, remember? John is your heart. You so foolishly inflicted your heart on another human being and this is what has become of it._ "

 

Again Paul gave him a moment, the messages difficult and long, though hopefully prudent to derailing John's thinking. 

"So, what I'm asking, John, is what Sherlock's crime was that Moriarty was punishing _him_ for as well?"

John curled up and turned away. "He could have done it," he said in a pained voice. Affectionate. He couldn't remember being affectionate to Sherlock. He'd made him tea in the mornings, but it was hardly a stretch to pour another cup. And fix it the way Sherlock liked it. He kept tabs on his eating and sleeping, but those were just normal things. 

He listened to the text again in his head and heard it in Moriarty's voice. "Moriarty was punishing Sherlock for putting his heart somewhere else. Is that right? Is that...Is that right?" 

Well, that was interesting. 

"Is that what you get from that, John? Sherlock was bad to love someone, and so Moriarty was serving justice in punishing him for it." 

He simply gave the statement as he understood it, again with no inflection of judgement or disappointment. he was stating it as fact, curious to see how John reacted to such a thing stated in plain English. 

John shook his head. "Not what I think. That's what Moriarty and Sherlock and Mycroft think. That type. He punished him for something that Sherlock already believed was wrong that way it hurt more. Moriarty is mean like that. Sherlock didn't do anything bad that deserved punishment. It's wrong to Moriarty, but that doesn't mean it's really wrong." 

The last sentence stuck in his throat and John abruptly went very still.

Paul held quiet as John reacted to his own words. He did not outwardly move, or give much reaction, careful not to distract or derail John's thinking. Potentially, this could be something critical in John's progress. 

"It's wrong to Moriarty, but that doesn't mean it's really wrong," Paul repeated in a quiet, neutral tone. 

John turned his face away. "That doesn't sound right," he protested quietly. "Moriarty is smarter than me. Why should I know what is right if he doesn't?"

Paul was not discouraged, knowing how strong John's mind held to this belief. "It's quite simple though, isn't it? You have an external control. If Moriarty knows what's right and what's wrong, then Sherlock deserved punishment for putting his heart with someone else...for falling in love. You can shut off everything else you know about James Moriarty and simply look at that statement, John. Did Sherlock deserve punishment for loving someone?" 

John shook his head and tears made winding tracks down his face. 

"No, he didn't. He was an arse when I left, but he never deserved to be tortured. Sherlock was...I believe he was a showoff, needed constant attention and praise, was childish, and at the same time, very very childlike. Sort of wide-eyed, in a sense. Almost innocent, in a way. I hate that it was Moran."

Paul was not going to allow this to be about Sherlock at the moment, though. He pressed forward with the core issue. 

"I agree with you. Sherlock did not deserve torture. Which makes James Moriarty..." he left it open, wanting John to get there, to steer him back. Any progress made on how John felt about Sherlock would be lost behind this haze if they did not clear it. 

This simply did not fit. It was like discovering that A equalled B, and B equalled C, but somehow, A and B were complete opposites. It was painful to think about. 

"Sherlock did not deserve torture, and Moriarty did not torture him. It was _Moran_. He's different!"

Paul allowed mild surprise to show on his face for aid in reaching John. "Oh. Moriarty wasn't torturing Sherlock?" 

He again went to his phone, reading further. 

"When Sherlock was quiet, Moriarty asked him, ' _How are you still alive? Is it the drugs, or the knowledge that I'll keep him forever if you die?_ ' 

This apparently set of Sherlock so severely that Greg texted Mycroft in response, seemingly for help. Greg wrote to Mycroft, ' _That maniac is going to kill your brother without laying a hand on him. This must stop._ ' " 

Paul cleared his throat and continued to read, "Moriarty carried on, taunting Sherlock further while he was unable to go to you in hospital or do anything productive to help. He teased, saying ' _Answer me, Sherlock. Don't be so ordinary._ ' And then, _'Sherlock, you know what I'm capable. Don't make me bored_.' He'd been constantly threatening to have you harmed again any time Sherlock did not play this game with him. While you were in hospital, Moriarty messaged Sherlock twenty, to two hundred times a day, without exaggeration. He continued with the threat, saying, ' _You know what happens when I'm bored. Maybe if you were more clever, more entertaining, I wouldn't have had to take your pet_.'"

He set the phone back down, looking up to John, "But you say he wasn't torturing Sherlock. Were that Greg in the hospital, and you in Sherlock's place, how would you describe such treatment?"

John did not like the idea of his Greg being injured, especially when he was to blame. He shrank away from Paul even further than he already had and tried to hide his face completely in Gladstone's fur. 

"That wouldn't be very good. But I can't just suddenly say that Moriarty was wrong! He was _never_ wrong! He's a genius! He always knows what is the right things to do! He just does! You can't just say that he did it for no reason. He's smarter than me. I probably just can't see it."  
Paul gave John a moment to breathe before speaking very quietly. "It's interesting that you say 'no reason.' There was a very clear reason, John. This man forced Sherlock to choose between suicide and your own life, and Greg's life, and Mrs. Hudson's life. James Moriarty has wanted to destroy Sherlock out of pure spite for years. The reason is there. It is either that, or Sherlock is responsible for his pain. For your pain, as well. If Moriarty is right, that makes Sherlock guilty of the whole of it."

John let out a short sob and clutched Gladstone very tight in Greg's absence. He recalled how he'd felt when Sherlock had jumped, fallen, and hit the ground. He recalled his own blistering anger for Moriarty. 

"You're wrong about one part. It wasn't spite. It was boredom. But Sherlock didn't deserve that. He shouldn't have to choose between his own life and the lives of others. That was...not good."

Paul hummed very quietly. A moment later, he offered John encouragement. "Not good at all. I agree, John." He inhaled slowly and greatly gentled his voice. "I know that was a hard time for you. The both of you have been through some intense things together." 

"Intense. That's a word for it." John sat up and covered his hands with his face. "What's the root of this, Paul? Where do you want me to go mentally? I can't find it on my own. Just tell me." 

He sounded very much like he used to, though exhausted and downtrodden. 

Paul looked at John and said very calmly, "You've already gotten there, John, you've just not said it. If Sherlock did not deserve to be punished by Moriarty, then Moriarty..." he trailed off, wondering if John had anything left in him. He was still wonderfully lucid, if not worn thin. 

"...was wrong." 

John shook his head immediately after he said it and let out a soft whine. "Greg," he called with fear in his voice. "Greg? Greg?" He drew his knees to his chest and took several deep breaths, which did nothing to calm the panic in his heart. 

Paul watched as Greg nearly took the drywall off with how fast he came booking it down the hallway, half-dressed, trousers and his undershirt, damp hair, bare feet. The fear in John's voice had done exactly what it was meant to do, and soon Greg had himself between Paul and John, not knowing what had occurred, though clearly assuming that Paul had seriously upset John. He pulled John into his arms, Greg's back to Paul, and held John tight. 

"I'm here, I'm right here." 

John shuddered in relief when he finally made contact with Greg and he cried harder than he had been before. He let himself be held and rocked, while pulling on Greg's undershirt to try and cover some of his face with it. When he finally got over the shock of how much he had needed Greg to come back to him, John spoke in a tiny little voice.   
"I said something and-and I don't know what t-to think about it. I'm confused and hurting. W-Will you stay with m-me now?"

Greg gathered John onto his lap, moving them both so that Greg was seated in a way he could maintain for quite some time. He turned his back to the sofa, keeping John wrapped tight in his arms, carrying on rocking him. 

"Of course I'll stay," he whispered, gently rubbing John's back. "Can you tell me what you said?"

John opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it again, and eventually shook his head. He looked to Paul hopefully, as he had not yet decided if the words he was speaking were the enlightened, heavily sought after truth that had been evading him, or blasphemy that would somehow get him injured.

Paul spoke when John looked to him so hopefully. "John is beginning to see the truth, Greg. He's seen that James Moriarty was _wrong_ in his treatment of Sherlock." He specified this, as John had yet to apply _wrong_ to his own handling. 

Greg went still for a moment, staring at Paul and then down to John. "That's...John that's _really, really_ good. That's really good. You-" he pulled John into a hug, whispering against the side of John's head as he started rocking him again, "That's so good, oh John, I'm so glad to hear that." 

John brightened and he looked up to Greg. "Really? It's good? I did good?" The positive reinforcement where he used to be given pain helped override and wash away some of the previous conditioning. 

"Actually? I did good? That makes you happy?"

Greg nodded enthusiastically, looking down at John with the most honestly he could put into his expression. 

"So very happy, did you think about it and come to that? I- John it's so good that you are figuring this out! You're right, absolutely right. Moriarty was _wrong_ and it's good, really, really good that you're starting to see that."

John gave an open mouthed, happy smile that crinkled around his eyes. He threw his arms around Greg's neck and squeezed him tight. 

"I love you! Thank you! I did something good. I made you happy. I did something good, finally! Paul helped." He looked over at the man and gave him a favorable smile for once. 

"He helped me and I didn't want to go there, but Sherlock was tortured for no reason by Moriarty."

Paul caught what John was likely doing as he gave that very specific statement to Greg. It would do though, it was a start. Like a crack in a windscreen, once the glass had a defect, the crack would spread. It was something they could build on, a new foundation for helping John get to the entire truth of it. He returned John's smile, keeping silent and allowing the men their moment. Relief and peace were precious, rare commodities for these men who so very deeply deserved them more often. 

Greg pulled John back to his chest, burying his face in John's hair and breathing deep. "I'm so proud of you, I'm so, so proud of you. You're incredible, and I'm so proud of you. That was very brave, John, very brave."

John grinned like an idiot and leaned his head against Greg. "Is that enough for today? Can I be done? I still need to sweep the kitchen and brush Gladstone. I don't want to talk anymore today. I'm tired. I'll listen again tomorrow. I did good today. I'm glad I did good. I talked about Mary too. And when Sherlock fell."

Paul very quietly got up and excused himself from the room while Greg responded, wanting John to associate progress with a very relaxed conclusion. There was no screaming, had been no begging or massive downslide into panic. They'd had an incredibly successful day. 

Greg did not notice Paul leave, his whole focus on John. "I am so _proud of you_. You are done for the day, you did very, very well. So very well. You can be done, that's a good place to stop. Well done, John, really well done." 

John drank in the praise with his eyes closed and his mouth open in a happy smile. He looked nearly like an overly large puppy in his lightness. 

"I'll do that every day," he gasped and nuzzled Greg affectionately. "I will do it forever if it makes you happy." It was a brilliant new motivator, one that he could put above his fear. 

Greg carried on rocking John, deeply relieved that John was doing so well at the moment. 

Not fifteen minutes before, Greg had hold of a razor, standing in tears in the hot shower, ready to open up his arteries and remove himself from being in John's way. _Fifteen minutes_. It wasn't as though life had changed, or that he was suddenly needed, but he was glad to be here for this. John would have been upset had Greg done that, and that wasn't how he wanted to follow up a breakthrough. 

For the moment, the weight of continuing on for another day was a little less heavy. He'd learned a long time ago not to trust happiness or relief, but it was nice to have it just for a little while. 

John stretched out on the couch and rested his head in Greg's lap, where he could look up and see his face.

"If there's anything else I can do for you today, love, let me know. I love doing good things for you. It's the best thing in my life." He reached up and brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek. "You're wonderful."

Greg did his best not to flinch, hating the words, loathing the kindness the he did not deserve. "Would you like to watch something," he asked swiftly, not at all wanting John's focus on his face, of all things. While he was genuinely happy that John had made progress, He was still reeling from very nearly taking his life. 

"I am so glad you are doing well, so glad." 

"Wooooonderfuuuul." John drew the word out and brought both hands to Greg's face. He was dripping with happiness at having finally done something right. 

"Completely wonderful. And kind. And good. You're a good man."

_It's going to be you, Greg. You're going to fuck this up for him. He’s smiling, and it will be you who messes up and takes it from him. It will be you. You’ll fuck it up for him. It will be you. > _

_He leaned into John's hands despite how much he knew he should not, completely undeserving of this affection. Tears burned terribly at the backs of his eyes and he was fighting with _everything_ he had left not to let John see how bad off he was.   
He smiled as he controlled his breathing, about to run his fingers through John's hair before he noticed them shaking. Instead he wrapped his hand around John's side where he could apply pressure that would hopefully cover the tremor. _

_"So are you," he said warmly, his voice thick but steady._

_John could see that something wasn't quite right, and wondered if the happiness had already worn off for Greg._

_"I'll sweep the kitchen now, if you want. Or we can stay here. Whichever you want. Walk? We could eat? Maybe I can try something new. Or...I could try to learn water."_

_He listed the things he would readily do to keep Greg happy in a rattling tongue._

_Greg inhaled slowly, watching as he sank the moment despite his best efforts. Still trying to save it, he looked at John, making eye-contact so that John would not doubt him._

_"Let's stay like this a while? It's wonderful to see you like this, it makes me very happy. I'm sorry I'm a little off, it's not your fault. I'm so proud of you, I love seeing you like this. We can watch telly or I could read to you, anything you like."_

_John nodded and the smile returned to his face. He sat up and knelt on the couch next to Greg so he could look him straight in the eyes._

_"I'll do anything you want. I love you. You are a wonderful person. I can't describe how good you are, and how nice it is to see you again once you've been gone for..well, I suppose it is only a few minutes...but..." He wondered when he'd gotten to the point that he couldn't be away from an individual for a half hour without such pain._

_"I'm a bit clingy, aren't I?"_

_There was no sense in lying about the obvious. "Yeah, a bit, but I'd be lying if I said it bothered me. I don't like being away from you."_

_That was the whole truth of it. He only ever craved escape when he knew he was going to struggle with emotions that were destined to hurt John, otherwise it felt wrong to be away from him._

_Which was another part of this huge problem. For John, that truth would change if Greg did his job right._

_"Makes me feel useful," Greg confessed with a shrug, struggling now to keep eye contact with John. He didn't want to let him see too much._

_John decided that of the long list of things that bothered him, being clingy was the very last thing. "I don't give a damn," he remarked and fell into Greg's lap. "I like being clingy. It means I get to stay with you. And you are useful. Look at all the good you've done!"_

_He gestured around the flat, as if Greg was personally responsible for it existing._

_To Greg, his flat was the empty shell where he used to raise his family. John meant it as a kindness, but to Greg, it was a reminder of his many, many failings. He wasn't even footing the bill for it anymore, tap dancing with Mycroft to keep it over their heads, lights on, food in the kitchen. He sank his fingers into John's hair despite their shaking, hooping John wouldn't notice._

_"You shouldn't give a damn, I want you to be comfortable," he answered, shoving thoughts of his family away as much as he could, glad to see John happy._

_John sighed and tried not to take Greg's lack of happiness personally._

_"I'd like to try working with water later today," John said quietly, after he let the silence settle over them like a thin layer of dust. "Maybe I can wash my hands and stuff without the towels soon."_

_Greg's heart plummeted and he grabbed John up into his arms, holding him close and rocking him as he nearly fell into panic. John punished himself with water. Greg took that to mean that he’d failed so spectacularly that John was suddenly wanting to harm himself._

_"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry John, I swear I'm so proud of you. This is just me, my stupid issues, my...it's me, it's not you I swear. I love you, I'm so sorry, please don't be sad. You don't have to do anything, nothing at all. If you want to try water we will, but I'm so happy with you, so proud of your progress. Please don't let me ruin it, I'm trying, John, I swear I'm trying."_

_"Hey, hey, Greg?" John pushed himself away just enough so he could look Greg in the eyes. "I'm not upset. I want to try. I'm not upset with you. I'm glad you are proud of me. That makes me very, very happy. I know I don't have to do anything. I'd like to do this for myself."_

_That was bullshit, but John wanted the pressure to be off Greg. He wanted that moment of joy when Greg lit up with happy pride. He craved it like a junkie craved the needle._

__It hurts when John traps me._ _

_Greg knew this wasn't the truth by half. John never talked about working with water unless he was trying to make Greg happy. What was he to do though? Try and stop him? He swallowed around the tightness in his throat and nodded._

__You could be cooling on a slab right now, you idiot._ _

_He suddenly wished he was back in the shower, alone where he couldn't hurt John anymore. John was going to panic, and scream, and beg for mercy and Greg was just going to have to...sit there, pathetically trying to calm John down, likely watch John leave him and then worry over getting him fed and hydrated without resorting to dropping another tube and-_

_He cut off his thoughts, realizing that he'd induced a mild state of panic in himself. He drew in a long, deep breath. "If that's what you want," he said with his best effort at being positive, failing miserably._

_John had a plan for this. It had been well over a year and he still hadn't managed to kick this yet. "I'm going to need a shallow bowl of water and a sponge. And a spoon."_

_He looked at Greg, who was clearly having difficulty, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "I promise I'll get it right. I've got this. I'm calm. I'm ready. If you'd run the taps for me, I am sure I can do this."_

_He was not sure whatsoever.  
John wanted to do it _now_? _

_He gave him a tight smile and nodded, getting up and starting toward the kitchen. He paused, looking back at John._

_"Room temperature?" He didn't want to bring John water that was too hot, or too cold. His stomach was in his ankles, leaving him feeling as though he were braced for collapse. Maybe John would change his mind and they could just sit calmly and enjoy a show and some tea._

_"Yeah. Maybe closer to cold."_

_John spoke with confidence he did not feel. If he could get this, then surely Greg would be happy again. He was waiting for him on the couch, sitting perfectly straight, which felt strange on his habitually rounded back._

_Greg honestly debated asking John for more time in the shower, begging some illness or...anything, anything at all to stall this or make John forget. He went to the kitchen and filled John's request, the water just under room temperature, as he thought about the razor he'd held in his hand. He looked down at his thumb where he'd nicked himself getting it out, wondering why he hadn't just done it._

_John had made a major breakthrough, and now he was trying to prove himself with water. Greg bit his lip, closed his eyes, and tried to get himself together._

_He returned with just a small amount of water in the bowl, hardly enough to dip the sponge in, several tablespoons at best. "Alright," he said quietly, handing over the spoon as well._

_John had thought up the idea that if he used the spoon to prove the temperature was safe, it might not scare him as much._

_"I like habits," John explained and went about his usual check. "I know it isn't hot, but I get scared anyway. These things help."_

_He went through it four times before setting the spoon down, sufficiently anxious and staring nervously at the water before him. But it had been too damn long. He'd been recovering for far too long for this to still be an issue._

_John hesitantly reached out and just barely touched the surface of the water with his fingertips. He jerked back immediately in fear of being burned, but realized quickly the water had been of a very mild temperature. Slowly he put his hand back and dipped his fingers in, though his entire body leaned slightly away. "I'm okay," he stated just to be sure he was._

_"You're okay," Greg agreed, nearly biting through his lip when John jerked away. He sat close enough that John could reach him if he wanted, not sure if John needed to be touched or left alone._

_He watched with his heart in his throat, agonizing as John did this, bordering panic at the idea of John going away again._

_John kept his hand in the bucket of water even as tears stung his eyes. He turned his face away under guise of looking around, as he had no intention of hurting Greg with his own sadness._

__'Water? You want water? Are you sure of that, John?' Moriarty looked down at him disapprovingly. 'Yes, sir,' John gasped in a raspy way that indicated how long he'd been without. 'Please. J-Just a little.'_ _

__Moriarty smiled down at him. 'But you know you aren't supposed to have water. Are you sure?' John whimpered and nodded. The headache was killing him, and the feeling of blood drying on his tongue was maddening._ _

__Moriarty gestured for something and came back with a mug of water. 'You want this, John?' In his state, lying on the ground, tears in his eyes, John failed to notice the steam. 'Yes, sir. Please.'_ _

__With a Cheshire grin, Moriarty obliged and splashed the water over John's bare chest, which began to bloom an angry red as he screamed and writhed._ _

__John slowly lowered his fingers into the shallow water and kept his mind on pleasant things to combat the memories. He opened his hand and slowly his palm was touching as well. "Is this g-good?"

John's fear broke Greg's heart. He reached out, without being overly firm or daring to touch the arm in the water, he slid his arm behind John's shoulders. 

"You are doing beautifully," he whispered, trying to aid in John's show of bravery, "it's alright, you are doing very well. You can stop any time you want." John was terrified, but he was doing a _stunning_ job of remaining grounded. 

"Thanks," John responded in a tight voice. He left his hand in the water for several more seconds before letting out a low whine and pulling it back. The dripping water frightened him, and he dried it on his sweatpants before diving back into Greg for comfort.

"Stay with me," Greg urged, reaching down and wrapping the hand John had in the water into his own, "stay right here with me. Focus on this room, John. Can you tell me about this room, what's in it?" 

"Greg's in the room," John whispered and felt better for it. It was all he needed. Greg would never let anything harm him. "Should I try again, or was that good enough for today?"

Greg drew John in tighter, "That's all for the day. No more hard things today. Just funny movies, or stories of dragons, or lying with Gladstone and eating eggs." 

Even though it was still stressful, John ate well, and Greg was determined to put the idea that food was just as good as movies and lying together back in John's mind. 

John gave a small nod and looked up for any signs of happiness on Greg's face. "I put my hand in water." He stated it again just in case Greg had forgotten that it was incredibly difficult for him. "Tomorrow I'll do it again and I'll be able to wash up like normal people. Would that be good?"

Greg pressed John's damp hand up to his lips, letting it linger there. "If you want to try again tomorrow, you can do that," he said gently, deeply concerned at this path, John's language making him worry that John believed himself to be doing something required. 

"You did really well," Greg said with a gentle smile, trying to encourage John, "I'm so proud of you."

John gave a small smile in return and wrapped Greg up in a hug. "Thank you. I'll work on it again tomorrow. I'm glad I did that. It was easier this time." It had hurt, as it always did, but he'd not screamed. He'd been determined not to scream. 

"Let's just lie down for a bit. I'll sweep and brush Gladstone later."

Greg nodded gratefully and stood up, pulling John gently along with him. He was a bit fast in physically moving them back to the bedroom, lying down and opening his arms to John as Gladstone hopped up to the foot of the bed, circling and laying down with an audible sigh. 

John rested his head on Greg's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Does me trying difficult things to make you happy make you sad? I'm sorry, I know you don't like questions like that, but I just wanted to know."

Greg rubbed John's back as he held him, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Both," he answered honestly, "it makes me happy to see you trying, to see you improving and taking your life back. It makes me sad to see you hurting or frightened, but that's not your fault or anything you are doing bad. Just like you don't like seeing me hurting, it's the same thing." 

"So..." He was at a loss for what to do. What could he do if it both helped and hurt him? 

"I just want to make you happy. It's the best part of my life. It makes me happier than anything else when you smile at me for something I've done right. It's good because before I was punished for doing things wrong, and when you hug me and get happy because I've done something it makes me feel like I'm worth something. So, thank you for that." 

Greg squeezed John in his arms and then eased them both to their sides, wrapping up around him as much as he could. 

"The work you did with Paul today was incredible, and I'm so proud of you. I know this is really difficult stuff, I know, but you're going to feel so much better at the end of it. You'll...it will help you so much," he wasn't going to bring Sherlock back up, not unless it was relative to talking John down. Bringing John and Sherlock back together seemed impossible now. 

John looped one leg over Greg, which was quickly becoming his most comfortable way to sleep. "I don't ever mean to cause you pain. Not ever. I love you so much. I'm going to work on whatever I need to work on to help you, okay? Whatever I need to do." 

Greg hummed and held John to him, grateful. "Paul...that work with Paul. It's the most important. I'm sorry I couldn't help you more with it, I am." He nuzzled along the side of John's head and closed his eyes, doing his best to relax. 

John lazily kept his eyes half open as he spoke. "Okay. I'll work with Paul, then. He helped me make you happy today, so I'm grateful to him. I'm glad you started helping me when I was scared. I'm sorry I ruined your career."

Greg gave him a quiet, gentle laugh, shaking his head. "You didn't ruin my career, John. Trust me, of all the things that were going on, it wasn't you. I'm much better off right now that I would have been otherwise. I hope one day you'l be able to see how much you've saved me." 

He brushed his lips to John's forehead, enjoying the sudden and welcome lazy afternoon feel that the day suddenly took on. He'd been terrified that at this point, he'd be sitting next to an unresponsive John. This was far, far better.

John laughed at the idea of saving Greg. "I've not saved you, but I'm glad you are happy with me. You truly went into the hell of my mind and dragged me out. I can not tell you how awful it is to have my mind turn against me, but you are a constant help. I got scared with Paul and called, and you were there in a second."

Greg nodded, "Always will be," he confirmed, needing John to be very, very clear on that. "I always will be." 

He refused to argue with John on whether or not John had saved him. It was irrelevant. John was okay, and he was present, and he trusted that Greg would be there to help him. That's all he was going to focus on. 

John nuzzled his face down on the crook of Greg's neck and slowly let the tension of the day melt away. No matter what happened, he'd always have this. He'd have his Greg to keep him safe. "And I get to stay with you forever, right?"

Greg nodded, "Of course, for however long you want, John," he whispered, "long as you want." He trialed his fingers through John's hair and breathed deep, trying to relax. 

John briefly wondered what would happen if Greg tired of him. Surely he wouldn't. He'd said so. But thoughts began to creep into his mind. Born of insecurity and partial reasoning, they pestered him until he indulged and thought on the possibilities. What if Greg wanted to bring a girl home? Where would he sleep? On the couch? Paul's room? John did not mind the idea of Greg having a romantic attachment, as long as the girl was nice to him, but the idea of not being allowed near him at certain times was daunting. What if he got scared at night when Greg was sleeping with his girl? What if he wasn't allowed to cuddle with him on the couch anymore? John shook himself. Such were foolish thoughts. He was a grown man. He could handle that. 

Still, he worried. After nearly an hour of full silence, John abruptly sat up and looked at Greg. 

"If you need a girlfriend, I'll stay on the couch. I'd be alright with that."

The comment took Greg by such surprise he couldn't help but laugh, "A _girlfriend_ ," he said as though John had suggested he ride a dragon off into the sunset, "no thank you, John, I'm not interested." 

He shook his head and smiled fondly at his impossible John, "you strange man, whatever made you think of that?" 

"I was just thinking that since you haven't had a girlfriend in a while you might want one and then I was wondering where I would sleep and I don't want to sleep near Paul so I'd be on the couch and I was worrying that I wouldn't get to see you if I had a nightmare because she'd be there but I should be able to handle myself so I'm alright if you need one." 

He spoke in a rush and felt rather foolish for it once it was in the air.

Greg pulled John up to him, brushing a lingering, chaste kiss to John's lips, holding for a few seconds before drawing back. "I am so done with anyone else outside of this for now, John. A romantic relationship with anyone at all is so far from my thoughts. Thank you for considering me, but no, I've no interest in anything like that." 

He hummed and then added, "And were that ever to happen, sod them. If you need me, I'll always be there." 

All his fears laid to rest, John nuzzled back down to try for sleep. "Thank you. You're absolutely perfect, you know that?" He rolled over a bit so his back was facing Greg, and he held onto one of his arms like a child would hold a stuffed animal. 

Greg hummed happily, drawing John in close and enjoying their difference in height. He rest his chin on the top of John's head and closed his eyes, calmed and warmed by John's state. "I adore you," he whispered, settling in to rest.

John made a soft humming sound in response and drifted off happily to sleep. He'd had a good day, all things considering. He worked with Paul and made Greg happy. He put his hand in water without screaming. And now Greg was being loving and affectionate, which never ceased to thrill him. 

It was not a difficult thing to fall asleep with John safely tucked in his arms. Greg had given up the idea of ever seeing Sherlock with John, but now at least he could consider seeing John renewed, finding himself different, but not entirely gone. The room was quiet, the fan gently stirring the air as they lay there, finally resting.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft stirred lightly when he woke the next day, a mere fifteen minutes before the aid was to arrive for his first day. "Sherlock," he whispered, unsure if he was awake and silent, or asleep.

Sherlock turned so that he could see Mycroft's face. He’d worked himself up severely since waking, warring with memories of his brother leaving him in hospital, alone with strangers. 

"Y-you won't...l-leave today," he whispered, trying to be sure of his situation.

Mycroft brushed his hair back. "Today, Jared will come see us for a little bit while I am here, then he will leave and I will stay. At no point will you be alone with him or alone at all. I will be with you the entire time. I'm not leaving."

Sherlock nodded, still frightened but set somewhat at ease. He didn't want to do any of this, but if Mycroft was staying, he'd be alright. He looked across the room and went very quiet and very still, not knowing what else to do. 

The staff alerted Mycroft that Jared had arrived, and he was swiftly brought up. He knocked lightly on the door and stood quietly until Mycroft welcomed him in. He entered and stayed right by the door with his hands relaxed at his sides. 

"Hello, Sherlock. Mycroft. How are you two doing today?"

Feeling much less brave than the day before, Sherlock's heart slammed against the side of his ribs and he said nothing, hands trembling, not daring to speak. His fingers curled in the bedding and he simply allowed Mycroft to determine how much they were going to do today. Jared was not a threat, and yet it was incredibly difficult to keep that in mind. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock into his lap and pet his hair gently. "I've got you. It's just Jared. He's safe." The man looked up and gave a small smile. 

"How are you feeling today, Sherlock?"

Sherlock curled his fingers to his lips after having been unseated from where he'd been clutching at the blankets. 

"I...I'm-m..." he trailed off, looking down at the floor. What was he, outside of frightened? _Humiliated, lonely, sad, and in bloody pain._ "alright," he lied, whispering the word to the ground. 

Jared came forward just one step, but he did so while speaking to Mycroft to avoid appearing too threatening. 

"Is there anything you need help with?" 

Generally, he walked with, entertained, bathed, fed, and cared for his charges. This was different. 

Sherlock locked his eyes to Jared, very suddenly intent on analyzing him again as though he'd never seen him. His eyes rapidly moved from one feature to the next, gauging his age, upbringing, dominant hand, and inclination to vices. 

He said nothing still, clinging to Mycroft's arm despite his fear of upsetting his brother with the display. 

Jared gave a small, easy smile to Sherlock and leaned slightly back on the wall to appear unimposing. 

Mycroft shook his head. "I think for now we should just get comfortable with each other. Is there anything you could tell us about yourself?" 

Mycroft didn't need to be told, but conversation would be helpful. Jared's eyes flitted down and to the left as he thought. 

"Not much to say, really. Nice family. One brother, two sisters. It was my sister's dog in was dog sitting, by the way. Other than odd jobs to get me through college, this is my primary occupation." He held up his hands, which were rough and callused. "I rock climb a bit, too."

Sherlock closed his eyes as his stomach sank. Moran's hands looked very similar, and already Sherlock could feel the rough, harsh grip on his skin. Immediately he projected Jared to be a rough handler.

"Th-there," his voice cracked and he swallowed, trying again, "t-times when...r-reading...w-would you be w-willing to read f-for m-me?" His heart was doing its best to beat out of his chest. 

Jared was glad to have a reaction from him and nodded amiably. "Absolutely. I've a kindle, so I'll have any book or whatever you want ready. What do you like to read?"

Sherlock looked to his brother before looking back to Jared. "Mycroft c-can give y-you...a l-list," he said gently before a spike of pain arced across his body, making him all but whimper, gritting his teeth to endure it as his shoulders rounded.

Mycroft had already done so in a massive document that detailed everything Jared would need to know. "Any time you want me to read to you, I will. I'm glad to be of help."

Sherlock leaned to his brother as his hands shook. "I'm...h-hurting," he whispered, not having handled any of his morning needs. He looked to Jared, worried to be handled, "n-need..." He glanced at the door to the bathroom before dropping his eyes.

Mycroft bundled Sherlock close so he'd know he was safe. "I can take you to the bathroom if you'd like," he said in a low voice which Jared could likely still hear. 

Oh, how Sherlock wanted to pretend like this was not necessary. He bit his lip and looked to Jared. 

"W-would..." He trailed off, trying to find his courage, "my b-brother h-has been t-taxing himself w-with my c-care."

Mycroft wrapped his arms almost possessively around Sherlock. 

"I can take you," he breathed, but Jared took a step forward. 

"If you would like me to accompany you, I will, but I don't want to scare you before we've gotten to know each other."

Sherlock forced himself not to flinch away from Jared, though he did lean against Mycroft a bit more. "I...ok-kay," he whispered, confused about what he should be doing. Mycroft seemed upset at the notion, and again Sherlock looked to Jared and then away, the thought that Jared may not be fully trusted by Mycroft already in his head.

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and Jared opened the door to the lav in advance so he wouldn't be too close to Sherlock when he passed.

"It's alright, 'Lock," Mycroft whispered as he carried him. "You're safe."

Sherlock did not speak again until he was leaning heavily over the sink washing his hands, held up by his brother. He was nearly gray with how his pain soared, though he said nothing else of it. It wasn't until Mycroft had him back in arms, ready to leave the bathroom that he said something to Mycroft.

"I'm...I'm t-trying, My."

"And I am very, very proud of you." Mycroft helped Sherlock out of the lav and back into bed. "I'm so proud of you for everything you've done."

Sherlock lay back, clutching to the blanket as he sat himself up, not wanting the exposure. He'd managed a thin sheen of sweat, going more pale as he sat there.

"Y-Your s-sister...o-older? N-No...tw-twin."

Jared raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you are good. How on earth could you have possibly known that?" 

He sounded very honestly fascinated, and spoke in a familiar tone as if he and Sherlock had been lifetime friends. 

"L-Lucky g-guess," Sherlock dodged as his stomach rolled. Pain was becoming a swift issue, making it difficult to focus.

"Is s-someone w-working on...f-food for h-him," he asked quietly, trying to put his focus to Mycroft's care.

"I ate while you were asleep," Mycroft offered, though it had only been a smoothie. "Everything is taken care of. Everyone is safe. Would you like reading, or the telly?" 

Sherlock looked to Jared and suddenly snapped, pain getting to his patience. 

"Y-you may s-sit...your h-height is a...b-bit much. T-tell me of y-your...experience w-with..." He trailed off before looking Jared right in the eye, daring him to say the wrong thing, "people l-like m-me."

Jared nodded and sat in the armchair that was closest to the wall, where he would be non-threatening. 

"I started working with the invalid, and have since progressed to victims of trauma and other circumstances. Stroke, accidents, war...I will try to be of help in all areas of your life, but my primary goal is to get you as independent as you possibly can be, while still providing companionship."

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away, suddenly nervous. He felt a bit too transparent, despite the relief that this man was familiar with such trauma.

"I am t-told that...th-that I won't..." He swallowed with the truth of it, "that I'm-m unlikely t-to..." He closed his eyes, pulling the blankets up a bit, unable to finish.

Jared wasn't quite sure what Sherlock had meant to say, and he leaned back a bit with his hands folded. 

"I am sure anything you need help with, I'll be able to assist."

Sherlock closed his eyes, nodding without hope of that being true. He was feeling rather ill and carefully laid down on his side, shivering.

Mycroft bundled Sherlock in more blankets than was needed for warmth and looped one arm over his shoulders. 

"I've got you. You're safe. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Sherlock's vision blurred as he repeated, "I d-don't f-feel well." He was far past the point of mild discomfort, in active pain now, nerves all chaotically firing.

Mycroft texted Miller and left his phone on the bed. "It's okay. You'll be alright in a moment. You're okay. I've got you. You're so strong. You are so very, very strong, Sherlock. Stay with me, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, pinching his eyes shut tight, starting in in their numbers, whispering quietly as he followed the pattern. Miller came in the room minutes later, looking over Sherlock before starting to push the drugs.  
Sherlock lost the count as tears slid down his cheeks, cigarettes and blood wafting through the air.

"M-My," he breathed, fear curling the word like a child in panic.

Mycroft bundled his little 'Lock closer even though his arms began to tire. "Things will get better. I'm here."

Miller noticed how tired Mycroft's body seemed to be, tucking pillows around Mycroft's arms to help. Sherlock covered his face, shaking hard as anxiety began to get the better of him.

Mycroft smiled to Miller and his expression calmed. "Sherlock, do you need anything else?"

Sherlock was quiet as he lay there, starting at Miller with wide, frightened eyes.

"M-Miller...s-say something t-to me," he pleaded, struggling to stay aware.

Miller crouched down, watching Sherlock. "Easy," he said quietly, "it's just me, Sherlock, just Miller."

Sherlock was back in tears, breathing nearly frantically. He looked over at Jared before shrinking back, wondering if he was going to sick up.

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's back and wondered if there were too many people in the room. 

"Hey, Sherlock, focus. Breathe. Just focus on that. One thing. All your mind on just one thing. Don't let any thoughts run stray. Just this. Just breathing."

 

Sherlock did what he could to listen to his brother, concentrating on the feel of air in his lungs. His mind continuously tried to stray, giving him images of horrible things to come, of Miller pinning him down and Jared running him to the car, leaving him to wake up somewhere his brother was not.

"My," he whined, frightened and still hurting despite the medicine.

"It's alright," he said again, and waved for the two men to leave the room. "It's okay. I'm here. I won't let go. I've got you, okay? I will not let anyone hurt you or take you away from me."

Sherlock gripped Mycroft's wrist as the men left the room, sweating and clinging desperately. "I d-don't...want t-to go!"

He broke down sobbing as his voice echoed through the room, his grip iron on Mycroft.

"You are not going anywhere. You will not leave here unless you want to. I will not let go of you." 

He pulled the covers up around Sherlock and him in a safe little cocoon. "You're okay."

Sherlock broke down sobbing, clutching at Mycroft though the little cocoon of blankets helped to soothe him. He'd handled all of that wrong, after promising to be good.

"I'm s-sorry," he wept, pulling at Mycroft in a bid for forgiveness, "I'm sorry!"

'It's okay. I'm not angry with you. Everything is alright. You're okay. I love you. I've got you. Don't worry. Everything is alright. I'm not upset with you." 

Mycroft looked around the room for something to calm Sherlock with, but found nothing.

Sherlock pressed his face to Mycroft's chest and took nearly twenty minutes to settle down, breathing deep and struggling to keep out of his head.

"J-Jared needs...He has to c-come b-back, I have to g-get used..."

"I'm going to help you. I will call him in, but you need to remember that I have you with me, and I will keep you safe." Mycroft held Sherlock's head against his chest. 

Sherlock was breathing as though he'd run a marathon, deep and fast, eyes pinched shut as he listened to Mycroft's heart. "Trying! I'm....I swear I'm trying, I'm trying, he...and it..there w-was.." He failed to get a clear thought out, pulling at Mycroft's shirt.

"I understand you are trying. You're doing so well. Should I call Jared in?" Mycroft pushed Sherlock's hair back off his face and decided it was far passed needing a trim. 

Sherlock nodded as he clung to Mycroft, glad that his brother was at least not angry with him. "It's h-hard to...st-stay f-focused when..." when had he become so sensitized to pain? Even small, shadowed pains were too much for him now that he was back. He hid his face against Mycroft again.

Mycroft grabbed hold of Sherlock's hands and held on. "I'll call Jared in. Would you like to hear him read? Perhaps he has a nice speaking tone."

Sherlock whimpered as Mycroft grabbed his hands, suddenly looking across the room for an explanation. "Please," he breathed as he broke down again, not understanding, "I'll..p-please I'll...." he sobbed and tipped his forehead to Mycroft's chest, trying to breathe through it. 

"I will not leave you. I will not leave. I will stay here. I just want to talk to Jared a bit more. Is that okay?" Mycroft looked down at him sadly, but tried to keep his expression composed. 

Sherlock did not react, keeping his face pressed to Mycroft's chest, breathing fast and shaking. His heart rolled over as he whispered to himself, assuring himself that he was safe despite not feeling it at all.

"You're alright," he said again. "You're safe. I've got you. Can Jared come in? Just for a moment?" Mycroft spoke quietly and looked over to the door. "I'd stay here the entire time."

Sherlock nodded as he gripped at Mycroft's hands, his own damp and cold. He had to adapt to this new body in the room, had to become acclimated to a new set of hands and a new voice. The more he resisted adapting to Jared, the worse off he would be when Mycroft finally did have to leave. 

Mycroft called for Jared, and he stepped in quietly with his eyes on the older brother. Mycroft leaned in to keep Sherlock sheltered and gestured for him to sit down. 

"Could you perhaps read something? Perhaps The Bells?" It was a difficult poem to read well, as the inflection in one's voice must be rich for the word 'bells' to be repeated so many times without it growing dull. 

Sherlock kept his face tucked down, struggling with the knowledge that there was someone else in the room. Irrationally he thought back to the psychiatrist who'd been tormenting John at Bart's. What was to keep this man from doing the same? 

As a new voice rang out, Sherlock's breathing came to a full stop. Gooseflesh bloomed across his skin, making him shudder as his back crawled in anticipation of pain, the bite of a whip or the stinging, blooming agony of a knife, the burn of metal or simply the heavy impact of a sizable fist. His fingers curled into locked up talons in Mycroft's shirt as he grit his teeth, waiting. 

Jared continued to read with a pleasant, if a bit untrained voice. Mycroft was not terribly impressed, as he generally preferred proper stops at punctuation and not at the ends of lines, and a bit less emotion, but Jared's voice was warm and kind, which he supposed would do nicely. 

Mycroft looked to Sherlock. "Would you like to hear another?"

Sherlock shook his head against Mycroft's chest, where he was still buried in anticipation of pain. He looked over his shoulder though, cautiously, watching Jared. 

It took him several minutes to muster the bravery to do so, but slowly Sherlock managed to push himself up, sitting with his shoulders as high as he could make them, shivering like a leaf as he addressed Jared. 

"L-Let-t m-me...s-see your h-hands ag-again."

Jared looked a bit confused, but walked over anyway. He kept his hands clean, nails trimmed, and had heavy calluses from rock climbing. There were additional calluses on the tips of his fingers on his left hand as well. 

"May I ask what exactly you are looking for?" He kept his hands low, open, and below Sherlock.  
Sherlock took a long time to silently take in the details, not daring to reach out and touch, but gathering as much information as he could in his state. His mind was running through layers and layers of sludge, sluggish and foggy. For a moment, though, he was not drenched in fear. Rather, he was _working_ , or at least trying to, attempting to solve this man with visual clues. 

There were no small burns, nor nicks in the skin or scars that would indicate that this man often handled blades or heated metal. There was not the discolored callusing in the webbing between thumb and pointer on the right had that Moran possessed from so much time with the handle of a whip working against the skin. He did a fair bit of rock climbing, and he played something stringed. Unlikely a guitar, as the tips of his right hand bared no evidence, unless he exclusively used a pic. Sherlock very much doubted he was the sort to rely so heavily on such a thing. 

"My J-" he bit off the word abruptly, coming full stop, teeth clenching and eyes closing as he remembered himself. He bowed his head, shoulders rounding down as loss abruptly buried him. It took him a full minute before he'd manage to collect himself enough to continue. 

"Th-there w-was an...incident at B-Bart's. One of the st-staff...h-hurting John...I d-don't know y-you."

"I will never hurt you," Jared said with full sincerity. He was a compassionate man and very patient, which was what led him to this work in the first place. 

"I don't like hurting people. I am not going to hurt you ever. Your brother is very selective. He spoke to my family. I had to get references. Besides, I heard that you killed the man who was paying the staff to hurt John. You protected him." 

He slowly pulled his hands away and sat down on the floor by the bed with his legs crossed. "I am not a threat to you. I'm just an aid."

"Avenged," Sherlock corrected, looking down at his lap, "I avenged h-him. To pr-protect would be to prevent his s-suffering. I demonstrably f-failed to do so in the extreme." 

The way his body was shivering was taking his strength rapidly down. He braced his good arm on the bed, still keeping his damaged arm close to his chest. Jared was making a very real effort at placating him, and he looked over to his brother to see if he could trust it. 

Mycroft nodded to Sherlock and sat up a bit. "I think you protected John quite well, Sherlock, but I suppose for that instance avenged would be a better word. You attacked the psychiatrist who was hurting John. Everyone who ever laid a hand on him is dead." 

Jared seemed to agree. "And Mycroft will do the same for you."

Sherlock stared down at his hand in his lap, skin crawling and feeling very exposed. The scars on his back were tight and giving him trouble in a mix of itch and sting, painful and overly tight, making him aware of all the new ways moving his bones pulled at his skin. His entire body was foreign to him now, after years of mastering it. He'd gone from an awkward, gangly teen who was never quite sure of his long limbs, to a fluidly moving adult able to command his form well. 

It was just another reality in his long chain of loss, one that he did not want to face but was impossible to avoid. He nearly spoke again, though a flash of longing for John stole his words away. He wanted John to speak to him, to tell him these things, to _forgive him_ his failings. But he'd grabbed John like a raving lunatic in the throes of a hallucination, and in that moment had driven the final nail into the coffin and that was the end of life with John Watson in it. 

He eased down to his side again, defeated, and curled under the blankets the best that he could. He wondered how long it was going to take for the sting of John's loss to ease, for the brilliant, breath-stealing agony of it to subside. If his dog was any indication, this was yet another sharp pain he'd simply deal with until the end of his days. In a way, that was soothing. While it hurt, oh, did it _hurt_ , it was a way to keep John with him. 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft reached over and gently put a hand on his shoulder. 

"I know it's difficult, but I think you're doing an amazing job." 

He couldn't think what Sherlock was having troubles with now, as there were endless possibilities, so he simply enveloped him into a hug. "I love you. I won't leave. I'm here, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you have a good life."

Sherlock said nothing. Not a single one of the statements Mycroft had just made could possibly be true. Well, save his promise to try, Mycroft would very likely try. Sherlock knew his brother would leave. He knew his life was going to be so far removed from anything close to 'good,' that he could scarcely tolerate it. 

_Is Greg this impossible for you? Oh, well I suppose not. He's- you feel quite differently towards Greg than I do to My._

Sherlock had managed to swiftly pull up that moving, yet unresponsive image of John sitting in his chair behind the paper, finding some peace in speaking to him. 

_I have an_ aid _John, an aid. A stranger I'm going to have to depend on for things like the sodding toilet, god help me. He's dull. I doubt I'll be able to irritate him like you. I can't go out and get myself a pack of smokes anyhow. Suppose I'll have to come up with some other way of amusing myself._

John, of course, said nothing. 

_Don't suppose I could get you to look at me? Just here, like this. Look at me, John?_

Audibly, Sherlock let loose a defeated sigh as the image in his head both failed to look up, and began to fade away entirely. He curled his fingers up to his lips and kept himself otherwise quiet.

"It's alright," Mycroft said softly. He could hardly stand this. This not knowing. He could not tell what was happening in Sherlock's mind and therefore could not do anything against it. 

"I'll...I can read to you," he offered, then picked up his phone. Perhaps he should read John's blog. Generally he only resorted to that when he needed to pull Sherlock out of something, but this was distressing enough. 

He began on the story John had entitled The Elephant in the Room, and read through it softly. "...'And... sorry! It's another one that I can't actually blog about because of the Official Secrets Act! I've probably said too much as it is. Although I'm not as bad as Sherlock. The amount of times I've had to stop him telling people about it. I swear, I'm going to have to follow him at the wedding to stop him telling people!'" 

Mycroft scrolled down a bit.   
"And then, you commented; "I might include it in my best man speech.' To which he replied; 'You'll do no such thing! I don't want MI5 crashing the wedding!' Then; 'Oh no, I forgot. You want a 'nice quiet, crime-free day'. How utterly tedious.' I'm sure he loved having a case solved at his wedding, though. He just liked to banter about it."

Sherlock was hardly breathing by the time Mycroft got to their comments. It was odd to hear John's words in his brother's voice, but they were undoubted _John_ from all those years ago. Before, when Mycroft had read from John's blog, it had been a spark of hope, a stop-gap between visits, something painfully soothing like a deep massage on pained muscles. 

Now it was only _loss_. There was no more hope, these were now annals of things had and things taken. 

_Not taken, Sherlock. You_ failed _. No one is responsible for this loss but you._

He was bloodying his fingertips as Mycroft read off their exchanges. Even then, with their relationship still so strained from Sherlock's _death_ , there was still something undeniably there between them. That was dead and gone now, pushed past the event horizon, lost and gone away. He would never have anything like that again in his life. He'd perhaps manage a way to procure drugs, maybe regain the ability to read, but _life_? That was over. Tears slowly dripped off the side of his nose, hitting the pillow and slipping away as though never there to begin with, all while his heart drew up on itself, reluctantly beating. 

Mycroft stopped when he realized that Sherlock wasn't having happy memories, he was wallowing in despair. He scanned through the blog again, looking for something that might give Sherlock the barest glimmer of hope. Something to help him realize that they were good times best remembered happily. 

When he finally found something, he spoke in a whisper that Sherlock could ignore if he wanted to. 

"This was....Sherlock, this was a little after your fall, before you came back. I just want you to hear it. 'And I won't feel sad about it. Not any more. Because they were good times. We did good and we had fun. And that's what I'm going to remember. My best friend, and he'd kill me for saying that's what he was, is dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead.

But, by God, he'll never be forgotten.'"

Sherlock stopped breathing all together. His throat swelled painfully and his stomach dropped. He never so acutely wished that he'd never come back. 

"I sh-should h-h-have done it," he gasped, and in the next moment was back atop the roof. For a few moments, before the cab had pulled up with John returning, he debated not hitting send on his little Lazarus text. He could inhale, lean forward, and it all would be over. 

But then John...John was speaking to him and he could not do it, he had to go with the plan, had to pull down the network to protect them and oh how he had _failed_ to do so and John had said a proper goodbye, going so far as to remember him _well_. 

Now? Now he-

A low, rumbling sound of agony bubbled up from his core, leaving him breathless in the unrelenting force of it. 

_Now he hates you. Now you've left him scarred and half-alive. Now you can't give him a single good memory. Now it lays in ruin. Now he won't remember anything good associated with your hateful name. You should be dead. Just stop breathing and die. Enough. Just stop._

He could not tolerate the depth of it, the raw, vicious scraping of his insides as the weight of loss carved out his innards and left him gasping for breath. John had been a good man, and he'd been lucky to know him, and now he'd ruined everything, _everything_. He should have stopped there, died in capture, stayed the hell away from London, anything at _all_ other than walking back into John's life. 

"I'm sorry," Mycroft gasped and put his phone down. 

"I'm so so sorry. I didn't mean...He was saying to remember the times happily, right? You had a good time with him and should remember that. 'Lock, I'm sorry." 

Mycroft reached out and pulled him close. 

"I'm so sorry for what you lost. You had such a good life. Please, I will do everything in my power to give you a good life again. Everything. I am so sorry this happened to you."

Sherlock sank his fingers in his hair, pulling until he was nearly ripping out his curls. 

"He doesn't remember n-n-now! It's...g-god I've..." His words choked off on a clipped sob, too breathless to manage much of a sound.

He broke down along with his heart, so deeply grieved with his failings that he could hardly stand to occupy his own worthless skin. He tore at his hair in an effort to find some other sort of pain, desperate for relief.

"I'm so sorry. He does remember though. I promise. I promise you he remembers. Ah..." He looked through and found something in the comments. 

"Uhm....Bond night! The two of you had a James Bond night, apparently. Do you think he remembers that? Do you remember? Maybe you can find the memory in your mind. Maybe it will be alright."

If Mycroft took to lashing him, it would be kinder than this. He cried out, shaking his head before pressing his face to the pillow, shouting his heart out into the cushion. He drew in defensively on himself as John took to screaming himself hoarse in Sherlock's mind, begging for mercy. He could not endure this, he would not survive it, he was sure.

"Please!" He cried out for mercy from this, openly struggling to breathe as stars burst in the darkness.

"Sorry, sorry," he exclaimed and put his hands over his face. "I thought you...I thought you'd like a memory to latch on to. I'm sorry. I thought you were looking for them before. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." 

He opened his arms for Sherlock if he wished for comfort, even though he had already mucked everything up.

Sherlock sobbed as he moved over into Mycroft's arms, overcome with such forceful trembling that his teeth were audibly chattering. He was so raw he felt freshly burned, each struggling breath ripping physical pain through his body.

He crawled into Mycroft's lap like a child, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder, limp and damp with a cold sweat, only his hands working to hold on to Mycroft's shirt.

"I can't," he whined between struggling breaths, swallowing and going even more boneless against Mycroft, "I c-can't, M-My, I can't."

"I'll never mention it again," Mycroft said with tears in his eyes. He'd entirely forgotten that Jared was in the room and hugged his baby brother tightly. "I am so sorry. I thought...It doesn't matter. Please, _please_ forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you. Please?"

Sherlock tucked his face to Mycroft's neck, struggling to calm himself enough to breathe. He would nearly get his breathing under control before sharply recalling John's beautiful words and pairing them with John's terrified, enraged face, causing him to groan in agony before falling apart again.

Ten minutes of this was more than his body could handle, and his stomach began to cave as nausea threatened to have him sicking up on Mycroft. His shoulders pinched, entire body jerking with each roll of his gut as his mouth watered. Oh, how he did not want this. He keened in fear, shaking his head against Mycroft's neck as though he could command his body to stop.

Mycroft couldn't tell what was wrong when Sherlock jerked and shook his head, but he knew that something was wrong. "Sherlock, what is it? Do you need help?" 

Was it the pacemaker? Was Sherlock about to seize?

Sherlock's stomach kicked on him again as he leaned back, covering his mouth with his hand, curling down as he gagged a third time, eyes wide and panicked. The last time he'd been sick on Mycroft's bed, terrible things had happened. He looked desperately to his brother for help, face a sodden mess, tears flowing constantly down his cheeks.

Jared had the bin from the side of the room in Mycroft's hand before the older brother had time to ask. He held it and tossed Jared his phone. "Text Miller. Ask him to come up."

"It's alright, Sherlock," Mycroft explained, "I've got you. You're okay."

Sherlock grabbed hold of the bin seconds before a violent heave curled him down over the plastic, locking up all of his core muscles. His eyes pinched shut, toes curling with the overpowering contraction, making him panic for air before the first cruel wave backed off enough for him to drag in a panicked gasp. In the next second the motion repeated, merciless in its grip.

Miller was in shortly, taking just a moment to analyze the situation before catching Jared's attention, showing him how he handled this.

Soon medication was flowing in Sherlock's veins, working to slow his sickness. When the effect finally took hold, Sherlock sagged in a trembling, weakly sobbing mess against Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's back and tried to calm him down. "It's over. It's over. You're safe now. That's over. Just the bed and nice people now. All safe and warm. You're okay now. I've got you. Deep breaths, please."

Miller drew up something for nerves after watching him for a few seconds. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, giving it before Sherlock could protest.  
Sherlock whimpered pathetically and pressed his face to Mycroft's neck, breathing in short, clipped inhalations, whining on each exhale.

Miller stepped back, speaking quietly to Jared. "He hits a tipping point where not much else but Mycroft and sedatives help."

Jared gave a solemn nod. He'd worked with patients who got like this, who were grown adults, but behaved as children, or ones who experienced complex flashbacks, but this seemed to be all at once. 

"Sherlock?" Jared ventured to speak even though he knew he was unwelcome.

Sherlock did not have the energy to tense up as he was reminded that Jared was there. He had his back to Mycroft, pooled limp I'm his brother's lap. He turned exhausted eyes to Jared in much the same way he'd done when Moran demanded he look at him, all defeated resignation. His lashes clumped together, dark against his blotchy, pale skin. It was as much of an answer as Jared was going to get.

Mycroft wrapped Sherlock up in the blanket and stared at Jared with no expression on his face. 

Jared smiled up at him and stayed very still against the back wall. "Is there anything I can do to help you? I can leave, if it would make you more comfortable."

Sherlock very slowly shook his head. "Y-you need to st-stay," he whispered, voice raw. He sank further back against Mycroft, sleep pulling heavy at him. He was quiet as he allowed the dark to pull him down, wrapped right in calming medication. As he went under, he had the very warm, exceedingly welcome thought that mercy might never force him to wake up again.

Jared slid down the wall and sat back down on the ground where he would be very non-threatening. "Okay, Sherlock. Whatever you want. If you need anything, just let me know. Remember that I'm here to help and protect you and your brother."

Sherlock was already down hard when Jared went to the floor. Miller spoke softly to Mycroft as he checked Sherlock over. "What happened," he asked gently, taking Sherlock's pulse as he did so.

"He..It was my fault. He's been trying to fix up his mind palace, and I thought reading to him about his cases would help. He started missing John, and threw up. He's despairing." 

Mycroft kept Sherlock close and supported him as if he were awake.

Miller glanced to Jared to ensure he had the man's attention, building pillows back up around Mycroft to help ease the weight of his brother.

"It's not been very long since he's had to face the loss, he's going to grieve," Miller offered gently. He walked to the bathroom and wet a cloth, bringing it back to gently clean up Sherlock's face. He hesitated, offering Mycroft the warm flannel in case he wanted to do it himself. "This isn't your fault."

Mycroft was vary careful about not covering Sherlock's face with the rag as he cleaned. He didn't want Sherlock to wake up and think he was being waterboarded in his own damn bed. 

"I am aware that I did not do it intentionally, but the fact still remains that I caused it. I'll not do it again and that will right it."  
Miller took the cloth back after Mycroft was done. "I'm going to have food brought up for you. Do you have a preference?" He did not ask Mycroft if he wanted to eat, already knowing the answer. 

"I was also thinking of having someone brought in to give you gentlemen a bit of a cleanup, your hair is a bit long, you'd likely feel better."

Mycroft reached up and pushed his hair back. "Yes, I think that is in order. It's been ages since he's looked like this." Mycroft gently laid Sherlock down on the pillows and stretched his arms.

Miller spoke to Jared quietly, “Would you get Mycroft something to eat, please? I'll handle the barber."

He helped adjust Sherlock, quietly slipping a small monitor on the tip of Sherlock's longest finger to track his irregular heart rate. He shook his head at the state of Sherlock's bodied fingertips. 

"Would he allow us to put gloves on him?" He asked as he sent a text to Mycroft's barber.

Jared gave a curt nod and left. 

Mycroft held Sherlock's hands up and looked at his fingers. "These look inflamed. Painful. I don't know if he'll accept gloves. We could always wrap them, or give him something else to bite on."

Miller nodded as his phone chimed. "Barber is on his way," he informed as he settled in the chair at the bedside and began to scrub gently at Sherlock's fingers. 

"How is it working with Jared? He seems quite competent."

"Jared is a good man, I think. Hopefully he'll be interesting enough for Sherlock. I suppose for now it's better that he be a soft presence." Mycroft looked up and saw Jared standing with a tray of food from the kitchen staff.

He gestured him forward and sat with the food in his lap.

Miller kept in attendance while Mycroft ate, making small talk with Jared, trying to put all the men at ease.  
When the barber arrived, he looked to Mycroft. "Would you prefer if I gave him a heavy sedative?"

Mycroft felt his hackles raise at the barber and looked to Sherlock. The barber would be near his brother's face with scissors. It should not concern him, but it did. 

"That's a good idea," Mycroft said quietly and smiled easily at the barber he was not inclined to trust.

With great relief, Miller pushed a sturdy dose that would keep Sherlock down.

Mycroft's regular barber waited to be let in the room, professional enough not to react to the unlikely scene. He gave Mycroft a polite nod. "Cut and shave per usual, Mr. Homes?"

Mycroft gave a small nod and realized how strange it must look for him to have to stay in bed with his little brother. 

"I'm not sure if you know the story, but he was tortured. I'm sure you're curious. Might as well save the looks."  
If there was anything Mycroft hated, it was people gaping without understanding. It had bothered him since he was a child, that other people didn't see what he saw, and tended to stare at obvious things.

The barber gave a solemn nod and stepped forward. "I will be swift, Mr. Holmes," he assured, not bothering to deny that he'd been puzzled. He walked over to the bedside chair Miller offered, figuring Mycroft would likely want to stick close to Sherlock.

Mycroft knew the man, not personally, but he had been coming to him for quite some time. Mycroft wasn't much of a social talker, and doubted that the barber knew much about him outside his professional occupation and any rumors he might have picked up. "I appreciate it, as always."

Miller walked over to speak with Jared as the barber worked. Mycroft was down to nothing, his decline more and more obvious over the last few days. He needed a solid rest, and soon. Sherlock seemed to be declining in step with his brother, which would not do for anyone involved. No, this had to be seen to as swiftly as possible. 

"I know this was pitched to you in the more long term, but I'm sure you can see that we have two patients here, in reality. Do you anticipate staying on, now that you've seen a bit more of the depth involved?" 

If Sherlock's very minor breakdown today had a negative effect on Jared, they would do to find someone more suited. 

Jared looked over at Sherlock and Mycroft with an even expression. "Sherlock I can work with. Mycroft will likely take a bit more convincing, but if Sherlock starts to trust me, or even like me, then things will be quickly much easier for him."

Relieved, Miller put a hand on Jared's shoulder. "Good. That's good to hear. And yes, it takes a bit of coaxing to get Mycroft to accept help. You will do him immediate good once you've earned Sherlock's trust and are able to work with him without Mycroft here. Mycroft needs...sleep, food, and most of all a mental break from this." 

He looked over at Mycroft as the barber was finishing up with his hair, starting in on a shave. Mycroft's face was still bruised from Sherlock, as was his own for that matter. He inhaled slowly and looked to Sherlock. 

"That one needs to keep his blood pressure down. That's the goal above all else right now. The pressure is likely adding to his inability to read. If we can find more ways to keep him _calm_ , that would be ideal." 

Jared watched curiously as Mycroft's eyes darted continuously back to Sherlock. "My goal is to keep Sherlock calm, get him trusting me, and relieve Mycroft of all the responsibility. He must be devastated. How long has it been?"

Miller slid his hands in his pockets, inhaling deeply. "Coming up on six months since Mycroft sent in a Spec-Ops team to extract his brother. These men...like a Bond film, only no one ever seems to come out guns blazing. As you've likely sorted for yourself, Mycroft Holmes is a...powerful man. Devastated is one way to put it, yes. Sherlock has taken the loss of John very hard. It was within the month that John was last here. We all had such high hopes for the pair of them, John worked hard enough to get into a car. Now, when we are talking about John, we are talking about a man who was held three times as long as Sherlock. His damage is more in his mind, they...forgive the term, _trained_ him to believe Sherlock tortured him. For Sherlock, it has been a year since he found John." 

Miller shook his head, "I did not know him then, but the stories..." Miller trailed off, watching Sherlock closely. 

"Shit..." Jared stared at Sherlock again. "Trained him? Like..." He took in the state of Sherlock, able to stare now that he was asleep. 

"He's been tortured very, very badly from what I know. Raped, too. I've a list of things I'm not supposed to do. I know that he lost his friend. But this amount of devastation doesn't fit. It doesn't add up. Not to make light of losing a friend, but what I saw was gut-wrenching agony. And you say it's been a year?"

Miller wished he could pull Greg in to better explain. 

"Understand that I have only known Sherlock since he was rescued. He's very sharp, as you and anyone at the papers knows. Seems he's a bit of a loner, no one outside of John has come to see him. He's alone in the world outside of his brother. He and John...friendship is not the term for it. Sherlock is in love with him, as been for a long time. Mycroft informed that Sherlock is something of an asexual, so this is a first time thing for him, apparently. Sherlock has long since harbored love for John. John was taken and trained to believe it was Sherlock who was torturing him. John was raped as well, though he thought it was _Sherlock_ assaulting him. The story of Sherlock and John is a long, detailed, and frankly unbelievable...you should read John's blog, it will help you better understand. Just...don't read it to Sherlock, it would seem." 

The barber finished up with Mycroft, clearing off his face and, save for the bruising, leaving a man that much better resembled the man who'd put Miller under his employ. This meant that it was now Sherlock's turn, which was going to be interesting. 

Jared took a deep breath in, then let it out. "Asexual man with one friend he loves, a friend who was taken and tortured and raped, thinking it was Sherlock. Sherlock then was taken and tortured and raped as well. John won't come see him. So...loss, trauma, fear..." 

Jared shook his head and put his hand over his eyes for a moment. 

"The poor man. All of them. All three. And a friend is caring for John, right? I wasn't given too much information on that other than that it is a touchy subject."

Miller nodded gravely, watching Mycroft handle Sherlock, assisting the barber in getting him to a position where a haircut would be possible. 

"The former Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, as it happens. Greg Lestrade used to be the very uniform that would pull Sherlock out of the gutter, flying high enough to stop his own breathing. Sherlock is a former heroin addict, by the by. I believe it had been some years since he last used, but started again in the gap between rescuing John and offering himself in John's place." 

He paused, lips thinning to a narrow line as he watched the open tension in Mycroft's face. "Look at that," he said very quietly, gesturing slightly towards the focused brother, "Mycroft watched hours of footage. Moran -the man who did this to Sherlock- filmed every single minute he had them in custody," he was referencing how pained Mycroft looked each time the scissors came anywhere near Sherlock. 

Mycroft had a look of such intensity on his face that the barber was casting nervous glances over at him. 

Jared hummed and folded his hands. "I was told that James Moriarty was behind all this, and did all of this because...Mycroft said because he was bored. I find that incredibly hard to believe. Was there no personal vendetta?" 

He realized that with this group, he was working with some high caliber people. The government, former DI of New Scotland Yard, a genius/heroin addict/martyr, and trained soldier trained once more.

Miller shrugged, "I don't even pretend to keep up with this lot. I'm late to this game. There is a psychiatrist in the mix. Name is Paul, good friend of mine and Greg's. He's mostly with John, Sherlock doesn't take well to him. Though it's me he very often mistakes for Moran. Moran was the junkyard dog for James Moriarty. The teeth and muscle. He is the one who did the physical damage to John for the most part, but he was on a leash with Moriarty about. Once Sherlock killed the man...I don't know, Jared. I don't know. John was sexually assaulted once. Sherlock...we don't have a count. He refused food due to physical damage, let's put it that way." 

He wanted to break Mycroft's tension without calling attention to it. "Mycroft," he called out gently, "will you tell me if the percentage readout on that little finger monitor is above 97?" 

Mycroft was burning holes in the barber's skull with his eyes. He looked up suddenly and blinked twice. "I...Of course. I'll do that."

Jared breathed out. "He asked to see my hands. Couldn't tell why. Also he told me not to come in smelling like smoke or alcohol. I pray he doesn't think I am his rapist, but I could hardly blame him if he's in panic."

Miller watched Mycroft with sharply growing concern. He waited for Mycroft to tell him if Sherlock was satting above 97 while he answered Jared. 

"Believe me," he said quietly, tapping his split lip, "you will know if Sherlock thinks you are Moran. He's frail, but Sherlock is a champion fighter, cross-trained in boxing and martial arts. Be. Careful. _Never_ underestimate him. He had one hand free, hardly able to breathe, between massive cardiac episodes when he managed to get his hand on a scalpel." 

He dragged his finger over the same place on his neck where Sherlock would forever bear a massive scar from slitting his own throat. "And more recently, he asked for privacy, and in under a minute managed to tie his _drip line_ around his neck so tightly I was forced to use a scalpel to get it off. Never, ever, ever underestimate him." 

"I saw his hand," Jared remarked after a very solemn nod. "And both of your faces. He's clearly a fighter. I will never leave him alone. Drip line...damn. He seems very determined to die. Hopefully I can make his life good enough that he isn't actively trying to escape it."

Miller nodded, concerned with the lack of communication from Mycroft. "How is he," he called out again, trying to distract Mycroft from the barber. While Miller was quite sure Sherlock was physically alright, he thought it would be something productive for Mycroft to distract himself with. He left Jared at the door, walking closer to the brothers. 

Mycroft looked up as if noticing Miller for the first time again. "He's alright...He's okay." It forced him to realize that Sherlock was okay, and the scissors near his little brother's face and neck were only cutting his hair.

The barber finished up relatively quickly, having been instructed to focus more on the length than making an effort at anything close to a style. Miller cleared his throat, looking at the stressed man and then Mycroft. 

"Perhaps...Mycroft, perhaps you should shave him, you are more familiar with the...shape of his face." _You won't hurt his scars._

The barber looked at Miller thankfully and held still, waiting for instruction. Mycroft had looked ready to throttle him with scissors, he wasn't keen on bringing a straight razor anywhere near Sherlock's face. 

"Yes, let me," Mycroft said breathlessly and practically snatched the damn thing away. It looked too much like the instruments Moriarty had used to be anywhere near Sherlock's face in the barber's hand.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said and took a slow breath. "I am very stressed and seeing knife like things near his throat is a bit of a sore spot for me." He gave the barber a warm smile. "You've been fantastic as always. I apologize for my stress."

The barber put up his hands, shaking his head. "Please, Mr. Holmes, no need to apologize." 

The next few minutes were tense as the barber handed over supplies and assisted Mycroft as he could, his hands free of anything sharp. Miller kept a close eye on Sherlock, wary that his patient who was so very keen on fighting any and all sedatives would pull himself out of sedation at an inopportune time. Only the rough scrape of blade on stubble filled the room, until at last Mycroft was done. 

The room seemed to take a collective breath of relief and soon the barber was packing up, moving to leave while Miller helped Mycroft reposition Sherlock. 

As soon as everything sharp was far away from Sherlock's sleeping face, Mycroft was able to lower his hackles and breathe. He sat holding Sherlock in his lap, even though the man was still sleeping, and would not know he was being rocked slowly. 

After a few minutes, he addressed Miller. "How much longer do you think he'll be down for?"

Miller checked his watch, speaking after the barber was out of the room. "Likely another hour at the least," he answered quietly. Sherlock had been in bad shape when he'd gone down. "His body might keep him down longer, but the sedative will do so for at least an hour."

He glanced over to Jared, looking back to Mycroft and hoping he was going to take advantage of the time available. 

Mycroft slowly lay Sherlock back down and got up out of bed. "I think I'll have a shower, then. Perhaps a walk. Alert me if anything occurs." With Jared in the room, Mycroft was going to keep the live feed from the security camera in his room on and with the volume up. If anything happened in that room, he'd know.

Miller nodded, taking the chair beside Sherlock and looking to Mycroft. The man was cracking apart at the edges, it was so clear it was difficult to watch. "That's fine, of course we will let you know." 

While he wished there was more to be done for the elder Holmes, they'd learned well that it was best to offer him tangible support such as food and medication, and for the most part leave off all else. Miller glanced to Jared, interested to see how he would respond. 

"I'll watch him, sir," Jared offered and moved to sit in the chair near the bed. Mycroft watched him carefully then decided to let him have a bit of trust. He walked into the bathroom and shut the door. 

Once the water was running, Mycroft leaned against the wall of the shower and put his face in his hands. He was falling apart. Fraying at the edges. His mind was rusted and clogged with dirt and grime; the well tuned machine failing to turn. This was a slow falling away from objective logic, and he was painfully aware of it. But having an aid would help. 

It would have to help.

With Sherlock sedated, Miller took the opportunity to swap out his drip line, pulling the old one and starting a new site to keep the veins from exhaustion. He settled Sherlock back so that he was well wrapped up, and went ahead and started to give him a feeding, speaking quietly to Jared. 

"We typically feed him twice a day, at least. So long as three hours has passed, he can always have another feed. I would prefer him on solid food, but the last time we tried that, it went very poorly."

Jared wasn't a fifth as clever as the Holmes brothers, but he had a good working memory and could learn things fast enough. He watched intently, took notes on his phone, and prepared to relieve some of the weight off Mycroft's shoulders.

Mycroft was sitting down now, with his knees tucked to his chest on the floor of the shower. He could not stand this. He knew what was happening to his mind, and yet he was as powerless to stop it as a sail is to stop the wind. He could adjust and adapt to the changes, put up new rules in his mind to keep him externally functioning well, but he could not fix the base line problems. After twenty minutes Mycroft stood back up and stood under the water with a blank expression on his face as he retreated into his mind.

The feed handled, Miller decided that now would be as low stress of a time as ever to walk Jared through some of Sherlock's more physical care. He showed him how Sherlock's limbs had to be stretched at least once a day. 

"He's very sensitive at the knee, here," he pointed out as he lifted Sherlock's leg from the blankets. There were fresher, more obvious surgical scars that ran perfectly straight down the sides of Sherlock's knee, overlapping the chaotic, messy ropes of scar tissue, "he ah, endured having the knee cap severed over a few weeks. The infection alone made us worried he'd lose the leg. The other foot," he demonstrated as he began to stretch Sherlock's toes up, "had the Achilles severed. Watch him, he often will not speak up about his pain other than a generalized plea when he first wakes up. It's not until it's tipping him over the edge that he really lets on how bad it is. This arm," he motioned to the pins, "was also terribly broken. We had to manage the wound open and draining for nearly a month. He's had several surgeries for all of them, and as you can see, he had pins in his legs too. We think he'll be able to hold his weight, but without more corrective surgery, he'll likely need assistance walking."

Jared took notes and memorized the information while he questioned how one human being could do such a thing to another. He could almost understand killing. Or, at least, he could see why it would seem appropriate in some circumstances. But this was different, and he was sickened. 

Mycroft stumbled out of the shower and dried off. He changed, brushed his teeth, then went back into his bedroom.

Miller was just finishing up with Sherlock's pins and placing his arm back down on the bedding when Mycroft returned. He looked down at Sherlock and then to Mycroft. 

"Why don't you take a pill and go lie down on the spare bed? You'll be in here with him, but you might be able to properly sleep that way? Jared can sit with Sherlock, and I'll come check in from time to time. You need sleep, Mycroft. Proper sleep." 

Mycroft looked around and shook his head. "I'd like to go outside for a bit first. Months of lying down have become quite uncomfortable. I'll go for a quick walk and come back with enough time to get a bit of sleep."

Miller blinked before nodding swiftly, "Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Fresh air will help." He moved back to the chair opposite Sherlock's bed from Jared and settled in by way of letting Mycroft know that they had Sherlock, that Mycroft was free to leave. He checked his watch, noting how close they were to the edge of the hour; a detail Mycroft was surely aware of. Sherlock had made no signs of waking, though. 

Mycroft left and went outside. It was late summer now, warm, overcast, but still nice. He walked over the lush, dark green grass that probably cost a fortune to keep watered and sat down on a wooden bench between two Chinese maple trees. The look of the sky above him was strange, and he'd quite forgotten that the world was bigger than the room with Sherlock in it.

Miller spoke quietly to Jared. "If you have any questions, now is a good time. Sherlock typically fights sedation like hell, so we may only have a few minutes left of him being down. Of course, you can talk to me at any time. You have my number and I swiftly respond to texts as well." 

Jared stared at Sherlock absently. "It's been established that I'm not to touch him until he expressly gives me permission to do so, he prefers Mycroft's reading, and only takes comfort in him. My question is how I'm going to actually comfort him. I can assure him that everything is alright, be gentle, be calm, all the normal things, but I'm not Mycroft, and I'd prefer to relieve Mycroft of all the responsibility sooner than I think Sherlock will naturally begin to trust me."

Miller leaned back and put his hands in the air, palms to Jared as he cracked a half-smile, quietly laughing to himself. "Oh, I've no idea on that one, Jared. Best of luck." 

He shook his head and put his hands back down, going more serious in the next minute. 

"Sherlock is frightened of new people, I believe it's just too much for him to handle. I'd not take too much from his reactions thus far. Sherlock does have long periods of being completely lucid, where he's likely to be more of himself around you. Paul took a feet-first approach to it which seemed to work well, just dove in as though he'd known Sherlock for years. If you seem calm and familiar with Sherlock, he's likely to respond in kind. I'm the only one he's taken for Moran on a frequent basis. He's not been resisting your company, I think it will sort. He may be forced to accept us as his primary help sooner rather than later, if Mycroft carries on like this." 

Jared looked Miller over. "Do you look like Moran, then? It seems a bit odd that he'd consistently mistake one person otherwise." 

Jared looked down at his hands again. His skin was very lightly tanned from being in the sun when he could, and he'd never thought the calluses would make his hands rough. He'd always been exceedingly gentle with his patients. Jared hoped he wouldn't look like Moran to Sherlock. He didn't have any particularly remarkable features, with hazel eyes, brown hair, and an average height. He was athletic, very much so, and hoped that none of his features aligned with Moran.

Miller shrugged. "From the footage I've watched, I don't think I share a single feature other than skin tone. Moran was a beast of a man, very tall and broad. Blond hair, dark eyes, constantly smoking. I don't know why he does, to be honest. I've tried very hard to puzzle it out so that I can change whatever scares him. He was tortured by medical staff as well, forced to undergo procedures he didn't want without sedation. They denied both men sleep for days on end, Sherlock was force-fed, both water tortured. Just an incredible amount of damage for their minds to overcome, I suppose Sherlock's has just chosen me as a focal point." 

He narrowed his eyes at Jared, wondering if they were getting under his skin already. Quietly he cleared his throat, missing the way Sherlock's hands began to twitch as he leaned forward, whispering to the aid. 

"Jared, this work...there is no room for thin skin, and no time to test you out and see if you fit. I think you do, but if it's going to be an issue if Sherlock mistakes you for Moran from time to time, you need to get up and walk out. I hate to sound so cruel, but there is nothing easy about work with these men. It's exhausting and emotionally taxing. You need to be truly prepared for that."

Jared shook his head. "I can handle it. I'm kind, but not overly sensitive. I've been attacked in flashbacks before. One old man mistook me for a completely different race. I've learned it hardly matters. They see what they fear, I suppose. If he mistakes me for Moran, I'll just stay calm and gentle until he begins to remember. Perhaps I can find some way to remind him who I am. That would be ideal. No man should have to go through what these men have."

Sherlock's small voice interrupted them. 

"My?" 

He'd slid his hand slowly across the bed, seeking out his brother, finding only cool sheets and the sound of voices not belonging to Mycroft. His muscles ached, and the fear he'd gone down with still lingered, though was not so overpowering as before. He'd not dared to open his eyes, terrified of what he'd find. Mycroft often eased the transition of sleep to waking for him, metaphorically holding Sherlock's hand as he would wake, assuring him that there would only be his brother's bed suite and not cold walls with John projected across them. 

He drew in a sharp breath as his fingers met the edge of the bed. Icy fear clenched his gut, dropping his stomach to his feet. 

_Mycroft is gone. Mycroft is gone. Mycroft is gone! Mycroft is GONE! MYCROFT IS GONE!_  
His eyes shot open, frantically searching out the room for his brother. He caught sight of Miller, whimpering breathlessly as he shifted away, seeking out help. "My? _M-My?!_ "

Jared texted Mycroft and went to kneel by the bed. He sat down on the floor, far beneath the elevated bed, and bowed his head. "Sherlock? It's me, Jared. I just wanted to tell you that your brother is on his way. He just stepped outside to have a bit of a walk and stretch his legs. He's on his way right now. No doubt he's running."

Sherlock stared at Jared for several seconds before shifting closer to him. He did not reach out to touch him, but he seemed to instantly prefer Jared over Miller in terms of proximity. 

"H-He's h-h-home, m-my brother? He's h-here though, y-yes?" He asked the question with tears in his eyes, hands shaking as he curled raw fingertips to his mouth, again shooting Miller a frightened glance. 

Miller simply stood up, intent on walking to the door to give Sherlock room to breathe. The intent was lost as Sherlock shrank back, the brimming line of tears spilling over his lashes. 

"H-Help," he whispered, scrambling back as fast as he could, "pl-please, I- I d-don't want-" he shook his head, pinching his eyes shut tight in desperate fear, doing what he could to put distance between Miller and himself. 

Jared stood up and put his back to Sherlock, facing Miller with his hands open at his sides. It was a defensive position meant to make Sherlock feel better, as he had no intention of blaming Miller for anything. 

"Mycroft is in the house by now, Sherlock. He was outside. I'm sure he's running. You're alright. I'll protect you until he gets back." Jared looked over his shoulder and gave a small smile. "You're safe."

Miller gave Jared a small nod and swiftly excused himself from the room before anything escalated. 

Sherlock watched the door close, putting his entire focus now on Jared. His hearing was blanketed with the pounding pulse against his eardrums as he tried to assess his situation without Mycroft, without solid evidence that this was not some horrific prank played by Moran. 

"J-J," he began, swallowing and closing his eyes as his teeth chattered together. He inhaled sharply and forced the word. "J-Jar-red, you're...Jared a-and my b-brother..." his stomach rolled hard and he shook his head frantically, grabbing at the blankets and pulling them up to his lips. He bit down on the fabric, drawing his knees up so that his back was to the headboard, making himself as small as possible as he huddled in on himself. 

"The B-Bells, you r-read The Bells to m-me...and th-then I-" he sobbed, swiftly covering his mouth as his already pained abdomen convulsed, threatening to make him sick again, "I...w-was I s-sick on h-him? Is...n-no, pl-please no! I d-didn't m-mean...it w-was an accident I-" he shook his head and pressed his forehead to his knees, weeping quietly in fear that he'd made Mycroft angry, and therefore had been left. 

Jared sat back down once Miller left and put his hands in his lap. "Not on him, Sherlock. You had a bin. Mycroft just needed some fresh air. Doctor's orders. That sort of thing. He hated leaving you. He always does. You know-"

It was at this time that Mycroft came back in, clearly having been running. His pulse pounded in his ears and he rushed over to Sherlock. "I'm here," he breathed and knelt by the bed in the place Jared had just left. "I'm here. I'm sorry I left. I'm here."

Sherlock blindly grabbed at his brother, unseating himself awkwardly in his attempt to reach Mycroft. He did not speak, his entire focus to achieving physical contact with Mycroft. Shaking fingers found their way over Mycroft's shoulder, the other hand fisted in his shirt before he began to pull. In the next second, when he realized he wasn't strong enough to shift Mycroft, he shifted himself, nearly coming off the bed in his effort to find safety before the fallout. 

"Please," he wept, feeling himself nearly go over the edge of the bed, all within seconds of Mycroft's return. 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and stood, rocking him side to side like a child. "I've got you," he said quietly and slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. "It's alright. I'm here. I didn't go far. I'm right here."

His brother's words and physical presence very swiftly calmed Sherlock. He took the next ten minutes to breathe, settling in his brother's arms. 

A quiet, half-hearted form of laughter began to slowly bubble up from his chest. He sagged in Mycroft's arms, speaking in soft, amused French to his brother. "I th-think I had J-Jared run off M-M-Miller." 

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the new aid, sweeping exhausted eyes over him before tucking back under Mycroft's chin. 

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and looked to Jared. "You ran Miller off?" Jared gave a slightly sheepish look and shrugged. "I heard that Sherlock often mistook him, and he looked uncomfortable, so I sort of...Stood between them." 

Mycroft looked back to Sherlock. "Did that help you?"

Sherlock's response was delayed as he thought on it. He'd been so preoccupied with the reality that Mycroft was gone that he'd not really paid mind to how he'd felt on the matter. He looked down at his hand, realizing that the location of his IV port had changed. He rubbed a thumb over the bandage and spoke quietly, keeping to French as it made his world with Mycroft feel that much smaller, and therefore that much safer. 

"I...I don't know. I...I think so?" He shifted in Mycroft's arms so that he could see Jared easier. "He's...he's familiar. Why is h-he familiar?" 

"Jared is a nice man," Mycroft returned in French. "He has been very kind to both of us. I wanted to go take a walk outside to stretch my legs, and he offered to stay and protect you while I was gone."

Sherlock hummed and looked up at his brother. He stared quietly for several minutes before reaching up with a tremoring hand and touching the side of Mycroft's face, taking a bit of his hair between thumb and pointer. "Barber," he whispered quietly, studying Mycroft, "you had the barber h-here." 

He slowly brought his hand to his own head, feeling along the curls before touching his face. Something about having been subjected to a barber while unconscious was deeply unsettling to him. "I- y-you had a barber..." he glanced to Jared, swapping back to English, "A barber? W-Were y-you in h-here when..." he swallowed hard, resting his hand on his throat, tracing over the scar lines that had been put there before any other scars were added, a threat to Mycroft to back off or else.  
Mycroft gave a small laugh. "I think I scared the poor man, actually. I insisted on shaving you myself, and I hovered over him like an angry watchdog. You were safe the entire time. I promise." He hugged Sherlock tightly and felt much better now that he was lucid. "You're safe. I'll always keep you safe."

Sherlock nodded, settling again in his brother's arms. He relaxed there for a long stretch of time, simply quiet and listening to his brother's heart beating. He took to absently tracing imaginary lines on Mycroft's forearm, very gently touching his brother, soaking in the relief of calm. 

"I-" he said quiet suddenly, his voice fading away as swiftly as it rose up. He exhaled forcefully and made himself continue. "I w-want you...t-to go back outside or...an-anywhere o-other than this r-room for a while." 

He tipped his head back so that he could look up at his brother, staring at him with lucid, clear eyes. 

Mycroft's lips became a thin line. It was one thing to leave when Sherlock was unconscious, and something else entirely to walk out knowing Sherlock was watching. "I don't want to," he said hastily. "I'd be worried about you. I don't like going away."

Jared took a cautious step forward then. "Perhaps it would be best to take a bit of a break, sir." Mycroft glared at him without intending to.

Sherlock looked to Jared and spoke quietly, if not with a bit of amusement in his tone, "Oh, d-don't c-call him s-sir, h-his head is already...alarmingly inflated as is." 

He tugged gently at Mycroft's shirt, his own heart racing though he did his best to hide his fear. "Check your inbox and e-eat something wh-while you sit outside. Eat c-cake. Yell at your st-staff. Do anything o-other than be in h-here, My. You t-told me he's s-safe."

Mycroft grinned happily at Sherlock at his quip. "Oh, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said in the most pompous voice he could muster. "I quite like the respect." 

Jared gave an exaggerated bow in response. 

"'Lock, I will leave the room if you wish me to, but I don't want you to feel obligated."

Mycroft's use of his childhood name made it all the harder for Sherlock to shift in Mycroft's arms, taking one more moment to breathe in and experience the safety and warmth of Mycroft's presence before shifting cautiously off Mycroft's lap. 

"I-Is there a chessboard in the h-house," he asked quietly, staring at his hands. He could never hope to challenge his brother at present, and he knew any match they played would be dull to Mycroft. Jared though...Jared he might have a chance against. 

It was something to do other than soak in fear, at least. 

Mycroft twitched when Sherlock pulled away from him and he slowly scooted off the bed. "I can go get it," he whispered and took a step towards the door. "I'll be right back. Just one minute. Just one. I'll go get the chess set."

Sherlock stared at the door as his brother left, addressing Jared but keeping his focus on the exit. "I'm k-killing h-him," he breathed, all humor gone from him for the moment.   
"Y-You scare me to no e-end, but I am going to break him if I-" he swallowed and shook his head, the color draining slightly from his face. "I n-need...you to..." 

Sherlock drew in as deep of a breath as he could manage, shifting his back against the headboard and looking to the area directly beside the bed. "S-sit closer t-to me, I have to get used to y-you." 

Jared hated the idea of desensitizing Sherlock to himself, but this was likely the only way it would work. He scooted a bit closer and sat on the ground near the bed. Not many adults were willing to sit on the floor, and he found it generally helped him seem less intimidating. 

"You are a very strong man if you're still thinking about your brother. If there is anything I can do to help you with this, let me know."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "St-start by h-helping me t-take advantage of being-lucid," he said swiftly, pointing to the chair, "I st-stand taller than you, your h-height is not an issue. I'm- y-you're g-going to have to be near me constantly. H-Help m-me do this, it is already exhausting." 

His eyes were prickling with tears again, but he was not particularly afraid. This was simply taxing, and he was struggling to get through it. Remaining focused and lucid without Mycroft was beyond difficult, but he was determined above all else to keep Mycroft from breaking down. 

Jared went to the chair and kept his hands down. "Would you like to play chess? I'm not very good, but I know how to play. Mycroft's bringing it back. That could help you stay lucid. It would give you something pleasant to focus on."

Sherlock nodded, doing what he could to keep his mind occupied. "You've been climbing f-f-for years. Your twin used to join you but not since b-becoming a mother...twelve...n-no...no...e-eighteen months ago? Perhaps tw-twenty. You are an uncle, and a fun one a-at that. You d-don't k-k-keep a dog d-despite your w-want of one d-due to the demanding nature of your work." He spoke in a rush, nearly breathless as he tried to assemble an image of the man at his side. 

"Who...wh-who was...ill? No...p-perhaps. Ill or injured when you were sm-small. Less than ten, o-older than seven." He shuddered and looked to the door for his brother, determined not to cry. He was safe, this was absurd. "Wh-what do you play? I am a- _w-was_ a v-violinist." 

Jared had an honest look of wonder on his face. "You're going to have to explain some of that to me someday," he said amiably and with a laugh in his voice. 

"I pride myself on being a very fun uncle, though none of them are quite old enough to climb yet. I'd love a dog, but you can understand why it would be cruel of me to keep one. As for the illness...You're correct again, though I can't say how you'd puzzle that one out. Mother. Terminal. I took over. The usual story. Don't want to bore you." He looked up and heard Mycroft practically sprinting back down the hallway. 

The older brother opened the door with a thick, carved layered wood chess board in one hand and a velvet bag of pieces with a drawstring in the other. 

"Oh, and it's cello, by the way. Started when I was little. Mother's idea. She loved it. I suppose you can understand then why I still play." Jared looked over to Mycroft and gave him a reassuring smile. 

"You're brother knows my entire life story from looking at me."

Mycroft was back in the room, and with him seemed to return all the air that had gone out of it. Sherlock drew in a deep, calming breath and met Mycroft's eye, using the same effort he'd put to Jared to read what was happening to Mycroft. 

None of it was good. 

Sherlock did his best to hold the memory of his brother's face in that exact moment; _worry, exhaustion, fatigue, hunger, fear, hopeless, bored, bored, bored, health in decline, weight dangerous, mental faculties compromised._

He inhaled slowly once again and spoke softly to his brother. "The man with a bit of b-bright pink m-modeling clay washed into the hem of his trousers, w-with a twin s-s-sister from whom he's been just recently pet-sitting, w-wants to know how I pegged him for 'fun uncle.' _Damn the stutter,_ that would have to go. He gave Mycroft a faint smile and hid his shaking hands from view. 

Jared looked down and laughed a bit in delight. He and his niece had been making clay crowns so that they could rightfully declare themselves king and princess of the playroom. 

"Most people wouldn't notice that."

Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed and handed the chess set to Sherlock. "Is it alright if I stay?" It was breaking his heart to be away, and he nervously hung on to the sheets as an anchor.

Sherlock could not support the weight of the board, his fingers immediately protesting the work with a sharp flare of pain, and so dropped it as elegantly to the bed as he could manage, avoiding his legs. Mycroft's plea to stay tore at something down in the pit of his stomach and he reached out, grabbing hold of Mycroft's shirt and trying to pull him closer. Jared was doing as asked, but to be so physically near a stranger without Mycroft on his other side was nearly unbearable. 

"Pl-please st-stay," Sherlock whispered, the artificial bravery gone out of his voice right along with the request that Mycroft go outside and care for himself. He had no idea why it was upsetting Mycroft to be away, but he had no interest in adding to Mycroft's distress. Perhaps his brother would doze off during the game. That would be ideal, surely. Either way, he was itching for the safety of Mycroft's arms. 

"Thank you," Mycroft breathed. He wrapped Sherlock up in the blankets and settled him in his lap where he could play the game without difficulty. "Do you still want to play chess with Jared? I'm a bit too tired to play right now. I'm sorry."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rest his head against Mycroft's chest, hand splayed over Mycroft's heart, listening to the soothing echo of his breathing through his chest wall. For their privacy, he again addressed Mycroft in French. 

"Please s-sleep, My. Y-You are worrying m-me. I'll sit here and play w-with Jared." 

For all his talk of trying to care for Mycroft, he could not shift himself, craving the contact with his brother and the sharp relief their position brought him. 

Mycroft immediately settled when Sherlock informed him he was worrying him. "I'm sorry," he breathed, "I didn't know. I'll sleep. I'll sleep, and you play with Jared. It will be good practice for your hands. The pieces are large. Don't tip easily. Velvet on the bottom. It's a nice set." 

Mycroft put the chessboard where Sherlock and Jared could both reach it, and Jared began to set it up.

Sherlock shifted with Mycroft, moving so that they were still hip-to-hip, though he was no longer curled in Mycroft's lap. He drew in slow, deep breaths in an effort to keep himself calm, fighting tooth and nail against panic. Quietly he reached up and took Mycroft's face between his hands, pulling him in enough to touch their foreheads together. 

Carrying on in French, he spoke very softly to his brother. "Breathe. Please breathe. You have given m-me everything y-you can. I only w-want you to sleep. I'm...I kn-know where I am and who h-he is. I'll p-practice and..." he trailed off, pinching his eyes shut as a shudder ran up his spine. He brushed his thumb along Mycroft's temple, speaking again. 

"I'm h-hurting you. I am s-sorry."

Mycroft stayed in that position for just over thirty seconds before wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and burying his face into his neck. 

"I am incredibly sorry," he whispered in whatever language came to him. "I'll sleep. If you need me, just wake me up. I'll be right again once I've slept." He let go and leaned back against the pillows, though he had no intention of sleeping.

Sherlock watched his brother settle back, his own heart squeezing in on itself. He reached down and wrapped his trembling fingers around Mycroft's palm, pulling Mycroft's hand to his lap and holding it there. 

_Look what you've done to him, Sherl's_. Moran's voice slid through his mind like cold fish-oil, greasy and impossible to ignore, _How many times must we go over it? You hurt everyone. You're still alive just to spite them, aren't you? Sadistic bastard if ever there was one._

Sherlock inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, squeezing Mycroft's hand as the weight of responsibility rounded down his shoulders. He looked back to Jared and spoke roughly, "A-Are you familiar with the...g-gameplay?"

Jared nodded and set the last piece on the board. "I am. I know how, I'm just not terribly good at strategy." He decided then and there that he was about to lose horribly. 

Mycroft settled his head on the pillow and was grateful for having one hand on Sherlock. He did not sleep, but allowed the tension in his shoulders to relax.

Sherlock spun the board so that the black row was to him. He nodded to Jared, waiting for him to make a move. His heart was fluttering wildly in his chest, and he took to running his thumb along the side of Mycroft's hand to ground himself. He was debating asking for medication, his nerves raising up with his pain levels. He'd terribly upset his body earlier in the day, and his muscles were not keen on letting him forget. 

"I enj-joy the ch-ch-" he stammered, coming to a stop before he could get the word out. Several breaths later, Sherlock managed to finish to small statement, "the cello." 

Jared made the first move, just opening the king's pawn, and tried to act like an old friend. "I could bring it sometime. I had tons of lessons when I was young. Never got me in with the cool crowd, if you can imagine." 

Mycroft listened to the conversation as his body began to attempt sleep. Sherlock's hand was comforting and he couldn't stand knowing that he was in so much pain and still trying to keep him safe.

"M-Maths," Sherlock answered quietly, as though it was a perfectly normal reaction to such a statement. He took several minutes to study the board, attempting to call up his extensive research of plays, finding nothing at all in his memory other than snippets of games long ago played. He drew out his bishop, carrying on with the conversation. 

"It i-is the l-language of...m-math, to play. M-Most of the s-socially...lauded, h-have no appreciation for it. The o-only true b-beauty in th-this existence, and it is sn-snubbed for a favorable throwing arm." 

Jared laughed again, as he seemed to do quite easily. "I've always described it as math that makes colors. Got called insane for it when I was young. Never was one for rugby. Bunch of rams butting horns in my opinion." 

He continued to play, with the loose intention of making a guard around his king but no real strategy.

Sherlock watched his efforts at shielding his king, shaking his head. "Y-You are failing to...consider your castles," he said quietly, taking a pawn as wicked fire licked up from his already exhausted knuckles, the pain pooling for his damaged, confused nerves at the back of his elbow. 

He looked down at Mycroft's hand in his lap, shifting where he was rubbing his thumb over Mycroft's skin, worried about causing him irritation. It was difficult to remember that not everyone felt every little thing as he did. Mycroft and Jared did not have skin so sensitized. 

"Why...do y-you climb?"

Jared scowled at his pieces for a moment in consideration before taking Sherlock's advice. "Right. Forgot I could do that. And I climb because I enjoy it. I suppose you'd ask why. I like the thrill, adrenaline, exercise. I'm a junkie for that sort of thing. Skydiving, white water rafting, anything I can get my hands on. I'm not reckless, mind. Just enjoy it. I like climbing the most because I like heights. It's a wonderful sense of accomplishment."

Sherlock shrugged in response. "Y-You climb, I ch-chase m-murderers." His hand paused in the air as he realized what he'd said. He spoke as though he was still that man, still able to return to that life. 

He set the pawn down, taking a knight that had been forgotten in the distraction with the castles. He stared at the carved horse in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the curves of it. 

"I u-used to chase murderers, I sh-should say," he said to the piece in his hand, the heavy weight of sadness dragging his voice down to the lower registers. Cut off from all the ways he'd avoided his reality in the past, he was now forced to sit with the loss. 

"I..." he set the knight down, looking back up to Jared before returning his focus to Mycroft's hand in his lap, "I suppose I..." _what, you daft fool? You suppose you what? Take up knitting? Couldn't do it if you wanted. You_ nothing _, Sherlock. You. Nothing._

He shook his head as his throat swelled up on him, tapping a bishop that Jared was doomed to lose if he did not pay close attention. A single tear slid down his cheek, though he simply brushed it away with his shoulder as though it never was at all. 

"You kick my ass in chess, that's what you do," Jared grumbled in a good natured way and tried to back up a bishop to attack. "I don't think you're even trying. I'll get better at this, honestly. Probably won't be able to beat you, but I'm sure I'll pick something up."

He stopped and flicked his eyes up to Sherlock. "You've been calm for quite some time. Are you feeling alright? Miller instructed me as to your medication. If you have pain, you can tell me."

The question took him by surprise. Even his brother had difficulty seeing Sherlock's need for medication before he broke down enough to ask. He could make the request, but asking for medicine still caused him terrible distress. For him, it was akin to asking for- 

His jaw seared with pain, calling his attention to how hard he was clenching his jaw shut. He slowed his breathing as another tear trailed down his face, catching along scar tissue, making it's chaotic way down to his chin. He gave a single, tight nod, speaking very quietly. "I- y-yes but...n-not if-f I...n-n-need to...to w-work f-f-for it-t," he whispered, eyes sliding unfocused, thumb stilling against Mycroft's hand. 

Stress point. Jared recognized it and decided that he would never ask anyone what Sherlock meant by 'work for it'. "Free medicine, courtesy of your older brother. I'll give you something heavy for pain if you need it." He looked down at the chess game and moved his knight towards Sherlock's side. "Free medicine. Are you hurting?"

Sherlock's breathing hitched and he nodded, staring down at his lap. He looked over the chess set, breathing faster. As another tear slid down his cheek, he began to speak.

He swallowed hard and looked up at Jared, "t-talk to me...I..please," he groaned, clutching tighter to his brother's hand.

"Okay, so I know that if I move here, your bishop takes it. And if I move here, your pawn gets it. But if I stay, you get me anyway. First, how did you set that up? Second, what do I do?" 

Jared stared at the chessboard with an honest, readable expression of confusion.

Sherlock began to explain the setup, vice trembling along with his body. Over the next five minutes, he slowly calmed down, tension reading back to baseline.

"S-so if..y-you take my s-single pawn h-here, you will save it."

Jared quickly memorized the moves so he wouldn't fall for it again later, and decided that while he could use it on other people, he would be a fool to try it on Sherlock. But perhaps a modified version...

"I think I've got it," he said and his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth. It made him look far younger, which didn't bother him. He was going for non-threatening and familiar. 

Sherlock watched Jared very closely, taking in all the ways he was moving and behaving. While it was clear he was intentionally trying to show himself as non-threatening, it still served to calm Sherlock down enough to look over to the medication on the counter and speak very softly. 

"C-Could I...still h-have something f-for pain?" He may have lost a bit of a frightened whimper on the end of the request, but he'd made it without falling apart nonetheless. 

Jared nodded and reached for it. "For free," he added and very slowly reached for Sherlock's hand. "I won't hurt you. If you move your hand a bit closer I won't even touch you. Just the port. I'll be very careful. You don't have to work for it and I won't hurt you in any way."

Sherlock adjusted his fingers on Mycroft's hand, holding his breath without intending to. He stared at the chess set as he offered his hand, resting it on the bed to quell how badly it had once again began to shake. 

"Y-You are n-not bad at chess," he began whispering, tears blurring his vision before falling, "y-you m-manage to th-think two steps ahead, if y-you even add a th-third, your g-game will m-massively improve." 

He struggled to keep his focus off the fact that this man was going to have a needle very close to him, very soon. He whimpered as Jared moved, fingers curling tight in the bedding as he forced himself to hold still. 

_I'm going to break your arm now._

He shuddered and let go of Mycroft so that he could wrap his hand around the pins, breathing slow and tight through his slightly parted lips. "Do y-you w-want children?" He didn't particularly give a damn what the answer was, he needed to hear Jared's voice through this. 

Jared was gently as he pushed the medicine and watched the time. 

"I don't see how I'd have a wife and kids with my occupation," he said in reply. "I love kids. They're so innocent. So much wonder! Everything is good to them. Everything is exciting. A rolled up piece of paper is a sword and they'll play all day with little plastic soldiers or crowns made of clay. But I hardly think I'm reliable enough to be a father. Not with the hours I work. And I don't want to give up my job." 

Jared wanted to be as utterly honest with Sherlock as he could be. He wanted the man to know him inside and out, so as to make himself familiar. "Hence the fun uncle."

Sherlock hummed in response. The grip on the bed began to ease as soon as the warm comfort of medication began to flow. He closed his eyes as he resumed holding Mycroft's hand, speaking very quietly. 

"W-Wise choice. It is...unique t-to find s-someone so...dedicated to their profession." 

He shivered as pain began to subside and he could breathe a bit easier. "I w-will m-miss my work. Already do." 

"If there is anything I can do to help you with that, I will." Jared moved away from Sherlock's hand and smiled at him. 

"That was very brave of you. You're an extraordinary man."

Sherlock pulled his hand back to his chest, purple knuckles curled under his chin where he rest his fist. He was rocking himself slightly, though otherwise he was present and aware.   
"An-Anything but," he countered very quietly. There were many years where he would find the statement as foolish as remarking on the color of his shirt. He was outside the realm of ordinary and it was foolish to deny it. His mind was a thing of beauty, elegant in almost all of its functions. 

Now...now he was...what? A husk. Leftovers. The bone pitched to the floor from a fine steak. Refuse. Aftermath. Ash in the firepit, the brilliant flames gone out. 

He very suddenly wanted Mycroft to wake up and wrap him in his arms, keep him from drifting off to sea without a paddle. His eyes touched on the chessboard before he swept the room, reminding himself of where he was. 

"Y-Your m-move," he whispered, nodding to the board as tears carried on sliding down his face. 

It was very strange to be having a relatively normal conversation with a man in tears, but Jared was used to such things, and he took his move. It was an intentional bait, and he suspected Sherlock knew this, but he thought one step beyond it. Though, he recognized the futility of trying to out think Sherlock Holmes and left it at that. 

"I think I'll have to practice this."

Sherlock ignored the bait and took a castle in the next move, perfectly happy to give up his knight. 

"Y-Yes, you w-will," he agreed, though there was no bite in it. 

He was doing his best to have a conversation with a man he'd just met, that would soon be carrying him to the damned toilet. 

The thought made him flex his grip on Mycroft's hand, resuming the gentle way he'd been stroking his thumb before. 

"I...I t-taught John," he added, recalling the tight, incredulous smile he often got when he handed John his arse at even his best game. His eyes fell closed as sharp loss knifed across his chest. Perhaps it was because of Jared's disconnect from the entire situation, or the fact that he was paid to listen to Sherlock ramble, but he was quickly talking again. He looked up at Jared, meeting his eye as he whispered so quietly he nearly could not hear himself. 

"I m-miss him. Above all other th-things I m-miss..." he swallowed John's name back down, dropping his eyes to the chess board. 

Jared nodded and stopped playing for a moment. "I'm sorry you miss him. I know that means nothing to you, but I want you to know that you can always talk to me about it. You can always tell me anything. I very much want to know more about you, and to have your trust. I know that would be a rare gift to be given, but I'm prepared to work for it." 

Sherlock said nothing for several minutes, staring down at his lap. It was confusing to him that he'd just confided something like that, and he wasn't sure what had prompted it. He shuddered once again and picked up his bishop, moving it forward and landing it down with a quiet, "Check." 

Jared put his attention back on the game when Sherlock did. "Alright, you're going to have to explain that one. And how to get out. Can I get out?"   
Sherlock did not speak. He reached out, moving Jared's pieces for him. He played his own in kind, and in three moves had Jared's queen close to taking his own king. "You h-h-had it all there," he whispered, hands shaking as he returned the game as it had been and showed him yet a second way to win in three moves, "y-you just could n-not see it." 

He tipped his king and then plucked it up off the board, holding it in his hand like a talisman. 

"Sh-Shockingly e-easy way to be...all you need f-f-for life right before your eyes, unable to see it until it's gone." 

"I see it now very clearly," Jared said and was amazed he didn't catch it before. He wondered if Sherlock had purposefully left it open to test him. "I suppose that's how things go, though. You're brilliant. And excellent chess player and teacher."

Sherlock was losing his ability to focus. He hummed in response to Jared's compliment, not particularly believing it, and spoke to him softly. "I w-want to l-lie down, can...is th-that..." 

_Of course that's okay, don't ask for sodding permission._

"W-would you t-take this?" He wanted Mycroft, and quiet, and the dark of the blankets over his head and for it all to _stop_. He was moving before Jared had time to take the board, shifting closer to his brother and attempting to lie himself down without engaging his core muscles very much. 

Mycroft opened his eyes at that point and snaked both arms around Sherlock's middle to pull him in. "I'm here," he said in a sleepy voice. "Let's get some rest." 

He nodded to Jared, who was putting the chess set up. He'd been entirely unwilling to sleep while Sherlock was awake, and let out a yawn.

Sherlock managed to get himself down, and then tucked in close to Mycroft. He breathed in the familiar scent of him, pressing his forehead to Mycroft's chest as he fell into a quiet, relatively calm state of weeping. For once, it was little more than simple grief. He was not soaking in guilt or trudging through fear. He was simply homesick for John, on top of a myriad of other loved things lost. 

For fifteen minutes he lay in tears against his brother's chest, when sleep finally found him. He gently went lax, transitioning into rest with little outward reaction. 

Mycroft looked to Jared once more and mouthed _thank you_ before dropping off to sleep himself. He was cleaner, but easily at the end of his rope. He couldn't break down like Greg had. He simply could not. His mind could not handle it. His occupation could not afford it.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg woke the next morning, calm, and without the terrible sinking feeling of imminent failure looming over him. Falling asleep calm and close to John had done him a world of good. He hummed against the back of John's head, drawing him in closer as the morning light shifted to a warm orange glow through his bedroom. 

John woke peacefully when he felt Greg shift and stretched his arms out in front of him. "Morning, love," he said on a yawn. "Did you sleep well?" John turned to face Greg and rubbed his sleepy eyes.

Greg pulled John closer and smiled, an honest, easy, warm smile borne of relief and calm. He nodded just before pressing a kiss to John's temple. "I did," he answered as allowed himself to stretch, pointing his toes and curling his back for a moment. Gladstone shifted as Greg bumped against him, the happy, rhythmic thump of his tail echoing about the room. 

John stretched and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. "We're going to have a good day today. I think maybe I can sweep when you're cooking today. I should try that. If not, I'll just leave and do it later. I'd like to get over that eventually. End goal is to help you cook so you don't have to work so hard." 

He gave his love a smile and nestled closer. "And we should go outside and play with Gladstone a bit. Is there anything you want to do?"

Greg carried on with the easy smile on his face and shook his head. "Just be with you, that's it," he answered warmly, pulling at John until he hand himself flat on his back and John resting his head on his chest. He trailed his fingertips through John's hair at the back of his head, working his way down until he could gently massage the muscles at the back of John's neck. He kept his touch light, wanting to soothe and comfort. 

John had an easy smile on his face and rolled his head back to lean against Greg's hand. "You're the best person ever," he said and slowly sat up. 

"Good day. Today will be a good day. I think I worked with Paul enough last time and I've still got things in my head to go over, so it's alright if I don't talk to him. Can we go for another walk? Walking makes things good. I need the exercise."

Greg sat up with John, nodding swiftly. "Sure, John, yeah we can go for a walk. Gladstone will be happy, too." He moved to the edge of the bed and took a moment moving around the room to properly dress. "Why don't you get dressed and meet me in the kitchen, tea should be ready by the time you get there." He pulled John into a gentle hug, speaking against his shoulder, "does that sound okay?

"Yeah. Of course." John waited until Greg left the room before changing clothing. He was still very self conscious about the way he looked, and took a moment to look down at his marred body. It was a foolish thing to worry about his looks. He had no need for it. He had no plan to get a girlfriend, and the people who loved him did not care what he looked like. But there was still something about looking down and seeing the initials of a psychopath carved on his chest that was a bit demeaning. Again, he was strangely tempted to try and scratch them off.

Eventually he dressed and went into the kitchen with a light smile on his face.

Greg set John's tea on the take, water no longer boiling in the kettle. He looked over and smiled warmly. "Eggs and toast on the way."

Gladstone remained at John's feet, following right at his side.

John picked up the broom and started sweeping around the edges. "Thanks. Are you doing alright today? Is there anything I can do for you?"

Greg quietly cooked the eggs as John began to sweep. He smiled down at the pan and nodded happily, looking over his shoulder at John. "I'm wonderful today. Slept really well, woke up with you, got a nice cuppa and soon to have eggs. I'm doing fine. How many laps do you want to try around the courtyard today? Legs feeling alright? How about your back?"

"My legs feel good today. I think we should just walk until we're tired." 

He adjusted his hold on the broom as his hands grew fatigued in strange places. Moving about was making him a bit stronger, and while he was nowhere near as strong as he once was, he found himself being more confident in his ability to do activities. He pointedly ignored the hot metal on the stove and kept his eyes down. 

Greg agreed, and then began talking to Greg about an article he'd read in the paper about the prime minister getting a bit smashed at the latest gala, and the goings on surrounding that frankly entertaining situation. He clicked off the burner and served up plates, motioning for John to join him in the sitting room. 

Paul walked by as they were getting situated. He smiled to John and nodded to Greg. "Think I'm going to pop out for a few hours today if that's alright with the two of you. Is there anything I can pick up while I'm gone?"

John swept up a small pile and got the bin. It was difficult for him to bend down, and he ended up sitting on the floor to clean it. He looked up at Paul and thought for a moment. "Can I have something like...cake?" He looked to Greg for permission with a hopeful expression. "I think I'd like that."

Greg smiled warmly at John, pleased as hell to hear the request. "Absolutely you can have cake, you can have all the cake ever made as far as I'm concerned." He grinned at John and offered him his hands to help him off the floor. "What kind...or kinds? Whatever you like." 

John took his hand and flopped forward a bit to have an excuse to rest against him. "I think...Chocolate. I haven't had cake in so long." 

He smiled gleefully, as he'd always equated cake with good times, happy occasions, and peaceful company. 

Greg pulled him gently into a fond embrace, wrapping him up and rocking gently from side to side with him. He hummed and nodded to Paul. "Chocolate cake, vanilla ice cream, if you would." 

Paul smiled warmly and nodded, happy to provide such a simple thing. "Alright, gentlemen. I'll be back in a few hours with cake." He reached down and scratched Gladstone's ear before heading out, leaving them to themselves. 

Greg lingered there with John in his arms for quite some time. He inhaled slowly and sighed in content peace, pressing his lips down against the top of John's head and closing his eyes. 

"Let's go sit down and eat," he said at last, remembering the eggs he'd made. 

John suddenly remembered that they were in the same room with hot metal and looked over to the stove with wide eyes.   
"I stayed in here," he remarked as if noticing it for the first time. Carefully John took a step towards the stove, which wasn't particularly hot anymore, but still had a warm pan. He kept one hand in Greg's and shuffled over. 

"It's not going to hurt me. It's just a pan. Not a bad thing. I'm alright." 

He reached out to hold the insulated handle, but his heart froze and he dropped it back to his side. 

Greg pulled John back to him very gently. "None of that today, John. None of that today. You get a day off, this is your day off, let's just take it easy. You've already done so well. Come on, let's go eat." 

He did not give John the chance to respond, ushering them out of the kitchen and back into the sitting room where the eggs, toast, fruit, and tea waited on the tray for them. 

Greg eased John down to sit on the sofa, sitting flush against him. "Cake is going to be good, I'm seriously looking forward to cake." He held his breath, hoping to hell that John was still with him. 

John turned to Greg when he wa unable to take the pan. "It's alright to be afraid of hot pans," he decided. "It's okay. I'm not that messed up. I stayed in the room with it. I didn't run. I stayed. I'm getting better." 

He leaned against Greg with a ever so slightly dejected expression, which melted away a moment later. 

"Yeah, cake. Cake is good."

Greg smiled at John, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing him lightly. "It is okay to be scared of hot pans. It is alright, and you are recovering brilliantly. You didn't run, you didn't panic. And yeah, cake, thank you for asking for cake. It's going to be grand. Now, eat with me and let's laugh at Dick Van Dyke." 

He clicked on the telly to the mentioned show and nodded, pleased to find he remembered the correct time. They caught it just as the aforementioned man tripped over the ottoman and Greg shoveled a bite of eggs in his mouth. 

John was exceedingly happy that Greg was pleased with him, and he ate his food without worry of punishment. Breakfast was John's main meal of the day, as it was part of his routine, and he enjoyed the food Greg made him. 

"I think we should go play with Gladstone outside after this. He's so fast. I love to watch him run."

Greg smiled and ate happily with John, brilliantly glad they'd managed to avoid a breakdown. He nodded in agreement, having his coffee as John tucked into his breakfast. Greg was breathing easier than he had the entire year, properly relaxing his shoulders and eating his eggs free of the constant knot of tension in his stomach. 

The show came to an end, plates were cleared, and soon enough the meal was over. Greg clicked off the telly and called to Gladstone. "There's a good boy," he said warmly as he scratched at the dog's head, "ready to go outside?" 

Gladstone tipped his head to the side, mouth open in the parody of a smile, tongue lagging from the side of his mouth. The dog's tail began to wag in contained excitement at the word. 

John fetched his vest and leash, which Gladstone almost jumped in to in anticipation of going outside. John even went so far as to open the door to the flat without Greg, but quickly reached back for him once it was open. He took Greg's arm in his and the pair walked down the hall and three flights of steps, which John had decided was good for him, even if the way up was a bit difficult. He was much less afraid, but still hung on to Greg as if they were in water and he couldn't swim. 

Greg covered John's hands at his bicep with one of his own, humming happily as they walked out into the courtyard. They'd learned time their visits so that it was mostly empty. He let Gladstone off leash as soon as they passed the first row of hedges, watching as the dog stuck close to John anyhow. He wouldn't run unless a ball was tossed for him. 

He squeezed John's hand and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple. "It's a beautiful day," he said quietly, looking up at the blue that peaked around the few white clouds floating above them. 

John looked up at at the sky and let the sun warm his face. The heat of it sank deep into his skin and he stayed with eyes closed and face pointed up for quite some time.

When he was confident that he'd absorbed enough sunlight to keep him happy for the day, he waved the ball in front of Gladstone's face. 

"Ready?" The stoic watchdog suddenly became an overgrown puppy and leaped a few feet away. John threw the ball and he was off, a streamline blur of fur tearing after the bright yellow ball. 

Greg smiled as he watched the dog bound after the dog, again grateful they'd gotten him for John. As they ventured out into the world more frequently, John and Gladstone were bound to bond closer still. He took a moment to stretch in the warm light of day. 

Just as a rare, welcome feeling of content settled over him, he was abruptly reminded that this was only half of the equation. Guilt cut through the calm as he watched Gladstone return the ball with overflowing enthusiasm to John. He knew that Sherlock was doing very poorly while he and John were finally making hard-earned progress. His vicious mind decided to hand Greg the image of Sherlock in the throes of terror, using the last of his strength to try and shield John. 

He swallowed around the swift-growing lump in his throat, searching for reasons that it was okay that they'd moved on from him. Perhaps he'd never find them. The fact remained that John, brave, brilliant, incredible John had felt enough pain for several lifetimes, and Sherlock caused him more. Greg inhaled slowly and did his best to banish the thoughts from his mind, wanting only to enjoy the day for once. 

"You're really improving with that arm," he said with a bit of roughness to his voice, clearing it away swiftly and grinning at John, "getting stronger." 

John tried to fool Gladstone by pretending to throw it, but the dog could easily smell the tennis ball behind John's back, and the comical look of confusion on his face made John laugh in delight. At Greg's compliment he threw the ball as hard as he could, and found that with each day his arm hurt less, and his range of motion improved. 

"I love him," he remarked as Gladstone leapt into the air and snatched the ball. "He's a massive, lightning fast puppy with razor sharp teeth. It's a good thing to have with us." 

John's words wrapped warm and light around Greg's heart and he was immediately comforted. The smile he gave John effortlessly reached his eyes, and he gently rubbed John's back for a moment with the open palm of one hand. "I'm so glad you enjoy him. So glad." 

The massive dog bounded back as though he were immune to gravity, seemingly weightless as he moved. He sat down in front of John, dropping the ball into John's palm and waiting with his mouth agape, panting heavily, the very picture of glee.

John loved watching his dog. He loved the attentive way he watched the ball as if it were the only thing that existed. He loved the way Gladstone's muscles tensed in preparation and the way he shot off after the ball like an arrow shot from a bow. He loved the different ways Gladstone ran. When he went after the ball, the police dog was a streamline bullet, intent and chasing until he had his jaws around the ball. But when he came back, he was happy and bounding like a puppy, all pride and glee at what he'd accomplished. Then John would pick up the ball again and the attentive energy would replace the puppy bounce, and the cycle would begin again. 

"He's a good boy," John said and put his arm around Greg's waist casually. He wasn't clinging, nor seeking comfort. It just seemed like a good place for his arm to be. 

Greg mirrored John's hold and slowly began to walk through the courtyard with him, stopping as Gladstone would return the ball. This level of sustained calm had become so foreign to him, he felt nearly drugged. 

They passed the time in warm silence, walking together as Gladstone chased the ball, the sun warmed their shoulders, sharing a comforting quiet between them. When John began to slow, his breathing very slightly faster, Greg stopped their slow walk and wrapped John into a gentle hug. 

"Are you ready to go home?"

John was tired by now, and being outside was starting to grate on his nerves. He looked around one last time and tossed the ball once more. "Yeah, I think so. You always know when I'm about to say something." 

It was glorious to have someone who could anticipate his needs even before he was sure of them himself.

With a gentle smile, Greg lead them back upstairs. He had them move slowly, careful to keep John from getting overly worn out. When they got inside, he handled Gladstone's leash and vest himself, giving the dog water before going into the sitting room with John. 

"Do you want to go lie down? We can watch telly in bed?"

John went directly to the couch and sat down. His legs always got a bit tired after such an outing, and he was more than content to be off his feet, no matter where that was. 

"Whatever you want. I'm alright with anything. We get to have cake later, too."

Greg smiled as he dropped down on the sofa next to John and warmly gathered him onto his lap, pulling the throw off the armrest and fanning it out around them. He kicked his heels up on the coffee table and shifted his shoulders to settle in, rubbing John's back gently and encouraging him with very light pressure at the side of his head to rest against his chest. 

"You are remarkable, John. Today is wonderful, and cake, I feel like a child but oh, wonderful cake!" He rumbled a soft laugh and shook his head, smiling as he pressed his face down to the top of John's head, rocking them very slightly as they settled there under the blanket. 

John could hear Greg's laugh rumbling in his chest and was exceedingly grateful that Greg was still affectionate to him even when he wasn't panicking. 

"I can't wait for cake. Look how much my life has changed! A year ago I never would have guessed I'd be playing with a dog and eating cake. This is wonderful."

Greg hummed as he trailed gentle fingers through John's hair. "All the hard work you've done, I'm so glad you can have something nice. You deserve all the nice things, John. I've never seen anyone work as hard as you have done." 

Gladstone came in from the kitchen, walking up to the sofa beside them. He laid his head down and looked up at John in an open, quiet plea for affection. 

John reached down and pet Gladstone happily as he waited for cake to come. A thought came to him and he was quiet for a bit before speaking. 

"Sherlock deserves something like this too."

Greg closed his eyes and was quiet for a moment, his chest rising as he drew in a slow, deep breath. He carried on lightly rubbing John's back, occasionally trailing his fingers through John's hair. Slowly he exhaled, swallowing and blinking up at the ceiling. 

"Yeah," he agreed very softly, not sure what more to do with that. 

"He should have someone like you and a dog and cake. I wish I hadn't messed things up last time. I really did want to help him. I feel bad about it." He leaned down and wrapped his arms around Gladstone's neck.

Greg was forced to remain silent for several slow, deep breaths before he could trust his voice to answer. 

"He has Mycroft. You didn't mess anything up, John. You did a very brave thing by trying. It's very...very kind of you to want to help him." 

He hugged John to him as he spoke, rocking him in a slow, rhythmic pace.

"Okay," John responded softly, but did not feel the word's meaning. "If I'm ever strong enough to help him, or if he forgives me, just let me know and I'll try again." 

Greg went still then, looking down at the top of John's head, awkwardly shifting to the side to try and see his face. 

"John," he said very gently, "do you imagine he's angry with you? There isn't anything to forgive, you did nothing wrong. You don't have to see him again, that doesn't make you..that doesn't make you weak, or bad. You know this, right?"

 

John did not want to talk about it at the moment. He'd only wanted to lightly state that he was still open to helping. "I'd be angry if I were him," he said honestly. "I'd be pissed. Perhaps he's a better man than that. Nevermind. Let's just have cake and be happy today. We can figure all that stuff out tomorrow, right?"

Greg returned to his original position and resumed rocking them both, lightly resting his cheek on the top of John's head. Gladstone lay at their side, tail lazily thumping, eyes closed and the very picture of content. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds away quietly and the birds out on the back porch chirped as they hopped about. The air conditioning kicked on, adding a bit of soothing white noise to the room. Greg simply held John in the silence, making an effort to pull his attention away from Sherlock. 

The subject stuck in John's mind despite the distraction and he swatted at it like an annoying fly. "Just tell me when you think I can help him again, and I will. That's all I wanted to say." He heard a knock at the door then and jumped before he realized it was likely Paul. 

Greg tightened his arms around John as he startled. "Easy, easy," he assured quietly, listening to Paul slide the key in the lock and then open the door. "Just me," he called out as he walked into the kitchen, the rustling of plastic bags along with him. Greg heard the icebox open and then close before Paul set his keys on the counter, shuffling about. 

Several minutes later, he came out of the kitchen with two plates loaded with cake and a scoop of ice cream, forks and two small glasses of milk. "Hungry?"

John jumped up out of Greg's arms and got the plates. This wasn't part of his routine, or a normal food for him, but it was cake. It had to be good. "Thank you," he said politely to Paul and placed Greg's plate in front of him. 

Paul and Greg both smiled at him. Greg set the blanket down, dropping his feet from the table. Gladstone slid off the sofa to lie on the floor. Paul returned to the kitchen, and Greg picked up his plate and began to tuck in. He wasn't particularly a cake sort of person, but the sugar melted on his tongue and he closed his eyes, humming happily at the bite in his mouth. 

John was a bit cautious at first, as he was with all unfamiliar things, but the taste of chocolate was like greeting an old friend he hadn't seen in years. Nearly two years, to be exact. "Fantastic," he managed to say before taking another bite. 

Greg settled in then, watching John honestly enjoy food. It was better than the taste of his cake, better than the relief of the morning. Seeing John happy about anything was always a rare treat and he was overjoyed with it, grinning broadly as he chewed. He finished his cake much faster than John did and set his plate aside, bumping his shoulder very lightly against John's. 

"I'm very glad you like it." 

John licked icing off his fork and his legs bounced with how excited he was to have treats and nice people around him. "I'm so glad you decided to love me," he said and licked his thumb. 

Greg huffed a small laugh and pressed a kiss to John's forehead. "How could I not," he rumbled warmly, wrapping his arm around John's shoulder and allowing himself to enjoy the sight of John properly eating. 

"I got lucky! I'm sitting here eating cake with the most wonderful human being alive!" He wrapped both arms around Greg's neck and pressed happy kisses to his cheeks and forehead. "Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful!"

Greg laughed and held John to him, completely pleased with the afternoon, Sherlock utterly forgotten in the face of this rare excitement. He beamed at John and tipped their foreheads together. 

"You smell of chocolate," he remarked with a laugh, using his thumb to clear off a bit that stuck to John's lip. 

"It's so good to see you happy, John." 

John laughed in response and kissed the corner of Greg's lips. "It's good to be happy, Greg. Very good to be happy. I'm glad I live here. I'm so glad you love me. I think you are wonderful. I know you are wonderful. That is a universal fact."

Greg again huffed a laugh and shook his head. 

"I think you are wonderful too, John. I really do. Love seeing you smile. You can have all the cake you want." 

John had likely taken in more calories in the few hours they'd been up than the whole of the week prior. It was a good thing to see. John without the tube in his nose, and soon hopefully without the port in his hand. 

"You know, we've done really well today. Going outside, eating food, playing with Gladstone..It's all been good. We should just do this for the rest of our lives." 

John easily expected to spend the rest of his life with Greg, but wanted to be sure that he was alright with it. His own low sense of self worth was nagging him that there was no way Greg would want to stay with him his whole life.

Greg pulled John back onto his lap, using his toe to push the empty plates away. He wrapped the blanket around John's shoulders and settled in with a happy, rumbling hum.

"That sounds wonderful, John," he answered fondly, wishing that it was possible to do only that forever. "I would love it."

John closed his eyes and leaned against Greg. "Thank you. I love you so very, very much. You're fantastic." He reached up and ran his fingers through Greg's hair lovingly.

Greg closed his eyes as well, leaning into the touch. John always managed to soothe him when he reciprocated the kindness, and Greg never failed to drink it in like water to a dry sponge. He hugged John closer, starting up the slow rocking from before. 

"I love you, too," Greg whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of John's head. 

John pulled away then to finish his cake. 

When he was finished, he took the plates into the kitchen and put them in the sink, though he couldn't put the water on.

Greg called John back to him, wanting John to settle and stay with him for a while. "John?" He put his feet to the floor and stood up, following him with a bit of worry into the kitchen, "John? Come back, let's go settle for a while."

John looked over and smiled. "I'm fine. Just putting the dishes down." He took Greg's hands and stood with him for a moment. 

"I'm with you today. I feel good. I feel clear. I don't know if I'm like the old John, and I'm sorry if I'm not like I was right now, but I feel good."

Greg pulled John to his chest and shook his head, holding him close. 

"You won't ever be the old John, and that's okay. I won't ever be the old Greg. I won't be married Greg, I won't be teenage Greg, I'm just Greg now, and that's all there is to it. It's the same for you. Some of you will be the same, some changed, but it's all fine. You're doing wonderfully."

"Oh. Do you want me to be the old John? I don't know...I feel _good_ , but I don't know if that's good enough." John rested his chin on Greg's shoulder. "What I mean to say is that I think I'm thinking normally, or as normally as I can, and I guess I'm as much of the old me as I'm going to be. At least, that's what I think."

Greg closed his eyes and began to rock them slowly as he held John to his chest. "I only want you to be happy, John. We should focus on that."

"Well, I'm happy today. This is the best day I've had in forever. I could do this forever. Oh!" John looked up and cupped Greg's face in his hands. 

"Thanks for not ever letting me kill myself. Sorry about all that."

Greg couldn't help but laugh as he kept John to him, pressing a kiss to the corner of John's lips. "That's damn good to hear you say," he whispered there, nodding, "you're welcome."

"I'm truly grateful. I mean, I begged to die. It must have looked so hopeless. But you kept on and I'm so glad you did. You're a wonderful man." 

Admiration and love shone in John's eyes and he locked his fingers in Greg's.

Greg's mind immediately supplied the image of Sherlock and his ill fated attempt to protect John.

"I'm...I'm so glad to hear-" his throat closed up on him and he had to stop, shaking his head before giving John a gentle smile. "I'm..it's good to know you don't ah, hold that against me."

John pressed a soft kiss to Greg's jaw and took his hand. "Never. You know what is best. I don't. I trust you. All the choices you've ever made have been for the best."

Greg absolutely did not agree with that, though he said nothing of it. "Come on, you," he said warmly, pulling John along with him, "let's go get in bed and watch telly and be lazy. You need your meds before you start aching, and I'm just a sloth." 

He grinned and gave John a wink before sliding his arm to John's back and starting to move them back to the bedroom, calling Gladstone after them.   
John got his meds on his own and jumped into the bed. He rolled over and opened his arms for Greg with a gentle smile and Gladstone jumping up and resting at his feet. 

"After all this, we deserve to be lazy."

 

Greg toed off his shoes and socks, smiling at John's open arms and the dog at his feet. Soon enough he was sliding into the bed, wrapping up around John and getting himself comfortable. He inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of content, brilliantly glad to be there with John in that moment. 

He was quiet for several minutes before speaking again. "I really am proud of you, John. I mean..truly. You've...god, what you've managed to do so far...you never fail to amaze me." 

John basked in the warm glow of Greg's affection in the same way he had opened his arms to the sun. "Thank you for being proud of me. It helps. It helps so very, very much."

Greg pressed another gentle kiss to John's forehead and then shifted so that they could spend a bit of time simply watching mindless telly, turning the volume so that it was loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to block out if they fell asleep. Again he took to trailing his fingers over John's back, breathing deep and easy for the first time in a very long while. 

The rest of the day was passed in blissful laziness and loving companionship. John drifted off peacefully and woke in Greg's arms, content and rested. The day was so perfect that John almost hated to end it with sleep. 

But when the first golden bars of light filtered in and highlighted Greg's hair, John was glad he had woken. He silently watched the man sleep and memorized the way the light and his peaceful expression made him look years younger. When he'd watched for as long as he could, he reached out and brushed his fingertips over his cheek in the desire to feel the warmth he saw. "Morning, love."

Greg inhaled deeper than he had been, lips curling up in a gentle smile as he hummed and nuzzled his head against the pillow, tightening his arms around John. 

"I don't remember falling asleep," he said in a happy, sleep-heavy voice. He had yet to open his eyes, stretching out his legs a bit and curling John close as a child would cuddle a stuffed bear. 

John loved sleepy Greg, with his tousled hair and heavy voice. He loved the way he was cuddled close in the early morning when Greg was just waking up, when the wonderful man's first action was to smile and hug him. 

"Neither do I. But I like waking up here."

Greg's smile broadened and he shifted his leg so that his ankle was just between John's shins, pulling the man very slightly closer. "Mm, me too," he agreed, unwrapping an arm from John and stretching his fingers up to the ceiling as he gently arched his back, carrying on stretching though he still did not open his eyes. At the end of the stretch, he again gathered John close and nuzzled against him.

John watched in amazement as Greg moved, as if he were the most beautiful thing in the entire world. While Greg's eyes were still closed, John bent forward and kissed the top of his head. "You're beautiful, you know that?" Everything good in John's life came from Greg. Greg pulled him out of Hell and brought him tea and cake. He was wonderful, and Jon was fully attached.  
"Think you're the first to accuse me of that," he said warmly, voice still heavy with sleep. Finally he opened his eyes, swiftly finding John's and holding as he gave him a happy smile, "Good morning." It was brilliant to wake up next to John, and more still to find that the easy air from the night before still lingered around them. 

John scoffed. "I am most certainty not the first one to call you beautiful. I know other people have. You're just so...perfect." He stared at Greg and failed to put into words how fantastic he found his savior. 

"And you take care of me."

Greg stared at him for a moment and then laughed happily, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "I assure you, John, you're the first. And of course I take care of you, you take care of me, too." 

He looked down at the dog and then raised his eyes to the light streaming in through the windows. 

"Breakfast?"

John nodded and the two went about their normal breakfast routine. When the dishes were clear and John was leaning happily against his Greg, he dared to speak up about something that had been pestering him like an itch he did not want to acknowledge until he was forced to. 

"Uhm, Paul? Greg? Could I talk to you guys for a minute?" 

John knew his request would shatter the calm, and he took both of Greg's hands. 

"Nothing serious. Just a question."

Paul calmly folded down his paper, setting it down and giving John his full attention. 

Greg looked down at their hands. _Please ask for cake again. Let this be about cake._

"Of course," he said as he gave John a warm smile, running his thumbs over John's knuckles. _Please be asking for cake._

John saw Greg's expression and brought his hand to his lips. "It's alright, love," he whispered. "I just wanted to get something clarified. I need a final answer. What are we going to do about Sherlock?"

Greg blinked at John, startled by the question. "A final-" he said quietly, watching John's face as calmly as he could before looking over to Paul. The man simply arched a brow, observing the two of them, and so Greg looked back to John. 

"I eh, I don't-" he cleared his throat and met John's eye again. "I think that's your call, John. Isn't it?"

"Clearly, it is not." 

John wanted to be taken seriously in this conversation, and sat up straight, out of Greg's arms. 

"I am a danger to him currently. I am not capable of staying with him long enough to do good, and removing myself from his presence is more painful to him than if I'd never come in the first place. Greg has advised me to let him go on multiple occasions. Sherlock tried to say goodbye. It's been made clear that we aren't ready for each other. But what I am worried about is that Sherlock has clearly shown that he is...desperate. He needs me. He misses me. I've never heard him that heartbroken. Now, it is unpleasant to be around him currently, but it was just as difficult to eat and now I have cake. I just want to know if I should still make active attempts to work on my relationship with him, and work on it with Paul, or let go entirely and move on with my life."

Anxiety twisted hard in Greg's chest as John pulled away and began to speak, clearly upset with how things had been handled with Sherlock. His palms were already damp, and he was having to force himself to resist the swift-rising panic. He looked to Paul, and then back to John. 

"I-" he paused to clear his throat, "ah, I'm- I apologize," Greg said quietly. 

He pressed his palms to his thighs just above his knees, leaning slightly forward. 

"I...it's always-" again he cleared his throat, shame and self-doubt swelling up shockingly fast. He shook his head, trying a different path. 

"What do you want to do?"

John took a calming breath and focused all his energy on staying calm and expressing himself like an adult. 

"What I want...What I want is to continue what I am doing. I want to live with Greg. It's all I want. But...I know what Sherlock went through. I know the hell he was subjected to. I know that I was his friend and that he needs me. I can not leave him. I will not. What I want no longer matters and will be ignored." 

He gave Greg a slightly harder stare than he intended. 

"I will not negotiate that. Not at all. I will get used to Sherlock and perhaps come to enjoy his company. I've learned to like things before, haven't I? Speaking? Drinking? Eating? What makes this different? Won't it be better for him in the long run if he's with me?"

Much to his horror, Greg felt the sharp burn of tears seconds before his vision blurred. It was as though John had simply reared back and struck him. Where was all this coming from? Greg leaned back slightly as John glared at him, his heart thumping hard and painful before starting to flutter in his chest, adrenalin pooled in his stomach. 

"Maybe this is s-something you should talk to Paul about. I-" the back of his throat stung, and he was having to avoid looking down to keep the blurring tears unshed, "I'm obviously ah...doing the wrong..." he stopped to clear his throat, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before returning his eyes to the vicinity of John's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered, honestly ashamed of himself. His concern for John trumped all other things, and clearly made him give the wrong advice. Handling Sherlock and John together was a source of immense anxiety, and he never knew what the right thing to do was. Watching both of them in such pain left him in a wellspring of guilt. John's words reached down and effortlessly tapped into it. 

"Greg, no, I'm sorry." 

John was instantaneously unsure of himself and his posture shrank from confident to afraid. He reached out and curled up next to Greg, his voice smaller than it had been, closer to his time in the mental hospital than his original self.   
"I didn't mean to hurt you. Not hurting you. Didn't want to. I just don't want to hurt him. Sherlock. I don't want to leave him behind. I'm sorry I was serious with you. I shouldn't have. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. You're doing it all right. I just get confused. We don't have to talk about it." 

The subject he'd thought about so thoroughly was lost to him now, and the arguments he had formed in his head, the well worded, thought out and self aware reasoning was scattered like dust in the wind.

Greg was clearing his throat still as he budged John back up, shaking his head. 

"No, you need to talk about it," he said roughly, keeping gentle with John as he tried to restore the man, furious with himself for struggling. He dashed a hand across his eyes, sniffing hard and trying to get control of himself. 

"You were not confused, you were trying to say something. You should say it." 

His hands were shaking slightly, but he was doing his best to keep hold of himself, loathing the way he'd made John speak. 

John shook his head and curled into a ball on Greg's lap in a gesture of submission and dependency. 

"I don't need to talk about this. I am so sorry for hurting you. I'll just stop. Paul, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to waste your time with this. You two should just decide. I'm not well enough to do this."

Greg settled a hand on John's shoulder and hung his head, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm sorry," he whispered, running his thumb in gentle circles at the top of John's arm, allowing him to curl up as he wanted. He closed his eyes, chin trembling as self-loathing reminded him that he'd just been granted a few hours holiday, but _this_ was what he truly did to John. He knocked him down and stripped his autonomy, robbed hard-earned smiles from his face, stole the light from his eyes. Greg was a monster. 

Paul spoke softly to John from across the room. "You did not waste my time, John. There is nothing to be sorry for. As for us deciding, I'm not sure how we'd even begin to do that without you. You seemed quite upset with yourself when you said that your wants would no longer be relevant. Can I take that to mean you do not want to see Sherlock again?"

John looked up to Greg for permission to continue. When he wasn't told not to speak, he began again with some semblance of his old plan, but no elegance in his words as there had been before. 

"I would rather just stay with Greg," he whispered, "but I don't want to leave him behind. It's like how I wanted to just eat through a tube. I never wanted to eat. Not at all. But now it's good. I'll get used to Sherlock. Anyone who suggests that I leave him on his own after what he went through for me doesn't understand what goes on in your mind when being tortured. None of you do. I don't hold it against you, but I know that I will not be able to move on. I can't. I don't want to. I want to get used to him even though it hurts me. But right now I only hurt him, and I need Paul to teach me how to not hurt him." 

John looked up to Greg with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to. Please don't go."

The worst of it was that Greg knew how severely Sherlock missed and needed John. He could not bear to look at the man, feeling his words like falling stones, each bruising on impact. He nodded, brushing a hand across his eyes again and looking across the room, ears ringing and heart in his throat. 

"I'm not leaving," he whispered roughly, keeping his eyes from John, "but I should let you and Paul talk." 

Paul saw Greg eyeing the bathroom door as he did his best not to openly fall apart. "John, what if you and I talk and let Greg have a few minutes? Would you be alright with that?"

John grabbed onto Greg's shirt and his expression clouded. Hurting Greg always wrecked John emotionally. He hated to see the beautiful smile disappear and the happiness leave his eyes. "O-Okay," he whispered and let go reluctantly. "But you'll come back if I need you, right?"

Greg hated that he'd even given John a reason to ask. He gathered John up in a firm hug, pressing his cheek to the top of John's head and holding him there for a full minute, simply breathing and holding tight to him. Finally he spoke, his voice quiet and dripping with guilt and regret. 

"Of course, yes, I'll come back. I'm going to take a shower, but I'll come back." 

John wrapped his arms tight around Greg's waist and was instantly reduced to tears. He'd started out the conversation so rationally, with such drive to get things done and progress with his life. Now he clutched Greg wildly for a moment before letting go and folding in on himself on the couch in as small a ball as he possibly could.

When Greg was in the lav, he let out a hitching sob. "I-I was bad," he whimpered to Paul.

Paul was glad to hear John still speaking. "How were you bad, John?" The question was gentle, no affirmation that John was right, just curious to the man's active mindset. 

"I tried to be a good person and just figure things out, but it ended up hurting Greg. I love Greg so much and I keep hurting him. He was crying. I don't even know what I did!" John curled up around a pillow he wanted to be Greg.

Paul kept himself still and carried on speaking very gently. "John, you didn't do anything wrong. Greg has struggled with this for months, he's reacting to the situation, not you." 

"Then I won't bring it up anymore." John slowly regained his calm and sat up just a bit, though he still held on to his pillow. "Let's just make a plan then. About Sherlock."

Paul was willing to put a pin in it and allow John to steer the conversation. "Alright, let's discuss him. So, you've come to a point where you eventually want contact with Sherlock again. Can you tell me what your thoughts are there? Do you have any idea how much contact you want?"

"As much as I can take without hurting Greg and as much as I can do without hurting Sherlock. I just want to find a way to help them both. That is what I want. It's not realistic for me to drive down there so often, as I need to be sedated or I panic. So...I don't know, Maybe when it isn't so fresh for Sherlock I'll be better at this." 

John looked to the lav where his Greg was and pressed his face into the pillow he was substituting.

That was interesting. "John, you spending time with Sherlock does not hurt Greg. He is Sherlock's friend as well, I think he's relieved when you spend time with Sherlock. Or do you think something else?"

John shook his head. "I know he is relieved, but it makes him sad when I do things that hurt myself. It hurts very bad when I talk to Sherlock. But that's what I need to do, isn't it? It's either that, or I doom Sherlock to a life of misery." Quietly, John hugged the pillow to his chest and rocked himself for comfort.

"That's a rather unfair thing to put on yourself, John. You haven't doomed Sherlock to anything, just as you did not cause his injuries. Yes, Sherlock is grieving, no, it is not your responsibility to stop that. He's very sick, and has extremely limited function. Involving yourself with him in the near future will be very taxing." 

Paul spoke in a gentle, yet matter of fact tone, trying to feel this out. "It sounds to me as though you were ready to put Sherlock behind you before any of this started."

"I never wanted him to be hurt. I never wanted any of this to happen. He was my best friend. I want to help him more than anything. No, I don't want his company. And I feel _horrible_ about it. I don't want to go into that. I would rather just bear it. I very much, very honestly want to help him. Sherlock doesn't deserve to be left behind." 

John looked up to the lav door again anxiously. 

"So make a plan."

Paul shifted slightly in his chair and spoke gently to John. 

"The plan starts with us working through your ideas of Moriarty, John. That's step one. You made some very good progress with that the last we spoke." 

John grounded his teeth in open irritation. "So you're saying I can not help Sherlock until I work on the Moriarty stuff?"

Without any hesitation, Paul answered as he held John's eye. "I'm saying you cannot help Sherlock until you work on the Moriarty stuff."

"Fine. Then let's get on with it." John took a long breath and began. "Last time we got to the point of me saying that Moriarty was wrong, at which point I had a breakdown. I still don't believe that entirely. He was wrong about some things. Tell me what you believe to be correct."

Paul again arched a brow. "What I believe to be correct in regards to James Moriarty? Alright. He was wrong in all things, indisputably." 

He kept a close eye on John, curious where the man was trying to go with this.

"And you believe me to be free of blame for what happened to me?" 

John didn't believe a word of it, but needed this to be over with.

"You already know the answer to that. You're very agitated, John. Can you tell me what is going through your mind?" 

Paul carried on speaking slow and calm, sharply attuned to John's reactions.

John grit his teeth again and his jaw flexed.   
"I am agitated. I am very angry. I don't believe that I am not at fault for what happened, but I want to believe whatever I need to believe in order to help Sherlock."

Paul watched him for a moment before speaking again. "John, if Greg felt guilt over your fear of water, and you told him it wasn't his fault -as it clearly isn't- would you be surprised for him to react with anger at the suggestion that he isn't to blame?" 

"Greg doesn't get angry much," was all John could think to say. "I know it's not reasonable for me to be angry. It's not how I should be. I should just go about thinking that the entire time I was punished for nothing." 

He grimaced and shook his head. 

"But that doesn't fit. It doesn't work."

And here was where they had to tread lightly. Paul very carefully picked a thread in the tangled mess and gently began to pull. "You say it doesn't work, can you explain that a little more?"

"It just doesn't fit!" John turned to face Paul with exasperation on his face. "I was told not to eat. I was given food. I ate. I got beaten. It's like putting a caution sign on something! Anyone who touches it anyway and get's hurt deserves it. I was stubborn. He told me to say things about Sherlock. Simple things. I could have just said it. But I didn't and got beaten. Then I was stupid and couldn't answer things right and got beaten. When I did things right, he was really nice, though."

Paul grabbed onto that statement. "Really nice. So, he was like Greg?" Baiting, hoping to spark something, Paul watched John's reaction to putting Greg and Moriarty in the same file. 

John flinched hard and turned abruptly away. 

"No, he...Not nice like Greg. Greg does all the nice things all the time all at once. He gives me food and lets me talk and holds me and gives me tea and blankets and medicine. I'd get one thing with Moriarty. Maybe two, but that was only if I earned it myself. Like..." 

John tried to find an example that he could share without breaking down. 

"I was cold. I was really, really cold. And I was...they'd taken my clothes. And it was cement floors. I felt like I was dying. And he came over and put a heated blanket over me. God, I can't even begin to describe how good it felt. Soft, warm, shielding. I wasn't all visible anymore. And then he took it away and I wept. I did...I hurt myself to get it back. But he took it again once I was warm and it was worse because I had been warm and then I-I was cold again." 

John curled in on himself and grabbed the blanket from the other side of the couch. 

"And it happened a lot and I have scars from trying to earn the blanket. And o-one day I c-couldn't do what he asked and I-I couldn't earn the blanket. So I was lying on the floor and I-I was s-so cold and s-sore and it all h-hurt and my stomach hurt. I remember my stomach hurting and I don't know if it was the no food or the bruises or the cuts or the cold. But then he came in and he had the b-blanket and h-he sat down in his b-big soft chair and I-I wanted the blanket and I-I b-b-begged for it and h-he told me I could come o-over and be warm but I-I couldn't m-move well and it hurt t-to go over but I did it and my knees hurt and I-I got to sit in his lap and b-be warm."   
John worked it out in his mind as he spoke, how horrible it had been, how much he'd wanted to be warm, how sought after that damn blanket had been, and what disgusting things he'd done to escape the cold.

Despite his deep sympathy for the man, Paul pressed forward. "So...this was Moriarty being nice to you? If this was done to Greg, would you call it 'nice?'" 

He kept his voice very quiet, and very gentle, subtly texting Greg to get back as fast as possible, and to bring John's favored blanket with him. 

"No because Greg doesn't deserve it!" John practically shouted it in anger. "I did! If you smile at someone who is good, it's just expected. But if you smile at someone bad, it's being nice. Mercy. Innocent people don't need mercy."

Again Paul pushed, hearing Greg opening the lav door before he was diving into the master bedroom. "Are you describing what Moriarty did as mercy, John?" 

Greg was rushing down the hall, half dressed and bare feet, shirt hanging open and soft cotton trousers on. He swept over to John, immediately wrapping the blanket around him and pulling him into his arms despite John's state of open anger. 

John pressed his face against Greg's bare chest and some of his anger dissipated. "Sometimes he had mercy. Sometimes not." 

John leaned back for a moment and started to fix Greg's shirt. "You alright, love?"

Greg hummed, trying to get a handle on the situation.

Paul pressed forward, glad that Greg's presence had called John down. "So, again, were Greg telling you this story with the blanket, the word that would go through your mind would be 'mercy?'"

John winced. He was still unsure if he wanted Greg to even know that story. "I didn't do anything to deserve a blanket and a place to rest," John muttered. "Greg is different. That wouldn't be mercy because he always deserves a blanket.”

Fierce, protective anger rise up in Greg's chest and he flexed his grip on John. "So do you," he returned in a heavy voice, "so do you."

Paul set a finger to his lip, thinking on it."John," he asked softly, "if I were cold and hurting on the street, but had no way to pay for it, would I deserve a blanket?"

John nodded. "You two deserve it because you did nothing wrong. I was being bad that day. I couldn't do anything he asked but he gave me the blanket and let me sit in the chair with him anyway. It doesn't apply to you or Greg because you deserve mercy."

Greg was going mad. He gathered up John closer to him, Bundling him tighter in the blanket. He began to rock John, one hand on the side of John's face, the other snug around his back.

Paul took a moment to consider his words. "Why was Moriarty owed your behavior, John?"

"I just...I don't know! I know I did stupid things and I was weak and it got me punished. Why will this help Sherlock? What does this have to do with him? I know he wasn't there and that he's innocent and I'm trying to help him! I don't see what this has to do with it!" John scowled at Paul then nuzzled sweetly back onto Greg.

Paul ignored John's question for now, attempting to push past it. "If Moriarty had taken Greg, would Greg owe Moriarty his obedience, John?"

"No," John whimpered and turned away from Paul. "He wouldn't because he's Greg and Greg is a good man."

Pressing forward, Paul carried on in that line.

"So, you were such a terrible man when you were abducted, that you owed a man who murdered blind old woman and held small children at gunpoint your obedience. Is that correct?"

That didn't sound quite right. When he was abducted, he was about to go offer his services in a third world country. 

"I don't think...He wasn't unreasonable," John protested, though he had no idea why he would defend Moriarty. He hated that man. "I did bad things and he punished them. It was...It worked. I don't know. I don't like this."

Greg was doing his best to seemingly pull John inside himself, his own throat tight and burning, arms strong and tense around John in a bid to protect him. 

Paul spoke very quietly then, watching as Greg rocked John, gently touching his skin and keeping him tucked close in the blanket. 

"John, I'd like to explain something to you, if I may. There is a very clear reason for why you are feeling confused and afraid right now. Would you be willing to take your anxiety medicine and then listen to me explain for a moment?"

John gave a small nod and took his pills without hesitation. He felt small, stupid, worthless, and pathetic on the couch, with his arms crossed over his chest and his knees drawn up. 

"Thank you," he whispered to Greg before braving Paul again. "I shouldn't be defending him, should I?'

Paul was sitting closer now, well out of arm's reach but easier for John to see without being forced to unfold from Greg's arms. "John, in this there is nothing you should or shouldn't do. You are not saying anything wrong, you are telling me what you see and understand, that's all. You are not doing anything wrong." 

He waited a moment while Greg ducked down, whispering softly to John that he was safe, that Greg had him and love him, that he was proud of him for working on this. Greg's hand splayed across the side of John's face and he held him in a hug for a few moments before shifting so that John could speak with Paul again. 

"John, when you were being held against your will, you were entirely dependent on Moriarty for everything. Would you agree with that?"

John agreed with the statement wholeheartedly. He'd been helpless. He couldn't have food or water without Moriarty, no blankets or light, no sleep or clothes or communication. Everything good, everything John needed to survive had come from pleasing the psychopath.   
"Yeah," he said roughly. He was dependant on Moriarty, just as he was dependant on Greg. Though Greg sought to give him his independence back, while Moriarty had stripped it away in the first place. 

Paul nodded solemnly. "So, after a while of fighting against him and getting nowhere, you had no choice but to accept that you were going to have to do and say certain things to avoid pain. I don't say _survive_ , John, because I know that was not your intention and I would like for you to know, that _we_ all know deeply, that you'd have preferred death to what you were forced to endure. Would you agree with that?" 

"To avoid pain I had to be what he wanted," John said quietly. "But it wasn't...Moran was worse. He was much worse. He was the mean one. Moriarty wasn't mean. He went by the rules and Moran didn't."

Paul nodded so that John would see he understood. "So, if you were forced to do as Moriarty demanded, and if you did not, you would be harmed...well, that doesn't leave you with very much control, does it?"

John shook his head as best he could with it pressed against Greg. "What's the point of this?" 

He pulled a bit of Greg's shirt to hold to his face, and it swiftly became damp with tears.

Paul kept his voice calm and gentle. 

"When a victim is forced to depend on their captor, John, which is what happened with you -you were his victim, and he was your captor- then what the mind does to protect itself is to frame themselves as responsible for what happened. In your case, you say that had you just been good, you wouldn't have been so hurt. In other words, you are saying you had the power to protect yourself, but _you_ failed. So it's _your fault_ you were so horribly treated. That _you had control_." 

John could not listen any longer. He let out a sob and pulled at Greg's shirt again. 

"I-I tried t-to be good," he lamented and shielded his face from Greg, who he loved, and who he did not want to see his shame. 

"H-He had food and he- oh, God, blankets, and clothing and-" John shook his head. He hadn't wanted food after a while, but he'd always wanted blankets. Something to shield him from the cold and the whip and Moran's roving eyes. John pressed his knees together and bundled some of the blanket around his hips, then pulled an extra layer over his back. 

"Just tell me what I need to do."

Paul backed off, trying to settle John now. "First, I need you to look around and see where you are right now, John. You are in Greg's arms, and you are safe. Under no circumstances is anyone going to hurt you. Let's take a moment to breathe before we say anything else. Focus on where you are." 

John sat back a little so he could look at Greg's face. It was calming to him, and he found comfort in how familiar and loving his Greg always was. "I'm alright," he said after a few minutes. "Let's just get this done."

Paul nodded and began again. "John. Let's put some distance here. I want you to look at Greg and imagine the roles were reversed. So, Greg was tortured, and has been telling you it was his fault, that he was bad, and therefore hurt so terribly. Would you agree?"

"Greg is good," John explained for the thousandth time. 

"He is a good man and it would never be his fault if he were tortured." 

John wasn't sure, but he was certain it would somehow be his doing if Greg was hurt that terribly. 

"I'm sorry," he said, then realized it wouldn't make much sense. 

"You want me to accept that it was not my fault but I can not. It doesn't feel right. Why don't-" he pointed at Paul, "why don't you watch the tapes? I don't care what you think of me. Greg...Greg, don't watch them. But Paul, you watch them then see that I'm right. You'll leave. Greg will protect me if you decide you hate me, but you'll be disgusted and leave." 

He decided just then that he didn't give a damn it Paul hated him, so long as Greg loved him. 

By way of an answer, Paul quietly said to him, "There were no rules given to you, no instructions, no ultimatums before he allowed Moran to rape you, John. Nothing reasonable or possible was asked of you to keep that from happening." 

Greg forced himself not to outwardly react, though he bristled at how abrupt Paul was being. 

"I never saw anything, John, other than a sadistic psychopath tormenting an innocent man." 

"I was given chances to get out of that!" 

John almost shouted and his fingers buried into his hair. 

"It was threatened and I was always able to get out of it with other things! I could-" He held out his arm that had a myriad of scars. He did not specify which ones. 

"I kept him off for months! It's stressful! 'A-Ask for water or I'll let Sherlock come-" John stopped mimicking Moriarty and dropped his head. 

"It was always threatened as Sherlock. I thought it was him. I didn't like it. I did something wrong and Moriarty s-said that h-he was going to l-let Sherlock in and I-I begged him not and said I-I would do whatever he wanted b-but it was the punishment and-and-" 

John couldn't speak anymore, nor could he stand to be stared at by the two men in the room. He slowly extracted himself from Greg's arms and took the blanket with him back into Greg's room, where he stared at the bed for a moment, then curled up on the floor in the corner instead. 

Greg raked his hands through his hair, pinching his eyes tight and propping his elbows on his knees as he rocked forwards and back roughly for a few seconds. 

"Greg," Paul said quietly, but Greg cut him off, suddenly getting to his feet. "Fuck _off_ , Paul!" 

He moved in a rush, bumping his shoulder against the wall as he ran for John. He swept his eyes over the room before finally seeing him in the corner on the floor. 

"John," he breathed, closing the distance between them and slowly going to his knees. He did not touch John, though he was right beside him.   
"Hey...John, it's...you're safe here. You don't have to be on the floor. We can stop talking to Paul, it's alright," he whispered, hands hovering near John, shaking with want to hold him, "please, John, it's okay, everything is going to be alright."

"Why do you give me all the nice things?" 

John's voice was tiny and pained. 

"Why are you so nice to me even when I don't do the things you want? I don't always make you happy. Before I made you sad. And y-you still give me blankets and let me sit on the couch and sleep in the bed." 

John covered his head with his scarred hands and rocked himself lightly. 

Greg curled his hands to his lap and bit at his lip, tears blurring his vision as his heart ached in sympathy for John. He held his breath, trying to keep himself calm. 

"I love you, John. I would never hurt you, you're my best friend. You deserve love and care just because you are John." 

"Greg lets me sleep on a bed," John said to himself and rocked back and forth. His mind had slowly slipped away from him in an attempt to escape Paul's words, and he was left in the raw, childish and emotional state he'd been in when the abuse was still fresh. 

"I'm okay. Free good things." John slowly moved the blanket just enough that he could look at Greg, though he denied himself eye contact. "I don't understand."

Greg slowly eased down to the floor, lying curled on his side in a mirror image of John, head flat to the ground. He spoke very quietly as tears began to slide down his face, heartbroken for John. 

"Yes you do. You just said it. I love you, that's all. You don't have to earn anything, or do anything. You're my friend." 

John began to cry again, with little hitching breaths and his hands over his face. "I feel small," he said and curled up even tighter. 

"These things hurt to talk about a-and I just want to help Sherlock I don't want all this I'm just trying to be a g-good person and it hurts s-so much."

Greg so terribly wanted to reach out and hold on to John. "I am so sorry this hurts, John. I'm so sorry. It's like...like treating a wound, yeah? Sometimes the treatment is painful, but it's not to be cruel, and in the end it will help the hurting person. If you let the wound alone to avoid a painful treatment, the wound gets infected and hurts worse over time. I can't stop it from hurting right now, but I can hold you and remind you it will be okay. I love you, I wish I could take this pain from you John, if I could I would do it in a heartbeat." 

At Greg's affirmation that he wanted to help. John crawled out of his corner and into a tight ball with his face pressed against Greg. "I just wanted to help Sherlock," he whimpered. "That was all. This isn't helping him at all."

Greg shivered in relief as he wrapped John up in his arms, pulling him in close and trying to get him off the hard ground as much as possible. "You have to heal before you can help him. Like a plane heading for a crash, you have to put the mask on yourself before you can help anyone else, or you'll black out. Healing yourself will enable you to help Sherlock." 

_I want you healed, I want to help you. I'll let you go, please just stay a little longer. Just a little longer. I'm not ready._

"It's okay to let yourself heal, John." 

"I shouldn't still be afraid to heal," John whimpered and drew himself closer to his Greg. "I should be alright by now. It's been so long. It's been almost...what? Two years? And I'm still like this! I don't feel like a good person and I don't feel like I deserve your love. I just...He said I have to accept that it wasn't my fault and I didn't deserve it before I can help Sherlock. I feel even more like a bad person because I can't do something that simple to help him."

Greg wrapped his arms around John's back and carefully sat up, pulling John into his lap to protect his body from the floor. He cradled John and his blanket to his chest, shaking his head. 

"No, John, no, you're confusing the timeline. You've been back a little over a year, Sherlock has been back about six months. You have had a scary year back, with several moves, an attack, all sorts of things that have been impossible to deal with. Think of how much healing you've done since being _here_. That's what really counts. It's been steady here, and you've been able to eat, and drink, you can go outside. You are starting to help with the flat. You take care of your dog. It's only been a few months and you've managed all of that! You _got in a car_. You are doing remarkable. Beating yourself up over how long it's taking you to heal isn't something you need to do. You are amazing, I _love you_ , there is nothing you are doing wrong. You don't have to earn love, John. It's free, you already have it. You'll always have it. Even if you decided to shut down and never, ever speak to me again, I'd still love you. I'd be heartbroken, but I would still love you."

It was a lot of information to process at once. He felt as if it had been many, many years since his rescue, and a year simply did not do the journey justice. With a piteous sigh, John opened watery eyes and looked at Greg. 

"I'd never shut down and not speak to you. Well...I mean, not intentionally, and I'll come back if I accidentally go somewhere. I wouldn't ask you to keep helping me if I went comatose forever. I'd want you to move on." He dropped the morose subject and moved on. "Will you tell me the truths that I can not see? Just basic, bullet points that I can write down?"

Greg nodded, "Yes," he answered swiftly. John loved lists, and Greg was going to give him that without hesitation, "Yes, yes, I will do that. Yes. When you are ready. I love you, please know that. Please know that, John." He kept John close to his chest, rocking him slowly. 

His eyes cut over as the door opened slowly. Gladstone came through and then Paul closed the door again, not wanting to intrude. Greg smiled at the dog as he came close, head and ears down, clearly worried as he began to nose at John's shoulder, sniffing and whining quietly.

John turned to look at Gladstone and got a wet nose right in his face. It earned a small smile from him, and John reached out to wrap one arm around his dog. "I'll remember and write it later. I'll remember. I remember that before I didn't see that talking wouldn't hurt me, then Sherlock, then drinking, then food. What are the ones I don't see now?"

Greg watched the wonderful dog reach John where he could not. Gladstone sat, calm and still for John, head warm and heavy right over John's shoulder and neck, shielding him while John carried on rocking John, trying to think. 

"It's...less of _things_ and more...you don't see how wrong Moriarty was, how sick he was, how...wrong. You don't see that he was wrong in every single way. Wrong. He was wrong. That's what you don't see now. If you can get to a place where you can see that, then you'll get to a place where the rest comes with it, I think."

John furrowed his brow and thought hard. "The truth I am not seeing is that Moriarty was wrong. That feels...incredibly contradictory to what is in my mind. It would be like if I told you to jump off the roof because gravity didn't work today." 

Greg nodded, shifting his hold on John and trying to soothe him the best he could. "I know, I know that feels strange. You are not bad, or wrong, for not seeing that right now, okay? That's what we are working on, but this isn't something you have to...to train yourself to see or..." he trailed off, not particularly knowing how to go about this. 

"I'm...John I want you to know how sorry...how sorry I am for..." he cleared his throat and adjusted his hold on John, "I see how much Sherlock hurts you and I- it's made me- I know you're angry for how I-" he inhaled slowly and swallowed his heart back down. 

"I...I know he's hurting, god believe me I know, I _know_. I just...I can't-" he shook his head, trailing off. For a full minute he worked on mastering himself. 

"I don't know what to do. I know I can help you, and I can keep you safe and loved. I know that Sherlock...he gets lost and confused and it hurts you and I've said the wrong things again and again. I'm so sorry, I'm not trying to run your life, I'm trying to protect you, and I should back off. I'm so sorry, John." 

"Greg, I never think badly of you for anything that happens. Honestly, it only makes me feel badly about myself. You have devoted your life to helping me because you are a good man. Do you see that? That you've already devoted a year of your life, given up your job, and been helping me for twenty four hours a day for a year? I _love_ you." 

He slowly came out of his ball and looked up to Greg. If there was one thing that worked without fail to pull John out of a slump, it was the will to help others. He always rose to the occasion with the best of his ability. 

"From what I can see, you and Paul both think that I am not to blame, and that I need to accept that Moriarty was wrong. I don't see that as being true, because I know myself. I know what a bad person I am. But I'm willing to look into it."

Greg shook his head, gathering John close enough that Gladstone had to move. "No, you are not a bad person. You don't know what sort of person you are, because you are nothing close to bad. you're not. You're not. God, I don't- John you are a good man. I don't know how to show you. You're such a good man. Why do you think you're a bad person?"

John avoided the question and tried to mentally correct himself. 

“I need evidence that Moriarty was wrong. I can't just believe you. Please don't be offended by that. I'd like to believe you. I don't _want_ to feel the way I do. I just am having a hard time letting go. I need more...more opinions. Sherlock is smart but biased. Mrs. Hudson would say anything to make me feel better. So would Molly. I don't want Harry to know about this. Mycroft? Could I ask his opinion?" 

John knew that Mycroft was smart. He held an odd reverence for the man's mind, even if he hadn't been intimidated by him much at all. "He doesn't love me. He doesn't care outside of helping Sherlock. I should ask him for more information."

John's words sucked the air out of the room, wounding terribly. He gave John a swift smile as he tried to resume breathing. "You want to ask Mycroft." He nodded, doing his best to remind himself that John was ill, that he didn't know what to do, that it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't his own personal failing, that it-

He reached into his pocket and drew out his mobile, thumbing to Mycroft's number and offering it to John. "If...here call...he'll...you'll..." he cleared his throat for the thousandth time that day and did his best to choke down the hurt, "he'll tell you. He'll tell you." 

John reached out and put his hand over Greg's. For the first time in several days, his eyes seemed to reflect back on the steel blue they had once been as he saw right through Greg. 

"If I could believe you, I would. I don't mean to hurt you by asking for other people's opinion. I love and value what you say very much. I only wish to gather more information. I trust you very much. It's like when I check the temperature of my tea over and over again. I know you wouldn't give me boiling tea. I just get nervous. I don't work right. I'm sorry it hurts you. It was not my intention." 

He kept his hand on Greg's and maintained his gentle, but knowing eye contact. "This says nothing about how much I value your word, and more about how frail my mind is. Please, don't take offense."

Greg wanted to pull away, wanted John to stop looking at him, wanted to get up and shove a pistol to his head and pull the trigger. He'd given up the vestiges of life he had left to care for John and John believed him...what? Capable of caring for someone that was a criminal? What the fuck did John mean with all of this? 

"I...I'm not offended. You...we will do whatever you..you need to do to. Mycroft will tell you and then maybe it will help." 

John took a slow breath and leaned forward to kiss the top of Greg's head. "I'm so sorry, love. I'm just...I won't call Mycroft. That was stupid of me. I should be able to trust the people I have here. I'll just work on it on my own." 

He handed Greg his phone back and sat up. 

"I just have a hard time believing that he wasn't acting with justice. It's a wall. I can feel it. It doesn't feel like my own mind. It feels like his mind. But it's there. It's still there. I can't get rid of it. I just thought it would help...I don't know. I'm not sane, remember?"

Greg pulled the phone back and pressed the call button, clicking the damned thing on speaker so that John could hear everything. The line began to ring as Greg held the mobile in a firm, nearly shaking grip.  
"Love, please, I don't want to upset-" 

"Is this Greg, or John?" Mycroft's voice was not harsh, but it was short. 

"John," he stammered, and tried to sound stronger than he felt. "I was just...I need you to answer a question. I need you to be completely honest and don't bother trying to spare my feelings. I've been given two answers already and I want to see if yours fits."

Mycroft swallowed hard and braced himself for whatever question this could be. 

John continued again. "Did I deserve to be tortured?"

There was an audible rush of air over the line as Mycroft sighed. "Of course not. Though, that you are asking this so long after would indicate that you were made to believe so. You did not deserve what happened in any way."

John gave a curt "Thank you," and hung up the line before Mycroft could speak again.

Greg slid the phone back into his pocked at kept his eyes down to his lap. "I would never...never have taken care of a person like Moriarty. I dedicated my life to taking bad men off the streets." 

He slid his hands together, trying to choke down the fact that John no longer believed him. 

"I have never lied to you," he added, voice wavering. "Will I ever be someone you can implicitly trust, or am I always going to need backup? I just need to know who to keep happy, so that you'll have something safe." 

There was no mockery or anger in his voice. He fully meant it. If he had to carry on playing nice for Mycroft, he would. If he needed to find a way to keep Paul around, he'd do that also.

"Greg, please stop." 

John felt each of his words like a brand deep in his chest. They burned in his mind and in his eyes and he reached out to cup Greg's face. 

"I know you would never harm a soul that didn't deserve it. I know you never helped Moriarty. I know you never would do anything with him ever except kill him. I believe you. I just am having a hard time believing that I didn't deserve this. That's all. That's all I don't know about." 

He leaned forward and kissed his forehead. 

"I do trust you. I trust that you won't burn me with tea. But I still have to check because I'm broken. Does it offend you that I check my tea?"

_Every single time._

"No," he breathed, lying to John for his benefit. He knew John was having a hard time accepting this, and he wasn't trying to rush it. The fact still remained that when a hard truth was put forward, Greg's word was tossed aside, meaningless, worthless. When it mattered, John didn't trust him, didn't believe him. 

Again he was reminded that his worth had nearly run dry. John needed other people, better people. Greg was simply familiar, like the blanket John preferred. It wasn't a remarkable blanket. It was just familiar. It was replaceable, missed for a short time until a new blanket became familiar. 

He could not make himself look at John, though he did stop as requested. "Can...I get..." he trailed off, loathing how fucking _stupid_ he sounded, "get anything for you?"

John could see the pain written on every familiar line of Greg's face and felt them burned into his own heart. 

"Oh, love," he whispered and wrapped Greg up in his arms. He held his Greg close to his chest and put his hand over the side of his head. 

"I am so sorry if anything I do hurts you. It's never for lack of love, or trust. You trust me, don't you? But what if I told you to jump off a building because gravity was turned off, or that you could put your hand in a fire because it was actually quite cold? Wouldn't you hesitate?"

_Yes, but Mycroft's fucking word wouldn't weigh more than yours._

He leaned into John and closed his eyes, doing his best to get himself together. This was exactly part of the problem. John needed comfort, not the other way around, and Greg was making John be a caregiver instead of giving care. He didn't feel ready to say goodbye, but it was looking more and more like what needed to be done. He could not answer John. It wasn't a fair question, and there wasn't a diplomatic answer. At least John seemed to have a better sense of self preservation. Greg likely would pitch himself off a roof if John asked it. He'd lost himself, and invested all he had left in the man. John obviously didn't want that, and he could hardly blame him. 

He pulled back after a moment, forcing himself to get it together. Still he did not look at John, though he tried to offer distraction. "We can watch telly..or I can...read to you. Are you hungry? I'll make you food, or bring cake, or whatever you'd like. You don't have to eat. I just want you to know you can."

John slowly began to rock Greg back and forth for a moment, then ran his fingers back through his hair. "I love you. Could we get in bed for a bit? I'd like to try and comfort you a bit. You matter so much to me. I feel awful about what I'm doing to you. It would make me feel better if I could hold you for a while, or do something else to help you." 

_Stupid John._

John heard the words as clear as if Moriarty had spoken them right behind him. John flinched hard and his grip tightened on Greg. 

_What did I tell you?_

John couldn't see him, but he could imagine. He could imagine the smug look on his tormentor's face. 

_Look at you, hurting your poor Greg. He's ready to die, you know. You've driven him to suicide. He was so alright with it when he thought you were asking him to die. Could you possibly be any more pathetic? You deserve this. You deserve to come back to me. Find one of my apprentices. Get yourself punished. You deserve that. You deserve everything I did to you. Now you deserve more. Look at Greg._

John did as he was told and his attention snapped to Greg. "Help," he whispered, as if Moriarty would hear him and begin to shout.

Greg sat up quickly, his heart plunging into his legs as John suddenly tensed and called for help. He pulled John into his arms, wrapping him up tight. "You're okay," he said swiftly, holding John close and rocking him, "you're safe. You're safe. Just you and I here." He pulled John's blanket around him, gathering him into his lap. "Just you and I here. You're safe. You are safe. Breathe, John, please breathe." 

_He's not going to listen. Call in Paul, or ring Mycroft. Something, anything other than you!_

Greg choked down the tears and carried on trying to comfort John. "You're safe, I promise you're safe. Nothing bad is happening." 

John was relieved to hear that nothing was actually happening to him, and he closed his eyes tight. "Alright. Alright. I just-"

_You just what, John? Just hear me again? Oh, isn't that wonderful. I'm still here, you know. I'm riding shotgun in your brain. And as long as I'm here, I can keep hurting anyone I like through you._

John fought against that. Moriarty had always said such things. He'd always promised him that nobody would love him, and that he'd hurt everyone he came in contact with. 

"Greg," he gasped, in sorrow and grief but not fear. "He's hurting m-me. He's hurting me, Greg." 

Tears poured down his face and John doubled over on himself. "S-Saying things I-I...I don't know what to do."

Greg shook his head, gathering John closer. "No, he isn't. He's not talking to you, John. He's dead. That's fear in your head, that's fear of knowing he was wrong. That's fear of knowing the truth. It's not him. He can't talk. Whatever you are hearing is a lie, John. It's a lie. Look at me," he finally pulled his focus to John's face, "whatever you hear isn't real. It's not real. He's not with you. He isn't talking to you. That's your brain trying to cope, that's all. It's not real."

John whimpered and latched onto Greg's face. He stared at the chocolate eyes and the nice way his hair looked today. 

"Not real, n-not real not r-real. H-He's dead. He's dead. I'm safe. But...But it feels bad, Greg. It feels really bad to me. It feels bad. He says I'm just hurting everyone! I am! I'm just hurting everyone! Why the fuck am I still alive? Why haven't I just died yet? All I fucking do is hurt people!" 

John covered his face and dug his fingernails into his scalp. He was frustrated with himself, anxious, and still very frail emotionally from his talk with Paul. 

"Why? You would be better off if I'd died in the ambulance away from the warehouse in the first place! Everyone would be better off if I died years ago! Why am I still here? _What the fuck is the point of me?"_

Greg shook his head, taking one of John's hands from his hair, the other of his own occupied with keeping John supported as he rocked him.   
"You are not hurting everyone! Everyone is hurting, but it's not your fault. Those are two different things. If you died in the ambulance Sherlock would have killed himself, I would likely be dead, everything would be worse. Don't listen to those lies, John. That's all they are, lies." 

"Why would you be dead?" 

John found that confusing. He believed himself to be the sole reason of Greg's grief. He was hurting everyone with Moriarty calling the shots even after he was dead. 

"You...I mean, I wouldn't have ruined you if you hadn't helped me. If I had just died it would have b-been over! Less pain for everyone involved!" 

John was nearly mad with grief and he jerked his hands away so he could dig his fingernails back into his scalp.

Greg caught them right back, shaking his head. 

"I was ready to blow my head off before we found you, John. Christ, I don't know how else to explain how devastating losing my family has been. I've selfishly been able to help you, and I'd have been lost without that drive. I'd have lost it if you had died and we...god if we found you and you died in pain like that, thinking none of us cared...how would we get past that? No, John, god no. If you had died, everything would be worse." 

John whimpered once more and let out a sharp sound of distress. 

"You...jesus, why didn't you ever get help? Sherlock and I would have been your family. Hell, Mrs. Hudson would have adopted you! We all love you so very much." 

John sat up and took Greg's face between his hands. With the focus away from himself, John was able to push his blinding self hatred to the side and comfort his love. 

"Can I hold you? I won't hurt you. I promise. I will do everything in my power to be a better man for you. I'll believe you better. I'll stop listening to Moran. Please, let me try and make you happy."

Again the possibility of _happy_ seemed utterly impossible. Had they just been calm and eating sodding _cake_ the day before? 

It had been a lie, that life. 

This was real. 

This was familiar and real and oh god was he tired. The idea of John and Sherlock taking him in before all of this was laughable, surely John could see that lie for what it was. They may not have been in a sexual relationship, but Sherlock and John were like a married couple. Sherlock would have snarked him off, and John would have stood at Sherlock’s side, embarrassed and shaking his head, but doing nothing to counter it. Mrs. Hudson and Greg had no relationship outside of Greg's aid to Sherlock. 

"Yeah we... we can lie down if you want," Greg said quietly, cold and lightly shivering with stress. 

John stood up and led Greg to the bed. As John liked to know how things went, liked to have them neatly written and understood when he was done, he tried to summarize.   
"I still feel responsible for hurting you, I feel like I deserve this, I am still confused about how to not believe Moriarty, I am questioning why I exist, you've been suicidal for years, Sherlock is wasting away probably waiting to die, I can't help him whatsoever, and...what? Is that it?"

Greg sat down on the edge of the bed and dropped his face into his hands, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. A few slow, deep breaths later he spoke from that position. 

"That's what you see, yeah. I don't know what you want me to tell you. You can help Sherlock. You won't always believe Moriarty. You're not responsible for how I feel. You don't deserve..." he stopped abruptly, dropping his hands and looking to John, "this? You...is...am I hurting you?" 

He looked back down at himself as though he'd find evidence of his wrongdoing. "I..I can leave you alone if...m-maybe Paul would be better at- I didn't mean to hurt-" 

He looked away as his lip trembled and he swallowed around the boulder lodged in his throat.

John wouldn't have acknowledged Greg hurting him even if he was actively cutting him with knives. But he couldn't see how anything Greg had ever done was bad, and didn't see how Greg could think he was to blame. 

"Please lie down with me," he whispered and tentatively opened his arms. "I feel terrible. I need to be held. I'm on the edge of a breakdown and I feel like I'm tipping and I don't want to cry any more." 

_Because it hurts you._

Greg moved so that John couldn't see his face, scooting further back on the bed and wrapping John in his arms very gently, though he didn't know why John wanted him there. He'd taken John's evasion of the question as a screaming _yes_. He did not hold John tight, sure that John was going to pull away or cry, braced for screaming. 

Yesterday John had smiled and thanked him for keeping him alive, today he was begging Greg to stop making him cry. He closed his eyes, breathing shallow and swift in an attempt to keep from breaking down, hoping that he could stop fucking up long enough for John to fall asleep. 

John was holding his breath to keep from crying in bitter, bitter agony. There were many things weighing on him, and he swiftly made a list in his mind. 

_I am hurting Greg.  
Moriarty still controls me.   
Moriarty still hurts me.   
Sherlock is hurting.  
Greg was suicidal.   
Greg _is suicidal.   
I deserve my torture.   
I did not deserve my torture.   
I am confused.   
I am hurting Greg.   
I am hurting Greg.   
I am hurting Greg badly.   
I shouldn't be alive anymore.   
I should just die.   
I can not die.   
I can not leave.  
I have people I need to stay for.  
I don't want to die.  
I want to be happy.   
I want Greg to be happy.   
I make Greg sad.   
I want Greg not to be sad more than I want to live.   
If I die I will hurt him even more.   
If I stay I will continue to hurt him.  
I want to not hurt him.   
I need to leave Greg.

Greg lay there, slowly rubbing John's back, doing what he could to comfort him. He could tell John's breathing was off, but severely doubted that his words would do anything more than hurt. He adjusted the blankets around John and pulled him in closer, moving very tentatively, afraid he'd set John off.

John suddenly began to weep, open and frantic, and practically climbed Greg in a desperate bid to get closer. He toppled him backwards and wrapped his arms around his neck, threw one leg over his hip, and pressed his face against his neck. 

"L-L-L-Love y-y-you," he sobbed desperately, "I-I-I love y-y-y-you s-so-so m-much!"

Even the idea of leaving Greg was nearly traumatic. He couldn't fathom it. He knew he could not die, as it would only drag Sherlock and Greg into the grave as well, but he was simply not doing anything right for Greg. He was hurting him too much. So, dripping with self loathing, John began to prepare himself for asking Mycroft and Paul to arrange something for him.

Greg wrapped John tight in his arms and holding him there, rubbing his back and doing his best to soothe John. 

"Hey, hey," he whispered, trying to talk over John's crying, "it's okay, John. You're alright, it's going to be alright. Breathe, love, you're okay," he repeated, shifting so that he could better wrap John in close to him. 

"It's okay, John. I've got you. It's okay." 

John decided that he would have to go to Mycroft's. 

He would have to go and wait until he sorted things out and stopped being such a fucking retarded dick. He would have to lose the most important thing in his entire life if he wanted to protect it. John let out an agonized wail of sheer horror and pressed his face to the side of Greg's. He sank his fingers in Greg's hair and held on as his entire body shook with sobs and a sudden wave of nausea. 

"L-L-Lo-lo-o-o-ove y-y-y-" John cried out in fear and pain and resolved that he would keep himself away until he learned how to not hurt people. He'd figure out everything Paul had told him to.

Greg turned them so that they both had their sides to the bed, wrapping John's blanket around him tighter and taking John's face in his hands. "John. Slow down. Breathe," he instructed, determined to help him, "I love you, too. We are safe. We are home. Take a deep breath, John, everything is okay. You're safe. I love you, John. I've got you. Listen to me, okay? Listen. You are safe. We're okay. I love you." 

John lost himself to the pain of it and he sobbed until his voice was raw. When he had recovered, or rather, when he had exhausted himself, he lay shivering and clinging to Greg. Each time he began to remember what he had resolved to do, he broke down in fresh tears again. This went on for nearly two hours until he finally dropped off into an exhausted sleep without warning.

Greg was exhausted by the time John finally fell asleep. He swept shaking fingers through John's overly long hair to keep the locks off his damp forehead. Carefully he arranged John into a more comfortable position, still keeping a tight hold of him as he allowed his own eyes to close. Slowly he drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep as well, his scattered dreams unpleasant. 

It was early in the morning that John woke, and for the first few seconds he was blissfully unaware. Then, like a punch to the stomach he remembered what he had decided to do and began to weep again.

Greg jerked lightly and woke when he heard John begin to cry. "John," he whispered in quiet concern, tightening his arms around the man. "Hey....hey...I'm right here, you're okay. I love you. Did you have a dream?"

John could imagine it. Waking up alone. Cold. Silent. He could picture waking up in panic to an empty room and having to sort it out on his own. He could see himself alone and scared, but that was what his twisted mind had decided needed to be done. He needed to stop hurting Greg, and he needed to do so soon. 

Still, despite his desire for calm, he cried in earnest and clutched Greg with intention to warm himself as much as he could with his love before bracing the icy waters ahead. 

"N-N-Not a-a d-d-d-dr-dr-dream," he managed in a low voice.

Greg frowned as he held John as tight as he could. He began to rock them, still heavy with sleep and terribly confused. 

"Take a few deep breaths, love. We're okay. Everything's okay. We are home and safe. Gladstone is here. I can make you something nice to eat and we can watch a show? You don't have to talk to Paul. We can just relax, everything is alright. Breathe for me, John." 

He trailed his fingers through John's hair again and again, doing what he could to settle him.

John whimpered pathetically and kissed Greg desperately. 

"S-So-sorry," he breathed and did everything in his power to calm. "L-Let's go t-t-to the couch and h-have breakfast. S-Sorry. I-I'm okay."

Greg sat up with John in his arms, hugging him and not at all interested in bringing John anywhere near hot metal or boiling water. "I'll ask Paul to bring us breakfast in here. Will you take your medicine? Maybe that will help. Oh, John, I'm so sorry you are still so upset. The day will settle, we will just take it easy today. Let's take your meds, yeah?" 

"Y-You know I-I love you, right?" John whispered the hesitant question into the side of Greg's neck, where he had pressed his face so he could feel the warmth of his skin. "That w-won't ever change."  
A slow burn of worry began to seriously settle in at John's odd behavior. Greg pressed his splayed hand to John's back, pulling him in closer. 

"Yeah John, I know. Same for me, right? I love you, you know that? We are okay, John. Let me get your medicine and help you calm down, it's going to be okay." 

He started to rock John very slowly again, looking over to the table of meds and desperately wanting to give them to John, who was so obviously suffering. 

"I need a lot today," John whispered. "As much as I can take without getting foggy." 

He looked wrecked, with his eyes full of tears so early in the day, his hands holding little fistfuls of Greg's shirt, and his lower lip trembling despite his efforts.

Greg nodded, quite agreeing with that. He covered John's hands on his shirt and then leaned over to the dresser to grab up the little collection of John's daily medication, including pain and anxiety. He tipped the pills into John's palm and then gathered him back in close, holding him tight. 

"Just try and relax, John. We are okay. You're okay. It's going to be fine, truly it is." 

John agreed with him, but there was a morose look on his face while he took his pills. 

"It's going to be okay, but it's going to hurt a lot first." 

He'd decided that he would give himself one day to sort things out, and if he could not believe the things Paul said he needed to, and he couldn't trust Greg as he knew he should, then he would leave his haven here and remove himself from the painful equation to work it out on his own.

Greg did not at all like the way John was talking. He pulled John back onto the bed properly, wrapping him up so that John's back was to his chest, Greg's back to the wall, facing the telly. 

"I love you, let's just watch something and spend the day relaxing. I am so sorry yesterday was so upsetting, I really am. We don't have to talk about that today. Let's just settle." 

He wanted to rewind, to go back to cake and sunny walks and peace. This was frightening him deeply. He clutched at the material at the center of John's chest and held tight. 

John laid a hand over Greg's and slowed his breathing. He would focus on this day. He would do things right and work it out. "If M-Moriarty was wrong and I did not deserve it, why do I feel so strongly that I do?"

Greg drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, not wanting to talk about this anymore. 

"I...I think because he worked so hard to make you believe that. If he managed to make you believe all those other things, and Paul said it was normal for people in your position to blame themselves anyhow, that...that it's really not surprising. It's scary to think you didn't deserve it, for you, I think? Like...that possibility is too frightening to believe so...so I think that's why." 

With a pensive look about his morose face, John tried to test that idea in his mind. He took the fear and pain, the blame he felt on himself, and tried to imagine that it wasn't his fault, just as he'd tried to imagine that Sherlock wasn't to blame.

But he'd never wanted Sherlock to beat him in the first place. He'd so desperately wanted that to be fake that it was easier to disprove. John's self hatred hadn't started with the torture, and this issue ran deep. "Hurts," he whispered. 

"It hurts t-to consider that. Feels wrong."

Greg nodded, rocking John slowly and trying to derail the conversation. 

"I understand. I don't know how to make it easier or hurt less. I love you, I'm sorry this is happening to you, John." 

What more could he do? John didn't trust his word, didn't believe Greg's efforts to explain, needed other people than him for this apparently. Uselessness settled over him like a thick fog, and his heart slowly sank low and heavy. 

"I'm so very sorry."

"What do I do? I-I need to get r-rid of this. I need it gone. I n-need to not be so afraid and I can't keep blaming myself because it hurts you." 

John's voice cracked at the last two words and his eyes fell away from Greg's beautiful face to stare at the sheets instead.

"You need it gone because it hurts _you_ , John," Greg countered very quietly. Greg wanted John to have peace above all else, and was willing to do whatever John needed. 

"I don't know what more to do, I'm so sorry. Paul can help, we can get with Paul." 

John did not want to talk to Paul. Never once had he made it through a session with that man without hurting Greg. But if that was what he needed to do to help his Greg, he would. 

"Okay. Ask Paul. I don't...I don't want to hurt you anymore."

Greg shook his head. "Please, John. You don't hurt me on purpose, I'm being absurdly thin skinned. Let's just relax today, yeah? We can just stay like this and relax. Everything is okay." 

He swept his fingers through John's hair and rocked him, trying to keep him close and calm. 

"You're the most beautiful human being on the entire earth," John whimpered. He felt like a monster. He was crushing a beautiful flower, spray painting over a magnificent painting, and taking a sledgehammer to Greek marble. 

"We'll do whatever you want, and I'll be happy because of it."

 

Greg was growing more and more concerned. "John...are you...what's going on? I know you're upset from yesterday..."

He moved John so that he could see him. "Please John, tell me what you're thinking. I'm worried."  
John looked into the eyes of the man who had saved him and began to severely doubt his resolve. 

"I just want to do what is best for you, and I want to resolve the things that Paul has said. They feel about as wrong as Sherlock being innocent did at first. I'll learn though. Just give me a bit of time. I'm going to be alright. I just...I love you so much." 

He broke at that and his chest burned with pain. "I-I just l-love you so much."

Greg's brow knit as he pulled John back in close to him. "I love you, John. I wasn't asking you to simply accept those things right this minute. We are working on them, that's...that's all." 

He ran his fingers through John's hair while his own heart raced, deeply, deeply worried over what he was missing. Clearly something more than this was going on. 

"Do...you want me to...I'll step away if you want to speak privately with Paul..."

John flinched when Greg suggested stepping away and he nuzzled the side of his face with his own. 

"I think that might be for the best, love. If you wouldn't mind." 

Tears forced their way down his cheeks and John trembled with the force it took for him to not break down and beg Greg to forgive him.

"Oh...ah...alright," Greg said quietly. He turned and kissed the side of John's head, "I'll...go get him." 

For several seconds he could not move, all while his heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was just trying to give John options, though admittedly he'd not expected John to ask him to leave. Abruptly he stood up, turning his face away so John couldn't see the tears at his eyes, and walked out into the hall to seek out the man. 

Paul was in the kitchen and turned with a smile to greet them, blinking in surprise at only finding Greg, who looked on the verge of breaking down. 

"Is John alright?" He asked immediately, dropping his breakfast, prepared to run if need be. Greg nodded to assure him that John was. 

"Asked me to go...wants...wants to talk to you." 

Paul nodded his understanding then, brushing off his hands and heading down the hall, "Eat something, I'll have a talk with him." 

He patted Greg on the back as he walked to John's room, knocking lightly on the door frame and looking inside. "John? You wanted to speak with me?" 

John couldn't watch Greg walk out the door. He pressed his face into the pillow below him and sobbed in open grief until he heard Paul speak. When he looked up, he let out a whine. 

"I need h-help," he gasped and sat up just enough to be taken seriously. 

"I just...I am hurting Greg. You knew him before. He's suicidal. He's ruined. I can't die. If I die, he'll be sad. And I don't want to die. But I can't continue hurting him b-because it makes m-me feel like a bad person, and then I f-feel like I deserved what happened which in t-turn makes him sad and it just...And If I-I'm ever going to help Sherlock y-you said I need to fix that and each t-time I hurt him I-I-I just have so much _hate_." 

He touched his chest and began to slowly dig his fingernails into his skin. "I can't g-get better while I-I'm h-hurting Greg, so...s-s-so I-I...I n-need to leave."

Paul stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He took a chair right beside the door, allowing John space. For a moment he was quiet, processing John's surprisingly logical thought process. He wasn't asking to die, he was asking to relocate in order to heal. 

"Greg...is holding your progress back at this point, it sounds like," he said quietly, gauging John's reaction to that. 

John shook his head and tears splashed onto the blankets around him. 

"It's me. My fault. I-I'm not handling things well. I-If I weren't hurting h-him I wouldn't f-feel so bad and m-maybe I-I'd be able to improve. B-But I'm n-not good enough to n-not hurt him s-so I have to go away." 

He pressed his hand over his face and tried not to cry as hard as he was. "This is very difficult for me. I don't like this choice. If it's stupid, t-tell me. Please."

Paul took a moment to think. 

"John, it is not your fault that Greg feels pain alongside you. There is nothing wrong in that, you are not doing anything wrong in that. He can hurt with you, and it's not detrimental to him. That said, if you seeing him hurting with you causes you to believe you deserve pain and maltreatment...that is a problem. A very real problem. I can see that this is difficult for you. Where would you want to go instead of here?"

John turned his face away. 

"I-I-I'm ashamed of m-myself. I should not be this fragile. I-I'm a grown man. I just...Paul, it hurts so bad when I hurt him. Everything I do...Every time I hurt him I have the honest desire to c-carve into my own skin. That c-can't be healthy. Each t-time I do something wrong it j-just validates that I-I deserved what happened. If I-I don't g-get rid of that I'll never be able to give him and Sherlock a g-good life." 

In answer to where he needed to go, John could not think of only one place that would be safe, and it was not somewhere he actually wanted to go. "I c-can't go h-home. I n-need to go to M-Mycroft's."

Given the way John was speaking, Paul could hardly argue with that idea. "You're very brave to have looked at this so clearly, John. You're correct, it's not healthy. I don't see how you could hope to heal if that's how you've been feeling around him. Mycroft's home is very safe, and of course, large enough that you would never have to see Sherlock. I will go with you, so that you will not be alone, and Gladstone obviously would come along as well." 

He took a moment, watching John as he pulled his mobile from his pocket. "Would you prefer to be sedated, John? And do you want to say goodbye?"

John almost lost his resolve when Paul suggested he say goodbye. He grit his teeth in pain and let out a sharp cry of intense grief. 

"D-Don't want to," he said in a childish voice so contrary to his thought out plan of before. "I don't.. _Greg_!" 

Even though he was so intensely determined to leave, he still needed Greg for comfort. John scrambled out of bed, out the hall, and dropped to his knees in front of Greg. He doubled over on the ground and reached out one trembling hand to Greg. Completely unable to articulate, John simply sobbed and hoped Greg would help him.

"John!" Greg got up from his chair so fast it toppled, clattering to the floor as Greg went to his knees, gathering John to him and holding him tight. 

"John, what happened? Are you alright, what-" he cut off, pulling John into his lap there on the floor and wrapping him tight against his chest, one hand splayed across the side of John's head. 

"John, John what's going on? What happened?"

John soaked up every bit of warmth he could from Greg as he sobbed openly. 

"I-I-I-I'm...I-" He couldn't put it into words, it was so horrific. What would Greg think? He already had a wife leave him. He'd lost his family before. How would he cope alone? What would he do all day now that he had no job? Icy shards of self loathing barbed into John's chest and he wept. He couldn't stay. He couldn't hurt Greg anymore. Not if he ever wanted to help him and Sherlock. 

"I-I-I-I'm-I'm...I-I'm l-l-leaving."

Greg's sense of time and space zeroed down to nothing. He could hear himself breathing, aware of each beat of his heart. Paul had entered the kitchen and hung back, already speaking to someone on the phone. Greg looked up to Paul and then to the dog sitting back, focused on John. 

Who was _leaving_?

"Wait...wait...what do...what are you...d-don't be ridiculous why- you're...wait, _wait_...I don't- why would-" his voice cracked, watching as Paul turned his back and began to walk away, still on the phone, obviously making arrangements. 

"John no, why...where....I don't understand!" 

John heard the pain in Greg's voice and let out a mournful cry. 

"S-S-Sorry! I'm I-I-I-" His stomach rolled and he let out a morose scream. He couldn't go through with this. But he had to. He absolutely had to. 

"I-I keep h-hurting y-y-you! I c-can't...I deserve it when I-I hurt you a-a-and I...P-Please don't h-h-hate m-m-me! PLEASE! PLEASE!" 

John twisted so he could wrap his legs around Greg's waist and hang on to his neck. 

"N-N-Not..Not...not f-f-forever I-I just..I just..I c-can't..." John let out another ear piercing scream and his entire body trembled in intense grief.

Greg was oblivious to the tears flooding down his cheeks, clutching to John as the man screamed. 

"You don't have to leave! You're not hurting me, not...not on purpose and nothing I can't handle! John you don't have to leave, oh god I d-don't want you to leave! John...John what did I do? I'm so sorry, tell me what I did and I swear I'll fix it!" 

He was nearly in hysterics, knuckles blanched with the force of his grip.

John took nearly ten minutes to calm himself before he managed to speak again. 

"I-I a-a-am s-s-so sorry! I c-can't! I c-c-can't! I-" 

How could he go against what Greg was asking? How could he possibly be causing Greg this much pain? John looked around and abruptly shouted for Paul. He couldn't explain this to Greg, but he'd done a good job of it to Paul.

Greg was bordering unconsciousness, and when John began screaming for Paul he let him go, hyperventilating in the shock of it.

Paul was there shortly, hanging up his call and crouching down beside the man, putting a hand on Greg's shoulder to steady him. He looked to John and nodded, understanding what he needed.

"Greg...John can't heal properly here. Your pain reinforces the idea that he deserves to be tortured. You've done amazing work with him, and now it's time for you to rest."

Greg's heart nearly stopped. Crushed under immense self loathing, he could not bear to look at either of them, openly sobbing now. He started down at the floor, trembling head to toe, and whispered, "I'm s-sorry."

The black spots that threatened John's vision kept him from properly viewing his Greg, his love, and John took deep breaths to try and clear them. Several attempts to speak left him with nothing but a sore throat. Eventually he stopped trying. 

John held on to Greg's shirt and pressed himself against his chest. It was horrifying to be let go and he grabbed one of Greg's arms and pulled it over his chest like a seat belt. "I-I-I'm s-s-s-sorry! I didn't...I don't w-want to...I'm just hurting and...I h-hurt y-you! I h-hurt you! I w-want to c-c-carve m-m-my s-skin o-open and h-h-hurt m-myself b-because I-I-I deserve it!"

Greg pulled John to him for a moment, his breathing wrecked, sobbing as though he'd just watched John die. He held him close, rocking them and pressing a lingering, hysterical, tear-soaked kiss to the side of John's head right at his temple. 

"Y-You don't....don't deserve...d-deserve that, John, you don't deserve t-to feel that. I'm...g-god I'm sorry I did this, I...I'm s-so...so sorry I did this to you. Always...please al-always know that I...I love you and I n-never meant to cause you pain." 

In the next moment he was easing himself up, letting go of John and handing him over to Paul. He stumbled out of the kitchen, bracing a hand along the wall as he made his way to their room. While Paul worked to calm John down, Greg staggered in a daze around the room, packing John's things away in a numb void. 

John followed Greg with stumbling steps and fell to his knees beside Greg once more. 

"H-Help, please. G-Greg, stop. Please s-s-st-stop. Come h-hold me. I didn't m-m-mean to h-hurt you. I n-need t-time to l-l-learn that it w-w-w-wasn't...wasn't...m-my fault because...But if I-I stay I'll keep h-hating myself and I-I can't k-keep hurting you! I can't! I-I'll c-come back when I-I'm better!"

Greg finished unloading the last of John's things into a bag, selfishly leaving one of John's shirts behind. He set the bag on the bed and added John's medicine to the top before going to the cd player. With hands shaking so hard it took him several tries, he managed to pop the disk of Sherlock's music out, returning it to the case and adding that as well. He did not pack John's blanket, sure that he'd want it physically around him for the ride. 

Finally he turned back to look at John, sitting down on the floor without reaching for him, his arms wrapped tight around himself. 

_I'm not ready._

"I..." his voice broke and he watched brilliant, gold lights explode along his vision, forcing him to lean back against the bed. "I..." he couldn't get the words out, covering his face with freezing hands. 

_If I stay I'll keep hating myself._ He was making John hate himself. 

All of this effort, and the end result was this. He nearly laughed at the pathetic hope he'd had from several days before, the idea he had in his head that he was _helping_ , for god's sake. 

"You h-have to go. You're right, you n-need to go where...where you don't f-feel..." a sob ripped his words away and he sank his fingers into his hair, pulling until some of the roots began to snap free. "P-Paul will help you, and you'll...M-Miller is there and...y-you'll do better. It...y-you have to go where I can’t hurt you anymore." 

John watched Greg go about his packing and curled up on the ground. He sobbed desperately into his hands and was tempted to just bash his head against the floor until he bled. How would he survive without Greg? He'd transferred his dependency from Moriarty to Greg, and become so painfully attached that he could hardly stand waiting while Greg showered. What would he do at night? He was yet to sleep on his own. Not once since his capture had John slept anywhere but Greg's arms without being sedated. Did this mean he'd never sleep again? And what of nightmares? What of fear? Surely, he couldn't eat without Greg there to be his emotional rock. He'd need a feeding tube again. He'd need to be sedated. He'd need constant medication. 

John pressed his forehead against the floor and ground his teeth. "PLEASE!" John pressed his face down again and covered the back of his head with his hands. He tore at his hair and, just once, allowed himself to strike his head down on the floor. 

_Stupid John! Stupid worthless John!_

John screamed through his teeth and pulled his hair. "SORRY! I-I-I'M J-JUST TRYING TO HELP YOU! PLEASE, GREG!"  
Greg moved forward, grabbing John up off the floor when he started to hurt himself. He hauled him into his lap and rocked him as he pressed a hand over the reddening bump over his forehead. He had no idea what John wanted from him. John decided on his own to leave, had ignored his pleas to stay, and confessed that Greg made him hate himself. What was he to do? 

Paul walked into the room after packing Gladstone's effects, which sat by the door. There was a car on it's way, sent by Miller and Mycroft. He watched as Greg clutched to John, dazed and in panicked tears. 

"I m-make you...h-hate yourself. Make you...w-want to cut your own s-skin..." Greg whispered in numb shock, horrified that he'd never know what he'd been doing to John. "You sh-shouldn't be helping me, you...you should r-run as fast as you can. Paul will...will help you. I'm...I'm hurting you. I'm not...n-not angry, John. I love you. I'm...g-god how I'm going to miss..." his throat closed off and he shook his head, looking to Paul in twisting, intolerable agony. 

"You...you don't l-leave him. N-Not ever. Do you understand? He...H-He only l-likes toast and e-eggs. F-Fruit on good d-days. Just...n-never leave him. Promise...promise me you won't l-leave him." His grip had gone nearly painfully tight on John, his own head splitting with throbbing pain. 

Paul nodded solemnly and came in closer, crouching and putting a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll never leave him. I swear it. This is for the best, given the situation." 

John winced as he was squeezed and shook his head against Greg's goodbye.

"No, no, not like that! It's not like that! I-I-I hate m-myself f-f-for what I do to you and I-I'm removing myself until I can do better. That's all. I-I'll come back. I-" John was struck with a horrifying notion and he suddenly clutched Greg with a shaking grip. 

"Y-You'd b-better be here when I-I g-get back o-or I'll n-n-not live the hour." He did not want to use his own death as a threat, but there was no possible way he would live if he came back to find he had caused Greg to take his own life. He would simply drop dead. He'd take all the pills he could find, slit his wrists and tie a rope around his throat. Something would work. 

John swatted at Paul's hand and bared his teeth. He did not want to be touched by anyone but Greg. He decided then and there that he was not a gentle sort of man. He was violent and he had nothing to lose. If someone he did not like touched him, he would do everything in his power to kill them regardless of who they might be. 

Even the potential loss of Greg was making him feel defensive, like a dog on a tight leash. He knew he could not take flight, freezing did nothing, and now that he had no protection, he would simply fight. 

"I'm g-g-going t-t-to c-c-come b-back and I-I-I'll b-b-be better and...and I won't h-hurt you anymore. I won't. I-I swear. I promise." 

He sat up and stared at Greg for a moment before kissing him with tears falling down his face. He held on tight and absolutely refused to let go.

Greg shook his head. "This...this isn't for me, John. You don't need to be better to stay with me. This is not for m-my benefit. I don't want this at all. Not at all. But I...I m-make you hurt yourself. I make you believe you deserved..." god, the reality was crushing. Just crushing. That he'd personally been the hangup for John, that he'd been blocking progress...it was intolerable.   
"I know y-you don't want this," John whispered. That was part of the reason why it hurt so terribly. He was well aware that Greg didn't want it. He knew it was hurting him. He knew that it would leave Greg suicidal. 

But he had to go, because he could not hurt Greg one more time and keep his sanity. He could not make progress towards believing his innocence if he kept feeling so guilty. 

"I w-w-want P-Paul to stay w-with you," John said softly. "B-Because..." _Because I don't want you to be cold and dead when I see you next. I don't want this to be the last time you hold me. I don't want to never see you smile again. I need to hear that you love me. I need to hear you laugh. I need to have lazy days with you. I don't want to see you lifeless on a slab._ "Because I-I need you."

Greg shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. No. You need Paul, how can you possibly heal without Paul. No." He shivered and drew in a sharp breath. 

This was killing him. 

"If y-you're leaving, I n-need you to go. I'm so sorry. I love you. I don't want you to leave. You don't cause me pain I can't handle. I am so sorry I failed to-" his words broke off and he shook his head, unable to finish. "I love you. If you're going, p-please just go." 

John knew it was his choice, and he could call it off, but it still didn't stop the sense of impending doom. He felt as if he was being ripped in half, separated from something so clearly a part of his body. 

"P-Paul will s-stay with you. I will n-not negotiate on that. I-I will c-come b-back and stop h-hurting you so I-I can know that I-I'm innocent so I can help better. I need t-to go but..." 

God, it was too soon. Far too soon. He'd only just came up with the idea and now he was being swifted away.

"A-And y-you won't k-kill yourself. P-P-Please p-promise m-me that! Y-You can't...I-I'm g-going to live w-with you the r-rest of my life, r-remember?"

Greg shook his head. "Paul is not staying here. I will leave, and this flat will be empty, if you insist on him staying with me. It's not happening. You can't heal if you don't have help, you won't be able to sort it alone. I won't fucking kill myself." 

He let go of John, gently pushing him from his lap, "Go. Let Paul sedate you so the c-car doesn't scare you. Here," he said quietly as he pulled John's blanket from the bed and fanned it out around his shoulders, "just...just be...just know I l-love you." 

John fought against Greg when he was pushed away and grabbed onto his hands as if hurt. "Now? I can't g-go now! I haven't...This w-w-was s-supposed t-to be planned! I-I need t-t-time! I- oh, God..." Being sedated without Greg there felt like falling asleep in a wolf's den. 

John kissed Greg again, this time desperately, seeking comfort and love and affection he knew he would not get once he was gone.

Greg nearly screamed. What the fuck did John think? Telling Greg goodbye, watching Greg pack his things. What did he want? 

"I...what do you _want_ , John? Tell me what you want I don't understand. What time...what...I don't understand!"

"I j-just..." John was in full panic now. His heart thundered in his chest which heaved from short breath. He'd wanted it to not go like this. He wanted to leave, but he'd never thought about a time frame. He'd never considered it would be right then. He'd never even gave thought to a car ride. 

"I'm..I'll go," he said through the lump in his throat. "I'll go. I'm s-s-sorry. C-Can I at l-least have one of y-your shirts, or...N-Never mind, I'll just...I'll..." John could not stop the heavy sobs that took hold of his voice and twisted it into devastated cries of distress.

Greg's fingers were shaking terribly as he began to unbutton the shirt he was wearing. 

"Y-You don't have to go! I...g-god I don't..." he shook his head, dragging the over-shirt off after he managed enough buttons to tug it over his head. He pushed the shirt into John's hands and looked to Paul before looking back at John. 

" _Why_? This...you are panicking why...am I so much worse than..." he could hardly breathe, staring at John and seeing that he was willfully choosing _this_ over life with Greg. He looked away, chest flailing as he tried to breathe. 

"Because I want a good l-life with you in the end," John breathed and held Greg's shirt to his chest. His Greg, his beautiful, wonderful Greg. 

"B-Because I-I need to get past this. Do y-you think I-I need to believe I'm innocent? If that isn't important t-to you and I-I don't n-need it to help Sherlock I'll s-stay. I don't _want_ to leave you, love! I just c-can't believe m-m-my own innocence when I-I hurt the person I love so often."

Greg hung his head, tears falling fast and heavy to his lap, sitting there with his shoulders rounded and hands shaking, sure he was bleeding internally from the shredded rift in his heart. It was intolerable that he was the block, _he_ was _the_ problem. He spoke to the floor, unable to look back at John. 

"I'll m-miss you," he managed, his voice a shattered remnant of what it had been. 

Paul watched as the two men just hurt one another, speaking very softly. "John, the car is here. Can I give you something? You don't have to go to sleep if you'd rather not, I can just help take your fear down." 

John whimpered and held Greg's shirt up to his mouth like a child. 

"I'm g-g-going t-to m-miss you too," he cried and slowly stood. He took one small step towards Paul and nodded. 

"I need something but please don't p-put m-me under, I-" He stopped then and went to sit on the couch, where, crying as he did so, he carefully tied the drawstring on his sweatpants in such a way that he'd know if anyone had taken them off.

Paul walked over and collected John's bag from Greg's bed, saying nothing to the man on the floor. He knew Miller was filling Mycroft in on the upcoming move. This was massive progress. 

He quietly shut the door behind him and walked out into the sitting room, finding Gladstone at John's side. "This is a very brave, very clear-headed decision you are making, John. Here, I'm going to put a sedative in your port, but nothing to make you sleep. Gladstone will be with us, and it will be comfortable in a day or so, you'll see." 

He pushed the medicine and made sure John had his blanket around him. Gladstone was already in his vest with his leash. "Whenever you are ready, John." 

John tied the knot off and slowly walked over to Greg. He stood next to him and realized that the way his love was right now, the way he was lying on the floor, sobbing, desperate and agonized, was all because of him. This was his doing. Nothing he did was ever correct. But Paul was supposed to help Greg, and he thought this was the right thing to do. 

John knelt down on the floor beside Greg and gently put his hand on his shoulder. "I will come back."

Greg didn't have it in him to participate in the lie, and so he said nothing. He touched John's hand before returning his arms around his own chest, paralyzed with failure and loss. He was not going to watch John leave, and so kept his eyes closed, struggling to keep from sicking up. 

Paul waited patiently for John, watching carefully to ensure John kept his balance. 

John leaned over and wrapped himself around Greg for one last, agonizing moment. He had no idea how he was going to walk out that door and knowingly leave Greg like this. 

"I-I'll just pop off to Mycroft's f-for a bit and sort things out in my head a bit. I'll c-come right back. I promise. I love you." 

He kissed the top of Greg's head then and stood, shakily, and began to put distance between himself and the human embodiment of his soul.

Paul stepped out of John's way, careful not to touch him. Gladstone nuzzled at Greg before looking up and following John out. Paul spoke softly as they approached the door. "Do you want Gladstone's leash? I've got everything else. We'll be there before you know it and you've a room already set up far away from Sherlock and Mycroft. If at any point you want more medicine, just tell me." 

John grabbed Gladstone's leash and walked with him silently down the hall with a look of blank terror on his face. Leaving the flat had the feeling of leaving a shark cage, or a fox hole. John looked back once, but couldn't speak, and turned his face away. He might have looked indifferent, but his eyes were just slightly too wide, and he had the look of a dead man who died afraid.

He made it to the stairs before he whimpered. It had been his routine to walk hand in hand with Greg until they reached the stairs, at which point he'd need support to get down them. He didn't have his Greg anymore, and he took hold of the rail instead.

Paul spoke softly. "John...I'm right here if you'd like someone to hold onto. Or I can go ask Greg to help you to the car? If he came with us and got you settled, would that help? I'm sure he would. It's entirely up to you." Gladstone had put himself between Paul and John, though he was not being aggressive. 

John abruptly sat down on the steps as his legs gave way. Gladstone put his face right in John's, his tail wagging in worry, not happiness. John reached out and wrapped his arms around the massive dog's neck and wept into his fur. 

"I-I already s-s-said goodbye," John whimpered. "Y-Y-You d-do what is g-g-good f-for him. J-Just help him. D-Do what is g-good f-f-for him his wife l-left and his f-family left and h-he blames himself and oh, God, oh, God! I'm h-hurting h-him so much! Is this right? I-Is this good?"

Paul sat down next to John, looking him over. "John, you said that being with him hurts you, that it makes you feel like you deserved what Moriarty did to you when you are with him. So yes, given that, yes, this is what's best. Why don't you let me give you something more and you and I can talk when you are feeling a bit more steady." 

He made no mention of what was good for Greg. 

John pulled at his hair and released Gladstone. "No, no, being with Greg is the only thing I-I like! It's when I hurt _him_ that it starts to be painful! It's not his fault! It's not him! It's m-me! T-T-Tell m-me what is g-g-good f-f-for G-Greg!"

Paul shook his head. "John, this is about your ability to heal. You said yourself that you can't heal with Greg. Greg needs you to heal."

" _Shut the fuck up!_ " John shrieked. "D-Don't g-give me that shit! J-Just tell me! W-W-Would it b-be better for him in the l-long run for me to g-go now or for him t-to come with me? I-I don't c-care what feels good t-to him now! I want long term!"

Well that was easy. Paul spoke calmly, "In the long term, what is best for him and everyone is for you to do what you need to do to heal, John. Him physically settling you there or not makes no difference." 

"THANK YOU!" John shouted it at him with no intention of it being sincere. "When I-I say what w-will help G-Greg I-I always m-mean disregarding the p-present and lasting t-to the future! I...I need to go, I-I need to just l-leave. I can't...I don't want to do this at all!" 

He cowered in the side of the steps and wept, no doubt alerting the neighbors. "B-B-But I-I have to!"

Paul drew in a deep, slow breath and spoke to John again. "John, are you going to be able to make progress with me? As in, are you willing to work with me? You won't change anything if you are going to resist my help." He wanted to get John out of the hallway and into the damned car. 

John ground his teeth together. "I don't like you," he said honestly. "Because everything w-we talk about h-hurts. We've-never had a normal, nice c-conversation. I-I try t-to like y-you because you h-help me but it always hurts! Let's just...Let's just g-go." 

He stood up on shaking legs and held on to the rail on the way down. Each step was blindingly painful, as if there were hooks in his skin that tried to keep him tethered to Greg and they were slowly being ripped out.

Paul followed John, walking beside him. "John, we will give this a try, but if you can't work with me there really isn't a point." He kept close enough to catch John in case he fell. "You need to work with me, alright? I'll do my best not to anger you." 

The car was waiting right at the base of the stairs for them. 

John was tempted to flee and run back to Greg, to swear on his life that he would do better, and to never leave him again. But he kept walking forward. 

"I can work with you," John whispered and stared with intense distrust at the driver. He bent over and walked with one hand on Gladstone with the intent and readiness to sick him on anyone who tried to hurt him. Gladstone hopped up into the car first and John began to cry once more. He sat down on the seat and curled into a tiny ball, one hand holding the hem of his pants and the other holding Gladstone's collar.

The trip was slow going as Paul sat next to John. He finally began to text directly with Mycroft as John clung to Gladstone. 

_We are en-route. I would not tell Sherlock that John will be in your home._

John broke down hard and screamed several times on the agonizing ride away from the only thing in his life that kept him breathing. He'd left Greg lying on the floor crying. That was the effect he had on people. He got them tortured, killed, and devastated. 

Mycroft texted back, completely compliant. 

_Absolutely. He wil not know anything about it._

Paul looked over to John and spoke softly to him. "John, please let me help you. Let me give you something more to help you calm down, this isn't good for you. You're safe, John. Everything will be alright." 

John only nodded and held out his hand, be it for pills or to give access to his port he did not know. With his other hand, no matter what else he held on to, he had Greg's shirt tightly wound around it as if expecting someone to try and wrench it away.

"I-I-I'm a-a-al-alo-o-one!"

Paul began to push a heavy does of tranquilizers. "No you are not, John. You are not alone. I'll be with you, you have Gladstone, and this is your choice. If at any time you want to go back, you say the word." 

John felt the fuzziness slide through his veins and he held Greg's shirt over his face. "D-D-Don't l-let m-me g-go back until I-I am r-ready," he said with as much clarity and seriousness as he could manage.

Paul nodded, "Not until you've made the progress you want to make, or if you stop eating and begin to deteriorate."

John's head lolled to the side and he shrugged. He didn't give a damn about his own progress outside of how it affected others. Others being Greg and Sherlock. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that he was going to Sherlock's current home, but it didn't bother him too much in his heavily medicated state.

When they arrived, Paul opened the door and spoke to John. "Can I help you out, John? You've had a lot of medicine and I don't want you to fall. I could carry you if you'd like."

"M'fine," John tried to snap, but ended up slurring. "I'm okay. I'm-" His mind supplied dozens of endings to that sentence that Greg would have been appalled to hear. John still had tears streaming down his face, and he took a wobbly, hesitant step out of the car. He was absolutely certain that he was going to fall, but he did not want to be touched by anyone when Greg wasn't around.

Paul stood directly in front of John, his arms out and around John without touching him, just bracing for his fall. "John, I'm going to put you back in that car and take you back to Greg if you can't do this. Let me help, you can just hold onto my arm, I won't hold you if you don't want me to."

John whimpered and held on to Paul's arm. He'd forgotten Gladstone's leash, but the animal could clearly sense John's distress and hovered just beside him with a watchful eye. 

"I c-can do it myself," he grumbled and walked as though the ground were wavering beneath him like an ebbing tide. When he finally got to the house, the doors were all unlocked and the place appeared vacant as they passed, though it was well kept and had evidence of a staff.

Paul led John very slowly down the hall, far away from the wing Sherlock was in, and into a room that had been repaired for him. He dumped the bags on the floor as he led John inside, taking him to the bed and letting him sit down. Immediately Paul fanned the blanket out around John and stepped away, going to John's bag to unpack the cd he so often listened to. 

John took his blanket and Greg's shirt and held them to his chest. They were most dear to him, and as he sobbed, flopped on his side, he tried to pull the same comfort from the fabric as he did the man who wore it. " _Greg_ ," John whimpered and his whole body shook with how utterly alone he was. He'd never expected he would need to walk out on Greg, and he felt lower than low.

Paul put the disk in and the quiet, soft tones of Sherlock's violin began to play. He took Gladstones' leash off and watched as the dog bounded up on the bed beside John, whining and nosing about in an effort to lay close to him. Paul chose not to speak, instead sitting down in a chair and texting Mycroft. 

_John and I are here. We've come with the dog._

He had no idea if Mycroft was aware that Greg was not with them. This was going to make bonding John to Sherlock infinitely easier. 

John pulled one of the long, plush pillows from the head of the bed and pulled back the covers. He draped Greg's shirt reverently over the pillow and pulled the blanket over his own shoulders. 

"I-I-I'm sorry," he whispered and laid his head down on the pillow where Greg's chest would be were he wearing the shirt John now held. John crossed his arms over his chest and looped one leg over the pillow as he had done when Greg was there with him. After pulling the covers up high and snuggling in, John tried to pretend that he had Greg's warm arms around him, that he wasn't lying in an empty bed, and that he was not hurting anyone at all. 

Mycroft knew very little about the situation, as he had intended to just call when Sherlock was asleep. He hated texting, and had just assumed that if John was there, so was Greg. 

_Just you and John? What of Greg?_

Paul figured that John was unlikely to be speaking to him, and so did not answer. He looked up at John and back down to his mobile, honestly feeling sorry for John. 

_John has initiated all of this, said that Greg was keeping him from healing. Greg is home, as far as I know._

The only interruption from John was the occasional agonized wail and muffled sobbing between. 

_In what way? Is this permanent? Are we going to lose Greg? I need every single detail._

Paul looked up at John before even attempting to answer Mycroft. "It's going to be alright, John. If you want to go back, just say so." 

_It will be much easier to explain to you in person or over the phone. If John remains here, I would say it's fair to bet that Greg is a loss._

"Stop it," John snapped with a vicious snarl. He held tighter to his pillow that was in no way a proper Greg. "I can't go until I'm better."

_Then I will come down to speak with you. What condition is John in?_

Paul held up a hand to John in an effort to calm him. "Alright, John, I apologize. I don't want you to feel trapped is all." 

To Mycroft, he responded _Irritable, sad, and lucid. I will speak to you outside of the room._

Mycroft was down the hall and outside the door in just a few moments. He'd left Jared with his sleeping brother, and would likely have enough time to talk. "How did this happen?"

Paul was closing the door behind John and turned to speak to Mycroft. "We have been working with John in an effort to convince him that what was done was wrong. That he did nothing to cause it and did not deserve to suffer. I firmly believe that once he resolves that issue, his healing will be rapid and consistent, thus allowing him to return to Sherlock. John himself came to me this morning and told me that Greg makes him feel as though he deserved the treatment, as Greg has had...unstable mental health and is...more easily wounded now than he historically had been. John himself asked to be separated from Greg." 

"I didn't expect that," Mycroft said flatly. Generally, humans were so incredibly predictable. It was odd to him when he could not foresee the actions of a goldfish. 

"If he continues to make progress here, does he plan on going back to Greg? Does he have any sort of plan? Certainly he isn't here for Sherlock."

Paul shook his head. "Actually, yes, in a way he is. He was deeply angry with Greg for the suggestion that it might be time to let Sherlock go, and demanded that not be allowed to happen. He recognizes that he cannot help Sherlock until he has healed past this, which he is incapable by his own admission of accomplishing with Greg. He says that he wishes to return to Greg eventually, but I've no doubt that he understands on some level that Greg will likely not survive this." 

"We can not lose Greg," Mycroft said hastily. "If things go wrong with Sherlock and John, he needs someone to fall back on. Keep tabs on him, if you can. If not, I installed security cameras there ages ago. I can watch the feed from time to time, or pay someone to watch it constantly. As for John, do the best you can to get him past that. I find it hard to believe that he still blames himself for it. I thought by now he would be angry about it."  
Paul nodded. "I am surprised as well. He holds on to the idea that he deserved it tighter than he wants Greg. I believe he's correct that Greg was holding him back. I also admit being surprised at your...concern for Greg. His loss would likely be a fantastic catalyst to moving John more desperately towards Sherlock." 

Mycroft grit his teeth. He wanted that very, very badly. He wanted Greg to fail John in some way that sent John running for Sherlock. But now that it came down to it, and it was actually happening, he felt for the poor man. 

"I am aware. I was hoping that Greg could eventually live with both of them. They simply can not be allowed to live on their own. But perhaps they can stay here. I'll keep an aid in the event of an emergency. Still, he's been very helpful. I owe it to him to at least care if he dies."

Paul nodded, "In that event, I must apologize. My understanding was the he was not a priority. Unfortunately I would not be surprised if it were already too late. Of course, I intend to do everything in my power to help John and aid his transition here. This is good news, Mycroft, especially considering John made it without a bit of coaxing. The idea was not suggested at all, he simply made the choice himself." 

Mycroft took out his phone and texted Miller that there was a high possibility that Greg was attempting suicide, then gave him the extensive passwords he would need to access his laptop and pull the live feed. 

"Of course. I will not notify Sherlock of this unless John is prepared to deal with him. He has been more and more lucid lately, but the barest mention of John sends him into a dive."

Paul frowned at that. "A dive of what nature," he asked, sliding his hand into his pocket and shifting, "is he loath to see John, or does he still want that?" 

"Grief. Loneliness. Sorrow. He wants John, but feels he needs to let him go. He doesn't like it when I read to him from the blog." Mycroft stared at the door and his ears picked up faint crying. 

"I doubt John would be ready for such a thing."

Paul glanced to the door and back, "No, not at all, not within the month at the least, I would say. Likely longer. I was very surprised that he wanted to leave Greg, but he was given many chances not to. He left the man sobbing on the floor, unable to speak, and still he left. He has resisted all efforts to keep him there. He does not want Greg around him. This that we are hearing now...I believe this is fear." 

John whimpered and pressed his face against the pillow that smelled like Greg in the same way he always had when asking for attention. Except instead of fingers through his hair and a kiss to the top of his head, he was met with silence and cold emptiness. A soft cry of fear and pain escaped him and he clutched the pillow tighter, willing it to become solid flesh and hug him back. 

"I agree," Mycroft said hesitantly. "How long do you believe it will be before he either goes back to Greg, or resolves that he does not want to?"

Paul shook his head, "With John Watson, it's impossible to tell. I don't know, and I won't try to guess. Two days ago he was literally eating cake, having long walks with Greg, and watching films. Today, he's decided Greg and he can no longer be together. He could be past this in a month, or he could manage it in a few days. Once the breakthrough is made, it should be a swift chain reaction afterwards." 

Mycroft watched the door quietly. "I've instructed someone to watch Greg. I'll instal a camera in that room as well. Push him hard. We need that breakthrough very badly, it seems."

Paul nodded, "Yes, I intend to. I'll not be leaving him at all. If there is a spare bed that could be brought in, I'd appreciate it. If not, the sofa is fine." 

Mycroft's phone vibrated with a call from Miller. 

Mycroft's heart skipped in his chest, though he quickly calmed it. "Yes? How is he?"

"He's not there. The bedroom is completely tossed, as is the kitchen, but otherwise the flat is empty. It looks as though a robbery has occurred, Mycroft." 

Mycroft swore. "I've..I've no resources! I don't work for the government anymore, I-" He stopped and collected himself. "I'll call everyone I can still pull favors from. Call the police. I'll call Greg."

Miller cut him off, "His mobile is on the floor in the bedroom. I'm looking right at it. I'll call the police and see if we can get their help." 

Paul watched Mycroft with interest. 

Mycroft ran his hands through his hair and started sending texts. He was well aware that he had no leverage anymore, but he had been powerful. He could at least jumpstart a missing person's investigation. He called the police as well, using his name and former rank to get him talking to the right people. 

"Check bridges," he said in a breathless voice. "Rivers. High buildings. He's suicidal and very, very important!"

Paul observed quietly, surprised to see this level of anxiety from Mycroft over _Greg_. When the man ended the call, Paul spoke softly to him. 

"We will be able to care for John and Sherlock regardless of the outcome with Greg, Mycroft." 

It would be difficult, but so long as John was unaware until further healed, it would work fine in the end. It was interesting to him that Greg had tossed the flat. The fact that he left his phone was indeed a telling sign. 

"Why did he wreck things first?" Mycroft breathed and looked back to John's room. "It makes little sense. Anger? Desperation? Either way, I'd like to have him around. I do not want to be on my own in this. Without Greg, I won't have a primary caretaker that John likes."

Paul shook his head, "John does not want him as a primary caretaker. And as for Greg...there is no room in that man for anger. It was likely desperation or panic. Perhaps he was looking for something. He...Mycroft where is his sidearm?" 

"I don't know, but I'm willing to guess he found it." 

Mycroft ground his teeth together and looked back to John's room anxiously. He wanted Greg alive. Before, in theory, this would have been welcomed. But he wanted Greg alive for the incredibly selfish reason that he did not want to be the only one doing this out of love. It was foolish, but he simply did not feel the same understanding towards someone who helped a torture victim on a payroll.

Paul breathed in deeply and shook his head. "He's been open to suicide for months now, Mycroft. Even John knew this. Tried to get Greg to promise not to hurt himself. This is a bit...swift, but it was clear when we left that Greg...he took it very hard. I would prepare yourself, Mycroft. Do let me know if you discover anything?"

Mycroft could not think where Greg would go. Had he made mention? John had been obsessed with the Thames. Perhaps Greg would be near there. Mycroft went to his room without further speaking to Paul and began to inform everyone he had ever helped about his situation. There were a few politicians he had formed good relations with that had sent condolences and offered to help with Sherlock, and he wasn't going to be stingy about pulling cards. He informed the Yard that their former DI was attempting suicide, and got a response from many of them, as Greg had been the amiable sort who people seemed to like. 

Mycroft realized he was being selfish. What right did he have to prevent a man's suicide just because he didn't want to be alone? What right did he have to drag him to a hospital or back to his own home to keep him under watch like a child? He decided he had no right at all, and didn't give a damn.

Paul walked back into John's room and settled down in the chair he'd first taken up, pleased to find Gladstone tucked in close to John, licking him and trying to help as dogs often did when their owners were distressed. 

"John, can you speak with me for a few minutes?"

John was still raw and depressed. He felt empty and torn apart, and Greg's voice played over and over in his mind, driving him nearly insane. He didn't know what Paul wanted to talk about so he simply began to speak. 

"I want my Greg," he whimpered. "This was wrong. This w-was supposed to help him. I just wanted to stop hurting him. That's a-all I wanted. I just don't want to hurt him anymore. I just want t-to be a good man and stop h-hurting everyone." 

John turned his face back to the shirt, laid out over the pillow, and nuzzled back down on the tear-stained fabric. 

"Greg," he whispered and pulled at the shirt a bit out of habit. "Greg, Greg, Greg." The name was comforting, but not as much as he had hoped. "L-Lets start working on the thing s-so I-I can go back and s-start helping him again."

Paul nodded and left the table open for discussion. "Alright, John. It's good to see you wanting to make progress on this. Can you explain to me, John, what the hindrance was? If you are not ever causing anyone negative feelings, will that then make you undeserving of what happened to you?"

John shook his head and wiped tears from his eyes. He sniffled and tried to sit up, but ended up curled in a tight ball around his Greg pillow. 

"I-I f-feel guilty and then I do something w-wrong and I hurt Greg and I feel guilty again. I'm defective. He said it wasn't my fault and I didn't deserve it, and each time I start to believe that, I do something wrong, hurt him, and then I feel bad again and I start to say bad things in my mind and..." 

_I don't understand!_

_Th-this is not for my benefit. I don't w-want this at all. Not at all!_

John let out another sob and fell silent. 

"I didn't want to leave him," he wept, "I love him. I just...I just needed to not be hurting anyone for a bit! I didn't leave him! I removed myself and went somewhere where I won't hurt him! I just-" 

John ground his teeth and let out a sharp scream of frustration. He'd only been trying to help. He had wanted so desperately to please Greg by letting go of his guilt that he set a plan to make it happen. He needed to not feel responsible anymore. Greg had told him so. Paul had told him so. Hell, it had been validated by the smartest man in the nation! He could feel himself beginning to entertain the notion, only to have it ripped away when he injured Greg on accident. He needed to isolate himself and just get this parasitic thought _out_. 

"I never, ever, ever wanted to hurt him. I w-want to live with him forever and eat cake and play with Gladstone and be lazy and play rummy! But I-I n-need to get r-rid of this before I can have that life! Why is that so difficult for everyone to understand?!"

Paul held up his hands and shook his head. "John, _I_ think it's the most clear thought you've had in a long while. You saw what Greg's feelings were doing to you, and you took action. That was a very brave thing to do. I am just trying to understand your thoughts regarding guilt. So what I am hearing is that you would begin to believe you were innocent, which you _were and are_ , and Greg's hurt was erasing that progress. Then the move here away from him was wise, very wise, John." 

John was suddenly boiling with rage and he sat straight up, murder in his glare and hatred on his tongue. 

"You don't UNDERSTAND! I don't give a damn if I improve! If it would help Greg for me to stay restrained and sobbing all day I would DO IT! I don't give a shit about my progress outside of how it affects Greg and Sherlock! And it's not 'what Greg's feelings are doing to me'," he mocked in a livid tone, "It's what I'm doing to him then feeling guilty for! Does he understand that? Did I not explain it right? Clearly you don't understand. Does he?"

Paul did not outwardly react to John's outburst. 

"Okay, John. I hear you. I know you are doing this for their benefit. But it is about what Greg's feelings are doing to you. He hurts, it makes you experience guilt, and you punish yourself by telling yourself you deserve to hurt. His feelings do this to you. My want is to help you get past that." 

John let out another pained sound and curled back up with his Greg pillow. He didn't know how long this was going to take, but if it was more than a week he was certain he would rather just die. He had nothing else. What was the point in being alive if he didn't have Greg?

"Then l-lets just get me working normal so I can go back to him."

Paul inhaled deeply and then spoke. "John, you've had nothing to eat or drink all day. I'm going to have eggs and tea brought up, and I need you to eat before we go any further. Is there anything else I can do for you right now to make you feel more comfortable?"

John took Greg's shirt and carefully unbuttoned it the rest of the way. He then put it on himself and pulled his arms inside it as if something of Greg's would ward him against harm. "I will eat if it will make this g-go by faster. I need a spoon and a straw and I like it cold because hot scares me."

Paul gentled his voice and spoke very honestly with him. "John...you're with me. I've made you breakfast dozens of times. I know you don't like me, but I only want to help. I know how you like your food. I am so sorry this is all hard for you right now." He texted the kitchen and asked for food exactly the way Greg and he often prepared it. 

"Alright. While we are waiting, let's talk about this for a bit. I understand you called Mycroft." 

"I thought you called him?" John looked back and realized what Paul was saying. 

"Oh. That. Yeah, I did. I wanted to get another opinion to be sure...I don't know. I trust Greg. I really, really do. But I just...I mean, Mycroft is all..." He made a vague gesture. 

"He'd tell the truth. He wouldn't be blinded by affection or want of paycheck. I just...I don't know! I'm not mentally stable, remember! All I know is that it hurt Greg!"

Paul shook his head. "John, Greg is not here. You don't have to concern yourself with him right now. You know more than that. Your choice to call Mycroft for another opinion was a good one, I agree with it. It shows better reasoning skills than you realize. It shows deeper stability than you realize. You have been confronted with a truth you are having trouble believing and you sought out the opinion of a third party. There is nothing bad about that. Your reasoning for doing so was very sound." 

John hadn't been told that he was thinking reasonably in ages. He looked up with mild confusion on his face. "Reasonable, maybe, but not good. It hurt Greg. I don't care if I'm delusional. And I can say all this honestly because he isn't here. I'd rather be in pain and delusional and have him happy then be clear headed and hurting him."

Paul nodded, "That's fair, I hear what you are saying, John. But that's not what Greg wants, and that's not what you want. He's not happy when you are hurting and delusional. Greg...Greg was worn very thin, and had pre-existing issues that are making him...internalize a lot of things that have little to do with him. He's not thinking rationally. That is not your doing at all, John. I need you to understand that the progress you make, any and all of it, is _good_." 

"Then you should go help him and leave me to sort this out on my own." John fiddled with his shirt and stared at the ground. "I am sorry for being difficult today. I feel bad. Can you understand? Can you even grasp how much it hurts to leave him behind like that? But I need to get over this so I can do better." 

He looked at his hands then. He hated his hands. 

"Am I doing this right? Am I being a good man?"

"Yes," Paul said, deciding not to get into the semantics of the fact that there was no right or wrong way to go about any of this. "You are being a good man, and you are doing this right. I know that it was very hard for you to leave. I do need to stay here with you though. Please do not feel bad for your behavior today, what's happened has been extremely difficult. I am very impressed with what you realized you needed to do, despite the difficulty of it."

"I am doing this so that I can help him and be a good man to live with. He wants to live with me forever." 

A small smile ghosted on his lips. "I still can't believe that. I'm doing this so I can be good and stop hurting him. So that if I accidentally hurt him, I can explain myself calmly and avoid a misunderstanding instead of just crying and clinging to him. Do you think that is a good thing to do?"

Paul nodded very sincerely, "Yes, John. I do. You also expressed a very....determined desire to help Sherlock. Is that still something you are interested in doing?" 

John nodded absently, but it was hard to focus on helping Sherlock when he was so distracted by his distance from Greg. He tried to pretend that Greg was just in the other room changing or having a shower, and would be back in a few minutes. That was a nice thought. 

"Yeah, I do. But...He's got Mycroft for right now and...That sounds mean, and I do want to help him, I swear, but I just… _Greg_..."

Paul nodded and decided to set it aside for now. "Alright, well, we will work on it." There was a knock at the door and Paul got up, taking the tray from the staff and checking the temperature of everything himself before walking it over to John. "Please eat what you can and finish the tea."

John stared at the food. It wouldn't hurt him, of course, and he was disgusted with himself to think otherwise, but he had based all his progress on the fact that Greg would always protect him, and Greg wasn't here. John started on his routine to check the temperature of the tea and ended up doing it twelve times before finally drinking some through the straw. He looked about nervously as he did so, and lost track of time as he took comfort in the repeating action.

When he finally came back out of his pensive silence, he let out a long sigh. "Can we start with the not deserving it? It still sounds like bullshit to me and I need to not think that way so I can go back."

Paul was glad to see him drinking, at least. "Alright, yes. Let's start with that. Could you explain to me why you believe you deserved to be abducted while on your way to give your time to Doctors Without Borders?"

John opened his mouth to speak then closed it with a stumped scowl. "I...well...Maybe I didn't deserve it just then. But I did after, once I got there. I was being a good person at that point, so maybe that part wasn't right."

Paul nodded, "So...if that's the case, then what Moriarty did at that point was wrong, cruel, and not the actions of a man you would normally obey. Is that correct?" 

John looked at Paul helplessly. "I don't know," he said softly. "It hurts to think about. He...yeah, I guess then that was cruel because I wanted to go help children and poor people and be a good doctor."

"Stay with me, John, you're doing well. I know this hurts but you're just...so close, you're so close. Tell me why a man who would do something like take a doctor off a plane heading to sick people, or shoot a blind old woman, should ever, ever be listened to and obeyed." 

"Because he was just..right! He said things and they were always right! He is always correct about things and he knows what I was thinking and I was such a coward!"

Paul shook his head. "No, John. That's not an answer. Look here. The papers of this desk will go flying off unless you turn them blue in the next three seconds. Three. Two. One." He knocked them off with a sad expression, shaking his head and looking at them. "What a mess, John. If only you'd been good and turned them blue." 

John stared at Paul with a stricken expression for several seconds before he began to cry. "T-T-T-Told m-m-me t-t-to r-run and if I-I c-could make it w-w-with-without falling I-I w-w-wouldn't be beaten b-but it...the t-tendon and..." John pressed his face down back into the pillow. He wanted his Greg to be here with him, as Paul's little demonstration had hit too close to reality.

Paul kept very close watch on John as the man fell apart. "You're a doctor, John. Could _anyone_ have done what he asked? _Anyone_?" 

"I could have hopped? On one leg? But...that isn't _running_ and he s-said _run_ and not _hop_ and there's a difference and differences get beatings."

Paul inhaled slowly and waited for John to get there, prompting him a bit more. "So then, John, was it possible to fill that demand? Not just by you, but by _anyone_? Was it physically possible to run with the tendon severed?" 

John took clipped, short breaths and shook his head. "N-No, no, it...I-I...I don't understand!" It was too much at once, too much to process. The tiny crack was letting water out of the dam and it was terrifying.

And here, where Greg would have derailed progress and saved John from what hurt, they would finally be able to push forward. "Take a moment to breathe, John. Just...let yourself think about that for a while. You are safe. You've got Gladstone right with you, and this place is safe. Just let yourself consider that for a bit." 

John had expected a let off. Generally, when things got to be too much, John was shielded and protected by curling against Greg and hiding from whatever it was. "I...What else is there for me to think about?"

Paul shook his head. "Right now, I want you to stay with that thought. You were told to do something humanly impossible to avoid pain. I want you to stay right with that." 

"I-I was t-told to do something h-humanly imp-possible to avoid pain...But not always! At first I was just stubborn! I j-just did things all so wrong because I was mean and uncooperative. Not impossible things. Things to say." 

He stared indignantly at Paul as if challenging him to dispute that.

Paul did not back down even for a moment, "Alright, John. So a man whom you knew to slaughter the elderly, hold children at gunpoint, blow up city blocks, and attempt to kill your best friend on numerous occasions stole you away from a plane to do medical service for the poor, and you did not follow his instructions. So he tortured you. Please explain to me how that makes you the bad person." 

"That's no...that isn't how it went! He was...He gave me chances to do things right and I-I was too stupid! It was my fault! It had to be!" They were hitting hard against a solid mental block, and John was beginning to panic.

Paul backed up and searched for an opening. "What were you going to do when you were abducted, John?"

"I...I was going to try and escape! And that is against the rules!" John was thoroughly shaken by now as the foundation of what held this knot firmly in his mind began to crumble.  
Paul shook his head, "No, John, I mean walk me through the day. What were you going to do? What were your plans and how were you feeling before he took you?"

"Before? I don't know, it's all just...it's fuzzy. It's fuzzy. I just...I was excited. I was really, really excited. I wanted to go help. Sherlock was being an arse." 

John wrapped his legs around the pillow and pulled the covers up over his head. 

Paul inhaled slowly and spoke very gently to John. "It sounds like you could use a break, John. Let's just take a little while to calm down."

John shook his head. "No. No, I can't take a break. I need to keep going. I need to get rid of this. I hate believing something so fully and knowing it is wrong. I can't rest. I need to keep going." 

John was going to drive at this full speed until he broke it or it broke him. He'd left Greg, and would stay against the grindstone until he was ready to go back to him. 

Paul shook his head. "It doesn't work like that, John. You are already getting confused and foggy. Let's give you a little while to rest, let your mind settle just a bit." 

"I can't rest," John snapped as if offended. "I don't have Greg. I'm not with Greg. I need to keep trying to fix this. Please, just let me fix this. I'm hurting him. The slower I go the more I-I hurt him."

Paul shook his head and decided to let John take it where he would. "You are struggling to answer my questions, John. So why don't we try something different? How about you convince me of your guilt instead of me trying to show you your innocence?" 

"I do everything wrong and I'm not obedient even when he wanted to help me and give me nice things and it's my fault Sherlock is hurting and it's my fault Greg is hurting and it's my fault that I have so many scars and it's my fault that all this bad stuff has happened." It was, for some reason, a much easier question to ask. 

Paul shrugged, "Not convinced. Tell me why it's your fault." 

John hated when he gave what he thought was a proper answer and it was denied. He flinched visibly and tried again. "B-Because I'm too stupid to f-figure things out, and I left Sherlock, and I left G-Greg, and I'm hurting everyone around me."

Paul looked at John and decided to be a bit more directing. "I suppose you still haven't explained to me why you needed to listen to Moriarty? I mean, you were a soldier, right? Did your superiors not have to earn their authority?"

"He's smarter than me," John whispered. "And he c-can beat me in a fight. He is b-better than me. He..." 

Why had he listened to Moriarty? Surely it had been for something more than avoiding pain and earning basic necessities. That couldn't be it. 

Paul made a face of enlightenment, nodding slowly as though trying to latch on to the point. "Oh. I see. That sounds like a schoolyard bully to me. I understand why you were eventually forced to follow his impossible and absurd rules, but...John why does it make you bad that you did not obey him? As in, why does that make you bad as a person in general? Would you teach a child that they were bad for not obeying a bully at the school?"

John ground his teeth. "Not Stockholm. I know people would think that. I hate him. He was just right about most things. I only was hurt when I did bad things."

"I was unaware you were doing bad things, John. Forgive me. Were you physically harming someone?" 

"I attacked a bunch of people," John admitted. "But they were bad people. People around the door. I don't think I killed them, though." He couldn't quite remember, and it was frightening. 

Paul nodded, "So, you were not actively torturing anyone. Okay. Then please explain what bad things you were able to do while in chains, John? I'm confused." 

"I said bad things," John whispered, "And refused to see the truth." It was much easier for him to spell out the reasons why he was a horrible person. He'd practiced them. They were familiar. 

Paul followed along with that, not offering John resistance. "What bad things did you say? What truth did you refuse to see?"

John spoke without much thought now, as he had slipped down into the frame of mind he'd used when Moriarty was questioning him. 

"I was mean to the people who tried to make my pain less. I hit doctors who only tried to patch me up. I refused to believe that food and water would hurt me. I refused to believe that Sherlock had-" John caught himself in the middle of his robotic, monotone dialogue and made a face. That wasn't right at all.

Paul waited, watching John closely. He did not speak, waiting for John to analyze what he'd just said. John was close, just circling the core of it which grew smaller and weaker with each pass. Eventually they'd get there. 

It was like suddenly discovering there was a hole at the center of his body that he hadn't noticed before. Yes, he'd felt the pain of it, but he'd never looked down to see what was causing it. Just like a gaping wound, it was alarming. 

"But Sherlock _wasn't_ hurting me!"

Paul watched as John thankfully did not resist that truth. "No, he wasn't," he said very quietly. He would not guide John through this bit, he needed to get there on his own and he was well on his way. 

"He was home, missing you." 

Sweat dripped down John's face. "I should not feel guilty about not believing something that Moriarty told me if it was a lie."

Paul shook his head, "That would be highly unfair to you, wouldn't it?" 

John recalled a particular memory that he had absolutely no desire to review. He saw his own arms first, held in front of his face to shield him. They were thin, bleeding with cuts, black with bruises, and raw around the wrists. He saw next a whip blurring through the air as it withdrew from his mangled body and back to the man standing over him. How Moriarty constantly got blood out of his suit, John would never know. Perhaps he just bought new ones. Behind Moriarty was a dingy grey wall, but it was severely out of focus in the memory, and John couldn't tell where exactly this had been. 

"He beat me so I would believe lies."

Paul leaned forward very slowly, speaking to John in a calm, gentle voice. "He beat you so that you would believe lies, that's exactly right, John. That's exactly right." 

It was remarkable how well John was doing without distraction. Paul was exceedingly pleased with the progress they were making, hoping this would bring John some measure of relief to his terrible suffering. 

John realized the weight of it all at once and his breath caught in his chest. He reached out for something, for Greg who wasn't there, then retracted them back across his chest. For the first time in months he saw how truly damaged he was. There could be countless things inside him still working from Moriarty's torture that he couldn't even see. The thought was horrifying, and John locked up very still and very quiet on his side under the covers. 

_And here_ , Paul thought, _is where Greg's limited use would have come in handy._

He kept close watch on John, and after a moment spoke to him. "John, you are safe. Remember to breathe, everything is going to be alright. You are safe. Why don't you pull Gladstone under there with you?"

John reached for Gladstone and the dog lied down with his back against John's chest. John let out a whimper and held onto his dog. "W-What-" His voice was rough and he tried again. "What's n-next?"

Paul hummed and spoke again. "Tell me what's going on, John. What are you thinking about right now?" He was glad to see John pull the dog in with him, hoping the beast would help calm him. 

"I w-want to go home," John cried. "I'm confused a-and scared and I want to go to Greg. I w-want my Greg." Control was becoming less and less of a priority and he was tempted to just beg Paul to go home right there and then. 

"B-But I-I need...I have to fix everything b-before I get to s-see my G-Greg so I n-need to keep going."

Paul relaxed when John diverted from asking to go home. Without information on Greg's condition or whereabouts, it would be catastrophic to tell John just yet that they had no idea where 'his' Greg was. Paul inhaled slowly and spoke to John in a calm, gentle voice. 

"You can have more medicine to help calm you, if you'd like. You've gotten to the truth of it, John, and it's bound to feel very scary and uncomfortable, but you've done very well." 

"B-But...Everything is ruined!" 

Had he been a man like Mycroft, who prided himself on a cleanly functioning mind, the information would have tipped him into insanity. Even though John had not spent years mastering his mind, the information was deeply unsettling. 

"What thoughts can I trust? I...I didn't deserve to be beaten for n-not believing about Sherlock but...I just...I did so many things wrong and...I should h-have been smart and pretended to believe or something."  
Paul shook his head. "You did that, John. You were very smart, and very clever. You did pretend but he would not accept it. You did _nothing_ wrong, John. You said that you were forced to believe food and water wouldn't hurt you, but they did, didn't they? You were told that Moriarty was trying to make your pain less, but there wouldn't have been _any pain_ if he hadn't decided to hurt you in the first place. Nothing is ruined, John. You have people around you who care about you, who love you, who can see the truth. Did you trust Greg?"

John nodded that he did indeed trust Greg and tears poured down his face at the weight of it. He still felt weak, small, pathetic and bad, but the largest part of his torture had been centered around believing Sherlock. Believing a lie. 

"I-I didn't...d-d-didn't d-deserve i-it w-when h-he beat m-me to believe him," John wept and let out a long scream of frustration at his own incompetence to see such things.

Paul spoke softly as John carried on with his train of thought. "No, you didn't, John. You didn't deserve it. Greg never beat you or demanded that you believe anything, did he?" 

"G-Greg is so good to me," John cried and tipped his head back. He was choking on sobs in his struggle to speak. "I-I-I...What i-i-is n-next?"

"I only point out that Greg has never demanded anything of you, to show you the reason it is safe to trust his word, without it being the same as simply retraining yourself. It's not the same, and it's not programming, and you can use some reasoning here to know that. With Moriarty, there were conditions: Believe or feel pain, say certain things or starve, so on and so forth. But with Greg, there are no strings attached. He has been with you for a year, and never once demanded you believe anything. So, if you find yourself afraid and doubting, you can think about that. There are no conditions here, you do not have to believe any of us, and no one will hurt you. Does that make sense?"

John had begun to succumb to grief. He rocked himself in Greg's absence and was tempted to scream. Screaming always brought Greg to him. It always got him comforted and loved. But it also hurt people, and so he kept his mouth shut. 

"I'm hurting," he shouted, "I know and I-I b-believe you and I-I know I don't h-have to believe you to a-avoid pain." Gladstone turned over and licked John's face as the broken man cried. "H-How much m-more?"

Paul hesitated to answer that. "How much more of what, John? We can stop for the day at any time. You can rest, and we can start again later. Why don't you let me give you something for sleep and we can go at this again in a few hours? Or tomorrow, even?"

"H-How m-much more until I am g-g-good enough t-to not h-hurt Greg?" 

That was his priority, after all. He was to learn the things he needed to learn so he could help Sherlock and Greg. He couldn't be damned about his progress outside of that. 

"W-W-Will he b-be proud?" with features softening in serene happiness, John imagined him telling Greg all the things he'd done, the progress he'd made, and his Greg kissing him happily and wrapping him up in strong arms. He imagined the smile, the words of love, the genuine joy, and it all pushed him to keep going. 

"I n-need to do more."

Paul nodded in understanding. "John, I'm very happy to help you with your goals. Could you set some with me so that I will know when you are ready? Sherlock is easier to see, if you ever feel like it, we could visit with him. He's much calmer, I'm told. As for Greg...I suppose I'm not very clear on what it is you want to have done before you see him again."

_If you can see him again, that is._

John collected himself as best he could. Usually, after such a big breakthrough in his therapy, he would be allowed to recover and calm down with Greg. Now he was alone in a strange place and had no chance to stop. 

"I n-need to understand that I-I did not deserve it s-so I can n-not get upset when G-Greg is hurting."

Paul nodded, "Alright, John. That's fair. I'd like for you to take a bit of a rest now. May I give you some of your anxiety medicine and let you take an hour? You can listen to this music, or I can put on a show for you, but your brain needs a little while to heal up and process. An hour at the minimum. I'd like to go check in on Sherlock and speak with Mycroft if that's alright with you, if not, I will stay in here."

"If I called, d-do you think I-I'd hurt him?" 

John felt weak and small, and his resolve was becoming flexible. He knew that if he called and Greg was upset, Greg would take blame, and his progress would be hacked to bits. "I...N-Never mind. No, I-I don't need to call. I'm o-o-okay."

Again Paul was relieved that he had backed off contacting Greg. They'd been gone several hours now, and John was doing remarkable. 

"You are doing incredibly, John, truly you are. I wish I could let you see through my eyes how amazing you are doing. This is very, very hard work, and you are showing how strong you are. Here," he got up and shuffled his feet so John would be aware he was moving, "I'm just giving you your evening medication, with pain medicine and anti-anxiety pills, okay? You don't have to eat, but I'm going to have tea and some eggs brought up again. Please at least drink the tea. Tomorrow morning, you've got to eat if you don't tonight. I hate to say it, but we have to keep your health on track or you won't be able to progress." 

At the mention of the next day, John realized suddenly that he would have to sleep here. It triggered quite a violent reaction, and he began to sob earnestly into the pillow. "Greg," he sobbed, even though Greg was not there. He'd come to learn that calling for him meant he would soon be held and comforted, and the action of calling his name helped to some small degree. " _Greg!_ "

Paul crouched beside the bed, not touching John per their agreement, though he very much wanted to offer comfort. "John, you will feel better after you take your medicine. Please take this, let me help. You're not alone, John. You're not." 

John opened his eyes which were red and glassy. He couldn't seem to put into words the sheer agony of being away from Greg, the pain of what his mind was going through, and the sheer weariness he'd accumulated throughout this whole ordeal. He lay limp, one arm over his dog and the other near his chest, and stared at Paul with utter defeat in his eyes. 

"I feel alone."

Paul responded to him very sincerely, genuinely hurting for the man. 

"I can only imagine, John. I can only imagine. You in no way have to, at all, but it might help you feel less alone if you ever want to visit Sherlock. He, more than any of us, can relate to what's happened to you. That's not pressure, I just want you to remember that you have a friend here whom you've known far longer than me. I'll do everything I can to help you. Walking away from Greg was very brave. Here, please take these, John."

"Visit Sherlock?" 

John squinted at Paul to see if he was serious. How the hell could he focus on Sherlock when his Greg was so far away? 

"No, I don't...I can't help him yet, a-and my G-Greg isn't here..." He continuously used possessive language when mentioning 'his' Greg; an action born from intense separation anxiety. 

"I don't..." He reached out and took the pills. "I don't w-want to be here. W-We need to keep going. Please."

Paul was glad to see John take the pills. He waited a moment before clarifying. "I was not suggesting you _help_ Sherlock. He can help _you_ , John. That's all I meant. You do not have to see him. We will keep going after you have a bit of tea, and maybe a bite of eggs, and rest for a little while. Music or a show for the moment, John?"

John shook his head to everything that Paul said. "I don't w-w-want to without Greg." 

That went for tea, music, shows, eating, and of course, seeing Sherlock. Without his emotional backup, he felt like a house without support. He was crumbling even as he made progress.

Paul spoke softly, being patient. "I know you are scared, John. Why don't you just have a nap? We will have to go back before you've made the progress you want to if you can't function without Greg. That's not a threat, John. It's not. I can see that you are very scared, and I am very sorry you are having a difficult time." 

"I know how long I can go without food, sleep and water. It's longer than I previously thought." 

It was also information that he didn't ever need to know. 

"I just want to be fixed and go back and have him be proud of me. I just want that. I can't sleep without him. I haven't. Not once. Every time I've slept without being forced under this past year it's been with him. I can't sleep. But I have another few days before that starts to be a problem." 

John spoke in a subdued whisper of quiet, resigned dejection.

Paul shook his head, still crouched and low beside the bed. "No, John. That's not what we are going to do here. Absolutely not. I understand that you are afraid, but I already told you before we came here, that if you refused to eat, drink, take your medicine, and sleep, that we would return regardless of the progress. You cannot possibly demand as much from your high brain when you are not caring for yourself." 

He was going to pull the harsher cards soon if John would not comply. 

John looked at the plate of food he'd only nibbled at. "I don't feel good," he cried. "I f-feel bad! I am tired and sad and confused and I just want Greg! But I hurt him when I'm with him and I don't want to go back until I am feeling better! L-Let's just do the next thing. I'm o-okay."

Paul nodded, "You don't have to eat, John. But you do need to rest. I'm going to step out and talk to Mycroft for a few minutes, let you settle down and wait for your medicine to help. I know you don't feel well, John. I'm sorry, but if you can't take care of yourself I'm taking you back. I don't know that you're ready to deal with Greg just yet, so let's try and do this right, okay?"

John turned over so his back was to Paul and hugged the pillow to his chest. 

"I'll rest, but I-I don't think I'm going to sleep." 

He was more likely to break down and sob as soon as Paul left.

Paul stood up then and walked to the door, dimming the lights though there was still enough to read by and see the entire room. He closed the door after him and texted Mycroft. 

_Any luck with Greg? Do you have time to speak with me in person?_

Mycroft was in his study with his puppet strings back in his hands. Even after being gone for four months, he still had some weight he could throw around, some favors he could pull. 

_I have an obscene amount of people working on it. Come to my office._

Relieved, Paul began to head that way. Mycroft's home was large, but the staff was happy to direct him and he was soon on the second floor, knocking lightly on the door before letting himself in. 

"No word then?" 

Mycroft shook his head. "But we've the usual places under watch. Thames, high buildings... the works." He tilted the screen of his laptop down a bit to talk. He had a habit of making copies of any sort of software he desired and his position could grant him, and thus had most security cameras scanning for Greg, or people with the same bone structure in their face. 

"How's John?"

Paul shrugged as he approached the desk. "Progressing," he said easily, "I was shocked, frankly, to hear him say he wanted to leave Greg, but just in the few hours we've been here he's made startling progress. This was necessary. Can I see a feed of their flat? I am puzzled as to why Greg tossed it, he didn't seem in the condition when we left." 

"Did you bring up Sherlock?" 

It seemed irreverent to Greg to ask, but Mycroft had his priorities. Mycroft clicked away at his laptop for a moment then pulled up the feed from earlier, which began with John, Gladstone and Paul walking out the door, away from Greg, who was shaking on the floor. 

Paul nodded, "I have. He's stuck in the idea that any interaction with Sherlock will mean his _helping_ Sherlock, and he does not feel up to it. Do you have a current feed? I'd like to see the flat right now."   
He stared at the man on the ground for a moment, feeling a pang for him for the first time in a long while. Greg was not a priority, and was obviously now more in the way than helpful, but it was still sad to see. He shook his head at the image on the computer, "I still can't believe John was willing to leave him. Likely a good thing for Sherlock, though." 

"Why exactly did John leave him? What is his reason? It surprises me as well." Mycroft pulled up the correct feed and turned the laptop towards Paul.

Paul looked at the screen and then back to Mycroft. "The...the flat is fine, Mycroft," he said quietly, pointing to the rotating images of the kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom. It was obviously the correct time of day, the light from outside was fading and there was no one in attendance. Even the bed was made. John's things were gone, as Greg had packed them, but the room was cleaner than he'd seen it in some time. 

"He came back, then?" Mycroft furrowed his brow. "Perhaps second thoughts?" 

He checked a few of the other rooms and found it much the same. Things were tidy. The blankets he was used to seeing on the couch were folded and the bed no longer had a nest look about it in it's neat state. It looked unnatural. 

"Perhaps he'd pick up his phone?" Mycroft ventured and dialed the number with it on speaker.

The line rang until Paul was sure it would cut to voice mail. There was a sudden click, and a bit of rustling, until Greg's voice came over the line. 

"Whadya want, My'roft," he slurred heavily, the room around him seeming to echo. 

Mycroft breathed a short sigh of relief. "John needs you," he said sharply as if there had been some sort of incident. There wasn't, but he was willing to guess the poor bastard was distressed. Either way, he would be able to judge if this man was just drunk, strung out on painkilers and sedatives, or actively killing himself.

Paul frowned at that, sitting down and watching the feed on the screen jump from one image to the next. Greg spoke again, though he carried on with the same flat, hopeless dejection. 

"F-Fuckoff w'that, My'roft 'm too damn t'red f-fer games." 

"I'll be frank, then," Mycroft said in a tone that sounded convincingly irritated even though he was not. "We're worried you're going to kill yourself while John sobs your name in the other room. Tell me where you are, or at least what you're drinking."

Much to Paul's shock, Greg broke down on the line. There was a good deal of rustling as the phone was haphazardly moved about, mixed with the sound of broken weeping. There was no force behind it, as though Greg hardly had the energy to manage such a thing. 

"'s my...my fault," he got out, again shifting when Paul caught the clear sound of sloshing water, his heart plunging. He looked closely to the feed, cursing their lack of a clear view to the hallway. He muted the mic as Greg lost his words, sobbing in the background.

"The flat isn't just clean. Look, he's...there are no more pictures, he's taken down personal effects..." 

Greg's tone changed as he obviously was trying to speak and failing, "'s cruel, My'roft, thiz...thiz iz cruel, e-ev'n f-fer y-ou." 

"Paul, watch the feed." Mycroft sent a text while still on the phone, then clicked the mic back on. "Greg, if you are thinking of killing yourself, I need you to consider what that will do to John. If I am understanding correctly, he feels guilty. How do you think this will effect him? If he learns that you killed yourself because he left?" 

Mycroft walked to the door and swiftly made his way down the hall as quickly as he could without his intent being betrayed by footfalls over the phone.

"E left! Not tha' I blame 'im," Greg sniffed and went very quiet. "Alr'dy tidied tha flat. Tell Sh'lock I...I d-did wha' I could ta get 'im 'is John back. 'm s'rry it...t-took s-long." 

The sound of sloshing water preceded a bottle hitting the ground and breaking. Greg said nothing of it, pausing for a few seconds before speaking again. "Done t-take tha dog 'way from John 'e needs 'im." 

"Yes, and John needs you," Mycroft retorted. He muted the mic as he opened and closed his car door. 

"I need you to tell me what you are planning to do. None of this is your fault, and it isn't John's either. Are you going to punish him like this for trying to improve? What sort of message will that send?"

Greg was quiet as Mycroft's words struck him like a lead pipe across the gut. He looked over to the lid of the toilet, on which sat his standard issue side arm, a box cutter, several bottles of pills, a picture of his family, and a picture of Sherlock and John beaming at him with rosy cheeks as they leaned on the pub bar. His eyes roamed the interior of the bathroom, vision sluggish and lagging, staring at the thick layers of black rubbish bags he'd taped to the walls and lined the tub in. 

He'd already killed a bottle of scotch and was working on his second. Twice he'd been sick already, losing many of the pills he'd already swallowed, hence the reaction of the sharp blade and the pistol. He wasn't sure which he wanted, but knew when the time came it would be clear. 

"'e's n-not gunna come back 'ere, Myc- done be stup'd." 

"He has already expressed his desire to go back," Mycroft offered, though he wasn't sure if John had. Surely, he must have. 

"And you had better be there for him. Currently you are reinforcing his guilt and his negative feelings towards himself. If he learns that you killed yourself after he left to improve himself, I doubt we'll ever be able to get him back." Mycroft was speeding, but didn't give a damn. He was close, and text Miller that there most definitely was an emergency.

Greg did not answer for several minutes as silent tears streamed down his face. He reached out and picked up the pistol, noticing for the first time how terribly his hands were shaking. He thumbed the safety off, staring at the weapon. Once again he checked the black lining he'd put up behind him. A round in his mouth would stop the bullet from damaging the wall. He'd left nothing but disaster in his wake for years, he didn't need to have his final act destroy his flat. There would be money in it for his family. 

The people who used to be his family, that was. 

"'parently I was alr'dy r'nforcin' 'is neg'tive feelin's. I 'm th-pr'blem, My'roft. All this time 'n i's been _me._ " 

Mycroft left his car on the side of the road when he finally reached Greg's flat. "No, no, not at all. Not at all. You were never the problem! John explained everything to Paul. You weren't the problem at all! He told me as much." 

Mycroft didn't know what had happened in that room, but he did know that he needed Greg to keep talking.

Greg smiled to himself, finding it ironic that Mycroft was trying to lie to him now. 

"Whydya care? We alw'ys knew-id go this way. 'm ouda tha way 'n they'll be t-gether an is all f-fixed." 

He hit the drain on the tub, realizing then that he was still in his pants and undershirt. He had a _very_ clear memory of John's words, how he'd been holding John back, how John could not heal were he to be around. There was no getting around the fact that he was the problem, none at all. 

John had resisted his pleading, taken his things, and left him on the floor where he belonged. He'd given the damn box cutter a go after tossing up the pills, but the gaping lacerations running from wrist to nearly his elbow had not been deep enough, shocked at how deep the vasculature truly was. The bleeding had been heavy enough to stain the water, but failed to reach the arteries. 

"I...I'm...g-gotta go, My'roft." 

Mycroft sprinted up the steps to the third floor. "Greg, if you do this, I will not stop John from killing himself. If you do this, John will die, and so will my baby brother." 

Irritation and lies hadn't worked, and Mycroft decided perhaps a bit of his own raw emotion could buy him time. 

"I need 'Lock, he needs John, and John needs you. If you die now, you'll kill four people." 

He was at the door now, nearly tripping over himself in haste to get inside.

Mycroft's use of _baby brother_ stopped Greg dead in his tracks. He sat forward in the empty tub, head hanging, sliding the safety back on the pistol and setting it back down on the toilet lid. There was no pain in his arms, nothing physical registered much at all. The water had been freezing and he'd not realized it. He sat there in a half-soaked undershirt, stained pink at the base, leaning his head heavily against the rubbish bags. He did not believe for a second that he would effect John's survival, but he could not do this when Mycroft Holmes was begging for Sherlock's life. He could wait until Mycroft saw how pointless he was. 

"He'll die," Mycroft said and decided it was in his little 'Lock's best interests to use some of his so carefully guarded depression. 

"He's just...He has nobody. I don't count. I know how that is. Sherlock thought I was going to rape him! Me! I'm his brother! I understand what it feels like to not be good enough. Like there should be someone else doing this instead of us but when it comes down to it we're the only ones who qualify because we honestly love them and _that_ is what actually matters. I...When he was young, still my...my little 'Lock, he had nobody but me. Now he needs John. If you kill yourself you're killing him too!" 

He walked quietly into the house then, giving Greg something to talk about while he worked his way to the bathroom.

Greg hung his head and simply breathed, "I'm sorry...I...I'll w-wait."

Mycroft was in the bathroom just a millisecond later and lunged for the weapon. "Greg, think about this!" 

Greg nearly jumped from his skin. The safety was engaged and he'd already agreed to wait. He did not struggle, showing Mycroft to take the pistol.

"W-wha'terya doin' 'ere?" He slurred, tears straining his face and elbows dripping with slow, heavy blood.

Mycroft had already texted Miller, who was likely just a few moments behind. He grabbed a washcloth and took Greg's left arm, which seemed to have the deepest cuts. 

"I'm keeping you from killing John and Sherlock," he snapped. 

Greg physically reeled at that, wrenching his arm free from Mycroft, the air gone from his lungs. 

"G-go 'way! Go! G-Get th-f'ck out!" 

He could hardly manage to say anything coherent, struck down hard from the vicious words. He was doing this to spare them all, to give John back, to set it right as it was supposed to be. This was the plan for him, how was Mycroft doing this?

"Greg, stop!" Mycroft sat back on his heels and ran his hands back through his hair. 

"You can not leave me alone to handle this. I don't know what to do! I've got Sherlock an aid because I can't do this on my own. How do you think I can keep John too? Do you think he'll just instantly bond to Sherlock when you died? I want him bonded to Sherlock. Yes. That is what I want. But I want you to be there to help if things go wrong. You've been keeping tabs on Sherlock with me for nearly ten years. I will not let you kill yourself when I have a debt."

"John left _ME_ ," he shouted in agonized loss, holding out his bloodied hands as though asking what the fuck Mycroft wanted him to do, "he doesn't wan' me an'more! Can't heal with me 'round! John lef' _ME!_ " 

He sat there trembling, openly gasping for air through the blinding pain of it all. Of all the things in the world, he'd never thought John would hug him and leave him sobbing on the floor. He couldn't keep his family, and he couldn't keep John. The loss was crippling, had cut him down hard and fast. 

"We always planned fer me t' die! I'm- I'll fuckin' _wait_ if-tha's what you want!"

"I hadn't _planned_ on you dying..." Mycroft interjected. But he had expected it. That had been his plan, right? Move John's affections from Greg to Sherlock. Who cares if he killed Greg in the process. 

"Just...Look, why don't the three of you just live together?" 

He was grasping at straws as he anxiously waited for backup.

Greg tore his hands through his hair, streaking it with clotting blood. He tore at the locks, tears flooding down his face. "He's done with me, My'roft! The f-fuck d-you 'spect me to do?! John chose! John l-lef' me b-begging on th-floor. JOHN CHOSE!" 

Miller sent a text to Mycroft. 

_Five minutes out._

"Y-said...s-said f-feels like some'n else should do this...but John _left me._ You don' have-a use fer me an'more!" 

Mycroft took a slow breath. "Fine. If you really think that John will survive your death, then go ahead and bleed. I guess I can't stop you. But if John kills himself, and Sherlock follows as we both know DAMN WELL he will, then it is on YOUR HEAD, not mine!"

Greg stared at Mycroft for a few seconds, soaking in the confirmation that he had no purpose other than to bridge the gap between Sherlock and John, had no other value outside of what he could provide Mycroft. He'd thought, over the last year, that they'd forged something akin to friendship. It was good to know he'd be leaving absolutely nothing behind. 

His arms had mostly quit bleeding for the most part, just the slow, lazy drip of venous oozing that managed to work around the alcohol-thinned clots. He'd have to shoot himself to get the job done. 

"I s-said I'll wait," he whispered, drenched in horrific, gutting hopelessness. "P-Please l-let me 'lone, I un-uners'and what you w-wan' from m-me." _Fucking worthless, Greg. Fucking worthless._

Mycroft sat down on the floor and leaned against the sink. "I don't mean to degrade you and subtract from your worth. You are a human being. You deserve to live a happy life. I don't plan on taking you away from John."

Greg lost hold of a choked sob. "He's alr'dy gone," he managed to say around the boulder in his throat. "Why would y-wan' me 'round 'im when all...all this time I..." he closed his eyes, still sitting in the tub that was swiftly becoming disgusting with random streaks of clotted blood. 

_Can't even kill yourself properly._ "I th-thought...was _helping_. I...I w's holdin' 'im back! I's been _m-me_." 

He shook his head, staring down at his lap. "Y-sh'ld go home, Sh-lock needs...I don't wan't h-his fear on m-my head too. No m-more room for guilt. I- god I...I was-tha _probl'm_ " 

He clutched at his chest, fingers clawing into the material over his heart, leaving a smeared, rusted print there as pain so visceral it felt as a knife through his ribs took his breath away. 

"I have a doctor coming. You are going to get cleaned up, patched up, and get some sleep. I will be watching. The whole Yard is out watching bridges, worried you're going to jump. _Sally Donovan_ is looking for you. I called in every last favor I had. I want you to recover and work with John about this guilt. It's what is holding him back clearly, and that is not your fault! Moriarty beat it into him, I'm sure!" 

Mycroft stood then and looked down at Greg. "None of this is your fault."

Greg could hardly breathe. He never asked for that. Betrayed anger tore through him and he staggered to his feet in the tub, sheet-white and shuddering with shock and cold, wrapped in debilitating pain. 

"I d-did this f-fer _you_ you f-fucking bastard. I d-did this for them, f-for-" he shook his head, looking away. "I h-hope, g-god fer y-yer sake I hope y-you nev'r watch yer brother tell y-you yer the f-fucking _problem_ after all-" He stumbled back as his knees threatened to give out, grabbing hold of the rubbish bags he'd intended to keep any mess he made from inconveniencing anyone. 

"Wh-when the're settled 'n you know 'e doesn't r-rememb'r me, f-fucking tell me so I c-can stop." 

"Fine," Mycroft hissed through gritted teeth. He'd wanted so badly to be the good guy in this. It felt awfully wrong to use Greg after everything he had done for Sherlock over the years; all the gutters he'd pulled him out of, all the potential overdoses he'd stopped. But if he was going to be the bad guy in this story, he might as well embrace it. 

"Fine. When it is safe for their health for you to die, I will let you know. Until then, you will continue being the only thing in John's life that keeps him sane."

Greg sucked down a breath as though struck, nodding as Mycroft made it abundantly clear they had nothing at all of a relationship. He felt the loss of yet another imagined friend and decided he was not going to spend another moment until he was allowed to put a bullet in his brain sober. He flicked his eyes up to Mycroft, taking in the disappointed anger. 

It was fitting. That's what he was to literally everyone he knew: disappointing. 

He reached out with a quaking hand and took hold of a towel, pulling it to his chest. What more was there to say? He'd been a fool to think for a second that a man like Mycroft Holmes would give a single fuck. 

Mycroft felt, overall, like a horrible person. But he needed Greg functioning. He needed John functioning. He needed to not be alone in all this. 

"It was recommended that I let you die," he said in an empty voice. "But that was never an option to me. I do wish, even if you are no longer...useful...that you continue living if it is convenient for you." Mycroft realized he still held Greg's gun and set it down on the counter. 

"Though I understand the allure of peace."

Greg heard the front door open and close as Miller came in. "R-Recommended..." he closed his eyes as his heart rolled over in his chest. Who said it? Who had decided...god what if it had been John? He could hear him say it, hear him recommend they just let Greg go away. Maybe he actively hated him now. He dropped his eyes to the two photographs sitting beside the tub, wishing bitterly that he'd just pulled the trigger. If someone outside of John was recommending that Greg just be killed, then the idea that he was needed was utter shite. 

Greg had never, in his entire existence, felt so crushingly alone. 

He stared at Mycroft, tears spilling down his face, forced to live in this hell. "I...f-feel free t' scoff, but I’d counted you a fr'end. I..." he cracked a horrible, bitter laugh. Miller came into the doorway, sweeping his eyes over the macabre scene. 

"You put your own drop-cloth down to kill yourself?" He blurted out, honestly surprised at that. Greg slid his eyes over to Miller before looking behind him. He spoke to the rubbish bags, touching them wistfully, 

"Th-thought I'd try not ta leave a mess fer once," he whispered, hardly able to breathe through the hell of it.

Mycroft took a step back. He never considered himself one to make friends. He had allies. That was what he had. He had useful people he could trust. 

"You helped my little brother when nobody else would," he said with far more emotion in his voice than he'd intended. He backed up for Miller and watched Greg with intense worry on his face. "And I'd rather you not be dead. Could we get you help? Paul? Medication?"

"G-Go 'way," Greg responded, failing to contain the overwhelming heartbreak, "'an tell John...if-f he was tha one t' make the recommendation, that I'll g-go whenever 'e's ready. I l-loved him." 

His voice was a shattered mess, staring at Mycroft with such agony he could hardly breathe. How had his entire world collapsed so completely? He'd been a faithful husband, a dutiful, loving father, and he'd given every single thing he had to John and Sherlock. Yet still, _still_ , he was nothing more than a take-away box, useful until the meal was gone, and then utterly forgotten. 

Miller was guiding him to sit back down in the tub, looking at the single, long laceration to each arm. Greg did not fight him, sinking down, watching as Miller pushed aside the pictures of his family and Sherlock and John, tracking them as they fluttered to the floor. 

"'m s-sorry I f-failed so...god s-so terr'bly, I...I only ever wanted t-help." 

"No, no, it wasn't John. John would not say that. I'm certain." 

Mycroft vowed that he would not become like this. He wouldn't let it drag him down so far. "It's going to be alright," he said softly then, and reached out a hand to place on Greg's shoulder. "It will get better. Things will be better soon, I promise. I will make sure you have a place in his life if you want it. Would the two of you like to live in my house permanently? It's always open. And the flat will continue to be yours. I'm trying, Greg."

Greg flinched back from kindness, though he craved it more than air, knowing it to be false. Mycroft did not _care_ , he was ensuring that if Greg was temporarily needed, he'd be there. The kindness in Mycroft's voice slipped in right past his defenses despite himself, reaching down and tearing another agonized sob from the depths of his chest. 

"John d-doesn't _want me an'more_ , none of what I- m-my thought's don't..." he'd move to North Korea if that's what John asked of him. He'd have followed John into hell and back, would have walked into traffic, jumped off the building, anything to help, anything. 

_This isn't for me! I don't understand!_

_I can't stop feeling like I deserve it when I'm with you!_

He closed his eyes as another sob tore it's way out of his throat, oblivious to Miller starting in the process of stitching the gaping lacerations slicing up his forearms. "It w-would be cruel t-subject...John t- t-me again. I...I m-make 'im feel like 'e deserved it! Like 'e _deserved it!_ Y-You shoulda let me..." he shook his head, looking back down to his lap.   
Mycroft looked to the black bags on the wall behind Greg's head then back to his broken ally. 

"Do you remember when Sherlock first started with the Yard? How insufferable everyone thought he was and how quickly he solved cases? I remember you listened to me after a while and started watching him. You were the only one willing to help him. He had nobody else, and wouldn't let me near him. You saved his life so many times and for that I owe you a debt. If there is anything, save taking your life, that I can do to make this easier for you, tell me."

Greg kept his eyes to the pictures on the ground, breathing tight and shallow in the overwhelming loss.

"D-Debt absolved," he breathed, never taking his eyes off the picture of John’s face. 

He didn't want this to be a rough mix of favors owed and not. Mycroft could cut the money, stop paying the rent, leave Greg on the streets for all he gave a fuck. He had lost everything. _Everything._

Mycroft gave a small nod. "Understood. Let me know." He stood back again and text Paul. 

_Slit arms, drunk, in tub with bags to make the blood splatters manageable. Surrounded by a gun and pictures of his family, Sherlock, and John. Alive._

Greg sat there, docile and shivering in the bloodied tub, allowing Miller to do what he wanted. It wasn't a surprise, but the loss of the illusion of Mycroft's friendship was a blow he had not been prepared to absorb. Quiet tears continued rolling down his face, despising himself for not eating the round. 

Paul responded to Mycroft in the next minute. 

_No shock there, other than his survival. We can't let John near him now._

Mycroft ended up leaning back against the wall as the adrenaline left him and he began to grow weary. 

_I will not forcibly keep them apart._

Miller finished the row of sutures on both arms, covering and wrapping the wounds before reaching down and pulling Greg up, helping him out of the disgusting shirt and dropping it to the tub. He helped him back to the immaculate bedroom, helped him into a change of clothes, and left him sitting on the bed. He returned to Mycroft then. 

"Well...he's cleaned up as much as I could manage. Not much more I can do for him. He has enough for pain for the next day, but if I leave more it could be a fatal dose." 

Paul returned the text after a few minutes. 

_John won't ask to see him for a while, anyhow. I'll just push Sherlock._

_The more you can endear him to Sherlock during this, the better._

Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair and breathed a long, slow exhale. "Take the medication, will you? I'm keeping his gun and he won't be let out of my sight, but I don't want him to have an easy way out." 

He thanked Miller then, and went to Greg's room. 

Silently he entered and sat next to Greg on his bed, eyes low, heart aching.

Greg did not look at him, nor did he speak. He ached for John, for the dog, for the routine of sleep. His room felt as empty as it had the night his wife and children had left him. He could not move forward, nor could he stop. 

"I told you I'd wait," he breathed, voice heavy and laden with intense grief, "what more d'ya want from me, My'roft?" He braced for whatever threat or lecture he was sure to receive.

_Thank you for not letting me kill myself._

_I love you!_

_You make me feel like I deserve it!_

He whimpered as horrific pain ripped across his gut, making him wrap his arm across his stomach as he leaned forward, fingers clutching at the duvet that was clean now, no longer smelling of John. 

"Please," he whispered, tears streaking down his face, "I know you're angry, please just...please." 

Mycroft reached over and gently put his arm around Greg's shoulders. 

"I am not angry with you," he said calmly. "I am greatly frightened to be alone in this. I've counted you as an ally for years now. I don't know how to manage Sherlock without you. I don't know how John will survive if you die. There's nobody who knows what this is like except you and I. I know you think me cold. I am cold. But I do value your life."

Actively and bitterly loathing himself, he leaned slightly into Mycroft as he so cruelly offered comfort. "I know where I stand, My'roft. You've never wanted m-my help or-" he shook his head, covering his face with his hands. 

"I was hurting him. I was hurting John. All this time I've....e-everyone leaves me. I am h-hateful, so f-fucking _worthless_ ," he hissed the word with all the self-loathing he could muster, wishing Mycroft would start physically hurting him in that moment so that he could begin to atone for how horrific he was. 

"He...he's _gone_. I- j-just like...like that. Just...I thought...I tried...I..." his breathing spun out on him and his heart bled for want of John back. "I d-don't even know what I _did_. I...m-my best, the whole...that's as good as I could have done. That's all I h-had and it w-wasn't...god it's n-never enough. He chose scared and alone over...over enduring..." he made a messy gesture to himself and shook his head, nearly double in the blistering pain of it. 

"That is not what happened! If this is your fault, then Sherlock thinking that I was about to abuse him is my fault. Then his depression is my fault. I would very much like to think that it is not. Greg, you are hurting. You are in so much pain. Lie down and rest for a bit. I'm going to send someone over who I trust that you can talk to about this. Would that help at all? You can sort things out and make a plan. I can help you make a plan, if you want." 

Mycroft felt awkward comforting, as he always had, but for now it was acceptable. He'd gotten used to comforting and holding Sherlock. This wasn't _entirely_ different.  
Greg shook his head, leaning away from Mycroft. He went to his side, hardly managing to breathe. How the hell was he going to sleep knowing that he'd hurt and then lost John? He didn't want anyone over at his flat, he fully intended to lie in that bed until his heart stopped. 

"Please don't s-send anyone," he whispered in the darkness, unable to hold back his agony as he dissolved into tears, despising his bed without John in it. 

"I w-won't do anything until y-you see that you don't n-need me anymore." 

Mycroft did not trust the man's promise, and though he knew he should get back home in case Sherlock woke, he did not want to leave Greg in such a state. This entire ordeal had softened him, and he identified most with Greg, a fellow caretaker. 

"I'm going to stay for a bit, then. Could we make a plan of what you're going to do?"

Greg held his arms, which were starting to throb horribly, close around his gut. He stared across the room, thinking of John and his birds. 

_You have to go slow with him._

Did he push too hard? 

_He knows there's a barrier, and I'm just slowly showing him it's safe._

He was too fast, pushed too hard. 

_I hurt you and then I feel like I deserved it!_

And been open...and pathetically thinned skinned...and failed to keep it all under wraps. 

He blinked in the darkness, shivering on his sides. "Plan?" He repeated with no inflection whatsoever, his voice hardly audible. 

"Wh-What could I p-possibly plan? I'll...st-stay here until you see you don't n-need me, until I...until you don't h-hate me for...until Sherlock and John are-" he could hardly finish a thought, so wrapped up in loss and self-hatred he could scarcely hold on to his sanity. He found himself missing the music he and John took to listening to every night, missed the weight of the dog, the warmth of John tucked under his chin. 

But he deserved this. He'd so terribly messed up, and now John was hurting because of him, and he knew the pain in his arms wasn't enough to pay for what he'd done. 

Mycroft had no idea how to handle this. "It will get better," he whispered. "John still loves you very much. And you won't be forced away when he is ready for Sherlock."

Greg just carried on staring across his empty room, breathing shallow and swift. There was not a drop of hope in him. Nothing. That had torn from him when John got up and walked out of his life, letting him know he'd been hurting him all along.

Mycroft stared at his hands in his lap.   
"I'm sorry. I'm not intending to make you feel badly. I understand this. I would like to make a plan. Here, just listen for a moment." 

Mycroft tried to word what he wanted to happen in such a way that perhaps Greg would agree. 

"We'll get you two back together. You'll know now that when he is upset, he feels like he's hurting you. You'll know to act accordingly. I know it's asking a lot, but if you could try and be...happy...when he's worried he's hurting you, perhaps he will feel less guilty. I am confident you have always done that. By now you have new information. He didn't tell you this before. There was nothing you could have done differently. But now you're more understanding and it will be alright. After he's had some time, and Sherlock is getting better, I propose you and John come live in a room together for a while and make the occasional visit to Sherlock's room. Perhaps share meals together. It'll be alright."

Greg was silent for a few minutes before speaking without moving. "He's done with me," he whispered, his mind trailing back to how he'd tried to get John to stay, how he'd fallen apart, dissolving into tears and clinging to him. 

"I always tried...tried to be pretend to be happy, but he always knew it was a lie. Just go home, Mycroft. I'm not part of this picture anymore." 

His voice was distant, detached and numb. He severely doubted he'd have it in him to wait. This was far too much. He could not hide his pain from John, and John in turn had decided he no longer wanted him. 

"I know this is my fault, alright? I know I should be a better actor, a....a b-better man in general, really. But I'm not. I could never pull it off. He's already _gone_. He _left_." 

He wondered how Mycroft would fare in the same situation, if his brother told him he was the problem, that all his stupid efforts only resulted in brilliant failure, and chose to live and heal alone rather than be forced to...

He closed his eyes, heavy, devastated tears rolling down his face, hoping to god he'd die of infection.

Mycroft stopped and leaned over to give him a slightly awkward, but well intentioned hug. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I am very, very sorry. Moriarty got to us all. He got to you, and me, and John, and Sherlock, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. He did this. He did it all. None of this is your fault. It's no more your fault than it is Sherlock's fault that John got captured. Yes, technically, John's torture was the product of their friendship, but Sherlock is not to blame. You are not to blame for this." 

Mycroft leaned away then, face wrecked, eyes tired and grey streaking his hair near the temples. "I'm not doing well either," Mycroft said softly. "But I'm the only thing that comforts him."

Greg nodded slowly, though he did not otherwise move. "I don't do that fer John anymore. Not anymore." 

God, how it hurt to know that. He chewed the inside of his lip and closed his eyes, deeply disappointed he was still alive. 

"Greg..." Mycroft could not think of anything else to say. It had been incredibly depressing to see Greg go from the hopeful, strategic man he'd known to this broken shell. "Nothing. I have nothing. I want to help, but I have nothing. I'm sure you understand that. Would you please, please, clean yourself up and try and hope?"

Greg still did not move, staring as he had been across the room. "I told you I'd wait," he repeated in the same tone, his voice very quiet and heavy. 

"I'll wait."

Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair and leaned over to rest his head in his hands, and his elbows on his knees. "Will you come stay at my home? Please?"

Greg's brows pulled together in surprise at that, looking down at Mycroft. "What the hell for?" He asked, the question honest and confused. John didn't want to see him anymore, had fully moved out. He'd taken all of his things and gone away. 

"You understand he does not want to live with me anymore, right? He's gone, he doesn't want to physically be around me." 

"I think it's temporary," Mycroft said softly. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you. You are my only true ally in this. There is no one else. Sherlock has a mother who doesn't know about this. We have a father who has not seen the scars. I have absolutely nobody who I'm not paying to help me. John...if he has truly moved away from you, I'll understand. But when I was outside his door, all I heard was your name being sobbed." 

Greg blinked down at Mycroft, speaking very softly. "Likely from what I've done to him." The thought of John bemoaning his time exposed to Greg was horrific. "I..how can I go be in the same...same house as him and not see him? What if I hear him crying, or frightened? It's hell enough as it is right now, I'd never...I couldn't handle...Sherlock is a stronger man than I am, Mycroft. I couldn't know that John was hurting, but wouldn't see me." He looked away, shaking his head, 

"You have enough to take care of, I'm not good to you anymore." 

Mycroft's priority was his brother. It always had been. Greg had been a tool all these years, but recent events had rocked him. He was growing attached to people. He was crying over his brother each time he went to sleep. He wasn't eating, was forgetting to sleep. The loss of his clarity was taking it's toll, and he was beginning to grasp at straws. 

"Alright. I have to go back to Sherlock now, then. Please, don't kill yourself. Do you trust my knowledge or intelligence to any degree?"

Greg returned his focus to across the room, curling in tighter on himself. "I said I'd wait. Many times. I'll wait, My'roft, I'll wait. Go take care of Sherlock, he needs you." 

"I'll watch John on camera," Mycroft said as he stood and walked to the door. "And I'll let you know if anything important happens."

Greg did not particularly respond to that. It would be good to know John was healing. It would. But in Greg's perception of the situation, he'd already lost him for good. He did not hold a drop of hope that he'd ever seen John again. This was a favor to Mycroft, and nothing more. 

Mycroft reluctantly turned and left the room for his own home as stressful thoughts and questions plagued him. 

When he went home, he immediately headed for Sherlock's room.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock had been in debilitating state of panic for the last half hour. He'd woken to find his brother gone, and simply forced himself to stay exactly as he was and wait. Mycroft was always back in a short period of time, and he just needed to wait. Each passing minute piled tension on the thin lid keeping terror at bay, and it had long since crumbled under the weight, He lay there with his raw fingers to his lips, entire back flexed tight. The effort of keeping the defensive posture was forcing him to take shallow, whinging breaths, tears slowly dripping off the side of his nose, eyes pinched tight. He had not responded to anything, only wanting his brother. 

Mycroft opened the door to his room and paused to take in Sherlock's state. When he saw the tears, he rushed over with heartbreak etching away at his chest. "'Lock," he muttered and crawled into bed beside him. "I'm here. I'm here." 

He wasted no time and picked Sherlock fully up off the bed and cradled him in his lap. "I've got you. I didn't leave you."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother and pressed his face to Mycroft's chest, whimpering as a full bodied shudder of relief washed over him. He tucked in as tight as he could, shivering as he clung to the fabric of Mycroft's shirt, slowly trying to relax his body. He did not speak as he began to come down from the crippling fear. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Mycroft whispered and rocked at the speed he wanted Sherlock to breathe. "I had to go check on Greg and John. I'm back now. I'm here. Everything is okay."

Sherlock nodded while he put his focus to calming his breathing down, jerking lightly at the pain in his knotted back. 

"I...I g-got lost," he whimpered, tightening his arms around Mycroft. Moran had been making more and more appearances in the last few days, taunting him as vivid auditory, and worse still _visual_ hallucinations. He'd forgotten several times in the last week where he was and who he was with. He'd yet to negatively react to Jared, though he'd basically refused to speak with him or acknowledge him at all. 

Mycroft dropped his face down and buried it in Sherlock's shoulder. He was stressed, tired, frightened, and still very, very raw. "I know. I should have been here. I'm sorry. If I am doing something that hurts you let me know."

It took Sherlock a little while to come down, but he did not scream, nor did he dissolve into tears. Mycroft's presence had done wonders all on its own to settle him back down, and Jared's efforts while Mycroft was gone had done enough despite his lack of response, to keep Sherlock's head just above the flood of panic. 

He slowly eased his desperate hold and after a little while was simply resting against Mycroft's chest, breathing deep and slow, finally thinking about what happened. "Y-You...w-went to Greg's? You s-saw John? Is he...ok-kay?"

"Yes, John is a bit sad, but doing quite well. He's working through some things. As it turns out..." He didn't know how much he could tell his brother without getting a negative reaction. 

"He was thinking that it was his fault that he was hurt, and he's beginning to accept that it was not. It's a great improvement, really. It will help him greatly."

Sherlock frowned as Mycroft spoke, not understanding. His mind raced through the footage he'd seen, providing the memories of the tapes with the corresponding pain and fear he'd felt while watching them, in as sudden, overwhelming rush. He shivered and pinched his eyes shut, trying to block it out. 

"H-How could h-he.. _.his f-fault_? I...I don't understand how..." he trailed off, struggling with phantom pain. With another full-bodied shudder he wondered how poorly John must think of him, were that the case? If they were somehow responsible for what happened. 

"We believe it was another thing that Moriarty programmed into him, but don't worry." Mycroft pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. "He's fixed it. He's become aware of it and accepted that it is wrong. That is the hardest part, I'm sure. He's doing much better. How are you feeling?"

"Envious." 

Sherlock whispered with shame, surprised at the jealousy that momentarily tore through him at Mycroft's ability to see John. He covered his face with a shaking hand and turned more to Mycroft, whispering sadly, 

"I'm sorry, I'm...that's h-horrible of m-me." 

He knew that Mycroft had been suffering, and he'd done his best to work with Jared instead of Mycroft, but the fear and the terrible hallucinations had made the last few days extremely hard. He'd attempted to play chess with Jared each day, but he'd often be lost to reality within fifteen minutes of starting the game. 

"If you want, I can tell you about him. If not, we can go to a new topic. It is always your choice, 'Lock. Which would make you feel better? Which do you want?" 

After Greg's mishap and sudden loss of John, Mycroft was being even more careful than usual.

Sherlock shook his head and hung to Mycroft, tempted but ultimately too afraid to hear about John. He shifted slowly so that most of his body was back on the bed, tugging Mycroft to lie down beside him. He pressed his ear over Mycroft's heart to listen to his heartbeat, still and quiet. 

Mycroft did everything in his power to be calm and comforting. He pet Sherlock's hair that was now the proper length and clean, if not a bit sweaty. He rocked back and forth a bit. He held Sherlock close. But in the end, he still felt as if he was doing something terribly wrong and could not see it. 

It took Sherlock many minutes to build up the courage to speak to his brother again. Mycroft's gentle touch and comforting grip were wildly soothing and Sherlock was loath to let go, wanting to keep the almost-calm between them. He kept his face tucked over Mycroft's heart while his fingers found their way up to the side of Mycroft's neck, gently resting there. 

"My?" 

Mycroft hummed in response, lost in thought, then shook himself and answered properly. "Yes? What is it? Is something up? 

Sherlock's fingers flexed involuntarily against the side of Mycroft's neck, his heart squeezing tight in his chest at Mycroft's unexpected and unusually scattered reply. He kept his head down, scared to see Mycroft's face. 

"C-Can I ask you s-something?"   
Mycroft turned a bit to try and look at Sherlock. "Yeah, of course. Always." 

His heart began to hammer. But surely, Sherlock wouldn't want to leave him. Then again, he'd thought the same about John.

Sherlock felt his brother's pulse sky-rocket and he whimpered, pressing his face against Mycroft's chest as he held his brother in a desperate grip, his own heart trying to match Mycroft's. 

"A-Are you ill," he sobbed, hooking his leg over Mycroft's and trying to pull him closer, utterly terrified that there was some sickness threatening Mycroft. 

Mycroft let out the breath he'd been unknowing holding in a rush. "No, no, I'm not ill. I'm just worried about you." He returned Sherlock's eagerness of holding. 

"I'm just worried about you. I'm frightened that I'm not doing things right and that you will wish to leave me." He might as well be honest. 

Sherlock could not even fathom a situation where he wouldn't want Mycroft there. Even if John himself were to walk into the room, at this point, Sherlock would absolutely require Mycroft to stay with them until he once again learned to trust the man. John...he was pained for John's love and company, but he'd been a frightening experience the last he'd seen him. He would need time. 

" _L-Leave you_ ," Sherlock breathed in a rush, incredulous and tightening his grip, pressing hard to Mycroft's chest in an effort to get closer. The words made his stomach roll and Moran began to laugh in the background.

_Reverse psychology, Sherlyboy, big brother wants out and is trying to make it look like your idea. He thinks you're stupid. Slow. Too daft to sort it out._

He whimpered and shook his head, tears very silently clinging to his lashes. "N-No! No I- please, My, n-no you're...please d-don't go. I would n-never want y-you to go e-even if-f..." his hands began to shake with the force of his grip, "g-god you could b-beat me wh-when you're angry and I'd n-never want...no...g-god don't l-leave." 

Mycroft was caught between relief and horror. The former that Sherlock did not wish him gone, and the later because Sherlock would remain with him even if he was abusive. 

"I'm not leaving! I promise! I just...I was worried that..." 

He stammered and stopped. Usually, he was able to plan out paragraphs and arguments in his mind in just seconds. Now, he struggled for words. 

"I was worried you would start to hate me, or that I was making things more difficult for you. But I'm here now. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't want to leave. I was scared _you'd_ want to."

Sherlock forced himself to sit up, pulling his head away from Mycroft's chest and sitting up independently, though still as close to Mycroft as he could be. He looked him over, even as he himself sat there shivering, taking in the weigh Mycroft continued to shed, the deep lines of worry, and the gray beginning to streak through his hair. He reached down to take Mycroft's hand, wrapping his crooked fingers around Mycroft's wrist to subtly measure his pulse. 

It was there that Sherlock realized Mycroft had blood smeared on his sleeve and the underside of his watch, even swiped across the watch face. His full attention zeroed in on his brother, ears snapping to a shrill ring and hands trembling. 

"What happened," he demanded breathlessly, shoving Mycroft's sleeve up to seek out injury, "y-you said you w-went to s-s-see John _what h-happened what happened!_ " 

Mycroft had never once in his adult life been so careless, but he was so stressed he'd forgotten he'd tried to stop Greg's bleeding and hauled him off to bed. 

"Nothing," Mycroft said and channeled what little politician he had left to sound gentle. "It's not John's blood. Greg just had a bit of an accident while cooking. It scared John a bit. He called me to come help."

Sherlock went very still as his mind raced, eyes unfocusing and hopping back and forth like a man dreaming. 

_Mycroft is frightened_ I'll _leave_ him _._

_John doesn't like phone calls._

_Paul lives with Greg and John._

_It was serious for Mycroft, who doesn't leave to go to the lav without telling me, to leave the house!_

_He's lying, he's lying about something, what is it? Think!_

He suddenly came back to himself, his hands quaking, making the muscles at his shoulders burn with swift exhaustion. He grit his teeth and shook his head, obviously struggling very hard to puzzle it out. "N-No that..." he trailed off before he suddenly opened his eyes very wide, struck with the realization, "Oh! _Oh...n-no_...My where...wh-where is J-John? _Where is John_?!"

"I told you, he..." Mycroft realized the futility of lying quite swiftly and dropped his head. 

"He's down the hall. He asked to not be around Greg for a while. He said that...something about Greg making him feel guilty and since he's working on not feeling guilty he wanted to leave and Greg..." 

He rolled his sleeve up to hide the blood Sherlock could already see. "He did not take it well. He's alright now, though. I'm sorry. Everyone is fine now. There was just a little incident."

Sherlock turned wide eyes on Jared as though seeking confirmation, looking back to his brother and swallowing his heart back down. 

_John left Greg._

_John_

_Left_ Greg. 

His mind nearly shorted out on him. How...how could that have...and it frightened Mycroft so..."Did...n-no, _no_ that..." he shook his head as his entire body began to shake, hardly able to form the words. "Did G-Greg _hurt h-him_?"

"No, no, Greg _never_ hurt John. He was very, very upset about this. John is too. He...I think he said he needed time away so he could work on something on his own. But...Yes, John left Greg, though I doubt it is forever." 

Mycroft was gripping Sherlock just a bit too tightly. "I was afraid that you would do the same. I'm sorry I'm stressing you."

Sherlock could hardly imagine a scenario where he chose to be alone over the company of his brother. He shook his head, openly troubled and confused. 

"C-Can I t-talk to him? To J-John? He...oh g-g-god he must be so afraid! Why...why would he l-leave...I...I don't understand! Why would..." he trailed off, raking his hands through his hair. Greg was bleeding. There had been...

_He was very, very upset…_

"G-Greg? What...he's..he..." again Sherlock dragged Mycroft's hand back, trying and failing to figure out where blood came to fit in all of this. He looked to Mycroft and then to Jared. "J-John is h-here." 

"Greg is alright now. He just had a bit of a panic attack." It seemed to be a good way to word it, and in no way accurately described what was happening to that poor bastard. 

"I do not suggest you go see him, Sherlock. He's probably very unstable, scared, and since he's working through some things, he's probably going to be upset. I know that him being upset scares you, and I don't want you to be afraid."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and slowly laid back down beside Mycroft, feeling terrible. 

"This isn't h-how...it's supposed to b-be! I...I w-went...I...and h-he...he took _e-everything_ and J-John was s-supposed to b-be happy with G-Greg! I don't understand!" 

He turned his face back to Mycroft's chest, breathing tight and fast. He'd given himself to Moran to secure Greg and John, and now John was in his brother's home, refusing to see Greg. It had been stupid to suggest that John talk to _him_ , he already knew John was...that John...

He broke down, sobbing quietly, muffled by Mycroft's shirt. "I don't understand!

Mycroft clicked some soft music on his phone and spoke kindly. "It's okay, little 'Lock. I'm here. What happened was John is taking some time off. He's been with Greg every waking second for almost a year. It was bound to happen eventually. Just some time away while John sorts things out. He's still happy with him. He's safe here."

Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips and kept his eyes closed, quiet for the better of twenty minutes. 

"G-Greg had t-to have done...d-done s-something. He...he h-had to h-have done..." he trailed off, trying to sort out what could possibly drive John here.   
"H-he _hates me_ , he w-would h-h-have had to b-b-be _t-terrified_ to c-come here w-willingly! G-Greg hurt h-himself so...so...My! G-Greg had t-to have hurt him! H-Has Miller...oh g-god, John...oh John...he...he m-must be so s-scared!" 

"Greg didn't do anything wrong," Mycroft asserted again, but could tell it was rolling right off Sherlock's back. "Yes, John is scared. But he has Paul and Gladstone. He's going to be alright for a while until he goes back to Greg, or Greg comes here. Could we talk about something else? I don't want to upset you."

Sherlock bit at his lips, pinching his eyes closed as Mycroft shut the conversation down. He went very quiet and held on to Mycroft's shirt as though afraid Mycroft would get up and walk away from him. John was down the hall. _John was down the hall_. So close, but so incredibly far away, and Greg had done something but Mycroft was hiding it. 

Paranoia kicked in hard and he felt fear for his safety creep in ice-cold at his back. He pulled himself closer to Mycroft, not daring to speak. 

"Sherlock, it's okay to talk. If you want to keep talking about this, I will, but I don't want to upset you. I'm afraid I'm going to upset you. Are you alright?" 

He tried to get Sherlock to look at him, but was not succeeding.

Sherlock had to take several deep breaths to shove Moran from his mind long enough to comply. He looked up at Mycroft with wet, frightened eyes. 

"I d-don't _understand_! He loved...they...he _l-loved_ Greg how...why would he leave? What if-f...I don't want you to leave! I don't understand h-how...what if-f there is s-something...someone...m-maybe...and th-then..." 

His eyes clouded over as the clearly audible _crack_ of a whip rang out and he instinctively jumped, whimpering and clutching tighter to Mycroft. Just as he had several times that week already, he pulled at his brother to warn him of what was happening. 

"M-My! I h-hear-" the shocking strike of a whip parting skin overwhelmed his hearing once more. 

_John is scared. John is scared. John is-_

_Greg is bleeding-_

_John is-_

_Mycroft might-_

_I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm_ "ok-k-kay, I'm-m o-ok-kay..." 

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and decided that was about enough of that. "You're okay," he confirmed seriously and pulled the blankets up to form a shell around him. "I promise. Nobody is hurting anyone. John is safe, Greg is safe, and you are safe."

Sherlock immediately shifted down into the blankets, hiding against Mycroft. He bit at his fingers and forced himself to listen to Mycroft's heart, which nearly always overrode the phantom sounds of the worst hell he'd ever known. Mycroft was warm, and safe, and he would never allow anyone to hurt him again. 

He was quiet for the next half hour, falling into a doze before startling awake again. "Y-You...you're st-still losing w-weight," he whispered, too frightened to talk about Greg or John. 

"I'll have a cake made," Mycroft whispered in response. "I don't like..." He was going to say that he didn't like eating when Sherlock could not, but thought better of it. "I don't like wasting time on it. I'd rather do other things. I'm turning into you."

Sherlock found that idea horrible. He'd been what? _What_? Nothing at all, truly, when he looked back on it. A boy playing with a rubix cube, compared to Mycroft's work. Mycroft played on a field Sherlock couldn't hope to ever win, given the social prowess required for government puppeteer. He'd shot up and chased small time criminals, hurt those around him and left little of anything important in his wake. 

"D-Don't...don't b-be me. I'm...wh-what a _waste_ don't b-be me!" 

"It wouldn't be such a bad thing," Mycroft remarked. Of course, he'd have done things very differently. He would have sought out a relationship with John, if he were Sherlock. Or perhaps Molly. He couldn't be sure. Mycroft himself had no desire for a relationship, and found the idea both laughable and utterly horrible, but it was what he would have chosen for Sherlock. He also would not have played with Moriarty. But that was a different story. 

"You're right, though. I should be myself. It's pointless to be anyone else. Do you have any pain? Do you need medication?"

Sherlock nodded, aching from the half hour he'd severely taxed his body. He turned his face to Mycroft's chest, not wanting to let go of him for even a moment. Fear still circled around him and he was struggling to keep it at bay, deeply disturbed to know that John and Greg were apart. 

"P-Please...pl-lease st-stay with m-m-me tonight," he breathed, doing his best to accept that he was safe, but incredibly reluctant to be out of physical contact with Mycroft at the moment. 

"Absolutely. I won't leave. I'm here. My is here." 

The tired older brother rested his head down on the pillow and nestled his face close to Sherlock.

"I'm here. I'm just a bit tired. I don't want to sleep, though. I'm just going to close my eyes for a bit. Is that okay?"

Sherlock nodded, shifting along with Mycroft and holding tight. He looked to Jared as Mycroft seemed too exhausted to help. 

"C-Can I..." it was still incredibly difficult for him to ask for pain medication. He flicked his eyes from the patient aid to the medicine on the table. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered, clinging tighter to Mycroft, "pl-lease?" 

"Yes, of course. Free. Safe. I'll get it. Just one moment." He scooted just enough to the side so he could lean over off the bed and get it without entirely letting go of Sherlock. "You're alright. It's free."

Sherlock was surprised to feel Mycroft responding to him, looking at Jared in question. It was beginning to frighten him that John was down the hall, Greg was bleeding, and Jared wasn't helping as he normally did. Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips, frightened as he watched Mycroft lean over him, looking back to Jared with heavy suspicion. 

Jared had been filled in on the situation by Miller, and the last thing he wanted to do was get in between Sherlock and Mycroft. He sat quietly in the background, letting Mycroft be the useful one. 

Mycroft pet Sherlock's hair and took his hand to push the medication. "It's okay. I've got you. You're okay."

Sherlock's breathing altered slightly as he felt the familiar warmth of pain medication flooding through his veins. He whimpered quietly, chewing at his fingertips, willing sleep to come. He could not understand what was happening. Jared was frightening him with his silent watching, and Mycroft felt ill. Selfishly he was in a near-panic over his brother's severely weakened state. Who would protect him if not his brother? What if Mycroft became too ill to help him? He could not think on it, overcome with acute fear and worry. 

"D-Don't...don't b-be sick, My," he whispered in small, frightened French, "e-eat something...l-let Miller h-h-help y-you. Please, I'm af-fraid." 

"I'm not sick," Mycroft countered. "I'm sorry I'm scaring you. I'm right here. I'm not sick. I'm fine. Just a bit tired. I'll call in some food." 

He looked up to Jared, who nodded and went down to the kitchen for him. 

"Sherlock, it's alright. I am not sick. I am stressed."

When Jared left them alone, Sherlock rolled to his side and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, pulling him in close. His shaking fingers swept through Mycroft's hair as he held tight to him, shifting up on the bed so that he could hold Mycroft's head to his chest. 

"I l-love you. I'm...I am n-not...not going to s-s-send you away e-ever. Please...I d-don't know wh-what happened to Greg and John but I- I-" his throat closed off and he whimpered in fear, forcing himself to take a few breaths to steady himself. 

"Y-You're m-my brother. I w-would n-never send y-you away." 

Mycroft knew that he was the strong one. He was not allowed to be upset, or afraid, or stressed. Sherlock was clearly the one who needed comfort. But it was still greatly soothing to hear that he wouldn't be sent away and end up like Greg. 

"Thank you," he whispered. "I'm not going to leave you."

Sherlock held Mycroft's head to his chest and carried on running his fingers through Mycroft's hair, letting his fingertips brush against Mycroft's ear and brush along the nape of his neck. He could not fathom sending his brother away, at all, for any reason. There was simply nothing that he could imagine that would warrant that. 

"Y-You s-said...s-said John is f-feeling...f-feeling guilty?"

Mycroft nodded and let his eyes slip closed in exhaustion. "He thinks that he deserved what happened to him with Moriarty. But he's getting over that. He's moving past it."  
Sherlock heard how completely exhausted his brother was and again went quiet, holding Mycroft close and gently petting his hair as he rest his chin on top of Mycroft's head. He pulled at him gently so that Mycroft was slightly turned to him, enabling Sherlock to lightly trail his fingers along Mycroft's upper back. 

_John thinks he deserved what happened to him._

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, appearing to sleep while he allowed his mind to run that problem over again and again. John had been...conditioned...to believe he could potentially stop his pain. It was all a farce, of course, but that was what occurred regardless. 

What confused him was how Greg could possibly...how had he _contributed_ to the idea? Greg was a kind man as it was, and with John Sherlock had never seen him anything other than attentive and caring. Surely he didn't lose his temper to such a degree that John would retreat close to himself.

When Jared returned, Sherlock spoke very quietly, a bit more clear with his brother folded in his arms and morphine in his veins. He looked to Jared and whispered softly, "I n-need you to p-pen a l-letter." 

"Of course." If Jared was surprised, he didn't let on. He found some stationary by the desk and looked at Sherlock for instruction. 

Mycroft had his face pressed against Sherlock's chest and his arms clasped behind his back. He was exhausted, and sleep threatened him, but he wanted to listen. 

Sherlock carried on gently touching his brother, the rhythmic act of carding his fingers through Mycroft's hair working to soothe him as well. He closed his eyes and hummed, struggling with how to begin. When he spoke, his voice was far more steady than a few minutes ago, his focus on the frightened man down the hall. 

"J-John," he began, irritated with the stutter. He grimaced but pressed on anyhow. "J-John, I unders-stand that you h-have separated y-yourself from Greg. My-Mycroft tells me that y-you are feeling responsible for what was done to you during your c-captivity. 

"I kn-know you do not wish to see me again, and I am n-not asking. I apologize if-f communication f-from me in any form is st-stressful to you, I cannot sit idly while you torment yourself with s-such notions. If-f you are responsible for your t-torture, then s-so am I. 

"I am very worried f-for you. I c-can scarcely s-stand a minute away from My. If G-Greg has not harmed you, then I cannot understand why y-you have left him. I-If you'll allow it, I'd l-like to speak with you about this, whether through written w-word or a ph-phone call. Please John, please hear that n-nothing you d-did while in captivity w-was...was bad, or...or w-worthy of suffering. You...you were very brave. I know y-you h-hate to hear that and r-reject it. Believe me when I say I understand.

"L-Let them kn-know if y-you'd rather I n-not communicate with you. Please, though, John, l-let m-me help. I h-hate knowing you are alone." 

Jared wrote the letter down and wrote Sherlock's name at the bottom. "This is very brave of you, Sherlock. Would you like me to deliver it now?" 

Mycroft looked up at his brother with half lidded eyes and shook himself awake. "If you want, He can come in for a bit”

Sherlock shook his head, pressing enough on Mycroft's head to get him to rest back down, resuming carding his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Sleep, b-brother. I w-would st-stress him to n-no end, he does n-not want to s-see me again. He does n-not consider m-me his friend, or anyone g-good." 

To Jared he nodded, whispering a quiet, "P-Please, and if-f...if y-you could t-tell him again th-that I am s-sorry and h-hope writing h-him is n-not overly upsetting. I w-won't c-c-ontact him again if he is afraid." 

He bit his lip, very worried that he was doing more harm than good. But he was completely unable to make himself ignore the fact that his beautiful John was down the hall, alone and afraid. 

Mycroft relented and settled back down, despite wanting to help. "I should be helping you, 'Lock. How about we go to sleep? I apologize, but I a not functioning properly in this state. It's been a bit too long since I've gotten proper sleep." He looked to the food that he's been brought and ignored, but he wasn't hungry. 

Jared stood slowly and walked to the door. "I'll tell him. This is a very brave thing for you to be doing." 

He stepped out then and walked cautiously down the hall. He knew what room it was based on the light peeking from under the door. He did not want to frighten the poor man, who he imagined to be in the same state Sherlock would be without Mycroft. 

"You have a letter," he said very softly and knocked once. Instead of opening the door, he slid it under and promptly walked back down the hall so John could hear he was gone. 

Paul arched a brow and got up, going to collect the folded paper for John. "Do you want to see this, John?" He asked, not unfolding it without permission. He was eager to meet Sherlock's aid, highly interested in him and his methods. He'd just shown fantastic judgement in not asking to be invited inside. 

John was still wrapped around his pillow, with the blanket he loved high around his shoulders and Greg's shirt pulled up where he could still smell the one he'd so cruelly left. He alternated between open sobbing, quiet sniffling and petrified silence, the last of which he'd been in heavily when the aid came by. John looked up. 

"Who's it from?" He didn't dare hope that it was Greg. Greg was probably angry with him.

Paul opened the letter up, swiftly scanning the content. It seemed safe enough, though predicting John at the moment was admittedly difficult. 

"It's from Sherlock. A very calm letter." 

John reached out and snatched it. His sad eyes scanned it for a moment before he settled in to read each and every word slowly and deliberately. 

Several things stood out to him. Sherlock sounded calm. Sherlock sounded reasonable. Sherlock wanted to help. Sherlock believed he was innocent. 

John handed the paper back to Paul. "Could you turn it over and write a reply?" He waited until Paul had a pen and then began.

"Sherlock, I am very afraid right now because I don't h-have Greg with me. I'm sorry if I say the wrong things. I don't want to hurt you. I-I left G-Greg because I-I kept hurting him, and then I-I would feel guilty. I'm n-not supposed to feel guilty. I..." John trailed off and nuzzled his face down into the fabric of his Greg's shirt. 

"I'm trying not to feel guilty about everything but it's really hard, and each time I w-would feel worse and...No, that's a run on sentence, I don't want to sound bad..." 

John waved his hand in a symbol for Paul to stop. 

"Go to the part right after 'I would feel worse' and just end it there. Then put; 'I am sorry if I am hurting you. I-I don't want to. If you want to talk, I'll come see you or call you or write another letter, but I don't want t-to hurt you and I was told I won't be able to help you until I stop feeling like the torture was my fault. I'm sorry. I feel scared and confused and I'm hurting. I'd like it if you would write back."

John stopped then and turned away, indicating he was finished.

Paul finished writing and looked to John. "Do you want me to send this back now? He might take you up on your offer, I'm very glad to see you allow him to speak with you."

John scowled and gripped his pillow. "I want Greg back. You can't let me hurt Sherlock. Make sure I don't hurt him. You have to. I can't tell. I feel bad. I feel like a bad person." He knew he wasn't supposed to be feeling that way, but every time Sherlock was mentioned, he remembered how he'd abandoned him.

Paul stopped for a moment, watching John with interest. "John, you are not wrong for how you feel. You're not breaking rules, you know that, yes?"

"I know. Just go. Go give it too him. But fix it first to make sure it doesn't sound bad and won't make him sad. Tell him that I'm sad and I want him to feel better." John fiddled with the button on Greg's shirt to give his hands something to do.

John's entire personality had shifted without Greg, more of the anger and frustration finally surfacing.  
"It's fine just as you wrote it. I'll be right back."

He made his way down to Sherlock's room and very quietly knocked on the door, waiting to be let in. "It's Paul."

"Come in," Mycroft responded and sat up a bit. When he saw the letter in Paul's hand, he reached out to read it first. 

"May I?"

Sherlock watched Paul hand over the letter, grinding his teeth.

"Yes, I'll j-just w-wait until you a-all have r-read my messages."

Mycroft ignored him. "I'm planning to read it out loud, 'Lock. I meant no offense." 

He waited for a moment then continued, speaking softly the contents of the letter. 

Sherlock's lips slowly thinned as Mycroft read on, listening to John's words with growing concern. 

As soon as Mycroft stopped talking, Sherlock was speaking, "B-Bring that m-man to me or t-take me to him. He's willing to see me and he's being a fool. L-Let me sort him."   
He sat up straighter, voice strong and eyes determined. He could scarcely believe John was willing to speak with him, let alone see him. There was no way he was going to miss the chance. 

Mycroft hesitated. "He doesn't have Greg with him. That might make him a bit easier to upset. I'm going to bring him here, then, if you wish. But I want you to remember that he is distressed, but not hurting. You are both very safe. If you start to get upset, then I can have him leave, and he can come right back when you're centered." 

"Bring him!" Sherlock snapped, immediately deflating, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, My. I didn't mean...y-you are o-only trying to h-help. I c-can handle th-this, please...l-let me h-help him." 

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I meant no harm by it. I love you. I'll text Paul." 

_Please bring John. If not, we'll come there. Sherlock will not be dissuaded._

Paul was just returning to John's room when the text came through. He walked over and crouched by John's bed without touching him. 

"John...Sherlock would like to see you. He seems much improved from the last time, and is willing to come to you if it makes it easier. Would you be willing to see him?"

John whimpered and pulled his shirt up a bit over his face. "I-I'll g-go and b-be good but I'm afraid. I don't like doing this without Greg. But he needs me to come." 

John shuffled to his feet and stood with Greg's shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled from him hugging it. His eyes were red, puffy, and full of years he'd been shedding for hours. He wore his blanket around his shoulders and in two fistfuls held close to his chest. 

When he finally gathered up the courage to walk out of the room, he ignored Paul and pretended that Greg was right behind him. He did not knock, and instead opened the door just a tiny crack. He's always tried to enter looking strong and confident, or at least happy and alright. Now he did no such thing.

Nothing mattered when Greg was gone. He had no confidence when Greg was gone. He looked small and sad when he peeked in with his head down. 

"Uhm...Sherlock? I-I don't...I don't feel good." 

Sherlock was sitting very attentively, sweeping his eyes over John as he walked in clutching at Greg's shirt. Despite the way his own heart rolled over and then began to race, Sherlock remained outwardly steady. 

"John," he said, opening an arm without thinking, wanting to shield him from the fear he was in, "I am so v-very sorry you are n-not feeling w-well." He kept his voice even and his back as straight as the scars would allow. 

John swept his eyes over the room and drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Jared. He shrank back, almost out of the doorway, and tried to collect himself. If he was in danger, someone would say something, right? 

But if there was danger, then he didn't want Sherlock in there alone. John took cautious steps back in, keeping himself clearly between Sherlock and Jared. His arms were held up to his chest, and the too large sleeves of Greg's shirt had fallen back to reveal his scars.   
Jared saw how utterly terrified he looked, and took a step back. There was nowhere for him to go without directly advancing to John, and thus he stepped back into the bathroom in clear retreat. 

John kept himself facing the place Jared had went with his back to Sherlock as he shuffled closer. "Is he safe?"

Sherlock hummed in his old, typical reply of agreeing with John, same as the days he was distracted and pouring over a microscope. 

"That is J-Jared and h-he is my aid. M-Mycroft hired him, he's s-safe. Rubbish at chess but s-safe." 

He kept his arm out, watching John with acute worry, unaware of his own body. John's situation had shoved him hard into a frame of mind he'd not been in for quite some time.

John slowly nodded and turned. He leaned over and sat down on the floor by the bed. He didn't speak, and he stared down at the floor as tears began to form in his eyes. 

"I'm scared," he whimpered. "I don't have Greg. I am hurting Greg. I'm hurting everyone and I feel bad."

Sherlock drew his hand back in, expertly hiding his disappointment that John was on the floor. 

"I know y-you're scared, John," he said as kindly as he knew how to shape his voice. "I c-can't imagine. Y-You most certainly have Greg, h-he's a phone call away. He will come for you." 

He flicked his eyes over to his brother and then spoke very quietly, though still steady and outwardly even. "I h-hurt M-My sometimes. It's never intentional, and h-he still wants to be around me e-even when it's...painful. I'm sure it is that w-way for G-Greg." 

John was silent for a moment with his head down, and he made no sign that he was understanding until he began to shake slightly, and a small sob escaped him. He had one hand over his eyes and his shoulders were hunched down. 

"I'm hurting him. I hurt Greg and I feel so...just awful. And they told me I couldn't be good for G-Greg until I stopped... that I couldn't help you until I-I stopped thinking it was my fault, and so I h-had to leave." 

It was a testament to how much of a priority Sherlock still was to him.

Sherlock blinked several times, utterly taken aback that he was part of the equation in any way at all. 

"Oh...god, J-John, you're not...you don't have to f-fix everyone. John...oh, John..." he looked up at Jared and spoke swiftly. "He has a dog h-here will you pl-please go f-fetch Gladstone f-for him?" 

He looked back down to John and spoke soft and steady, still holding strong. "J-John...you didn't s-see Greg while...a-after you left he...h-his mental health was plummeting. He...He was hurting before you came back. It's n-not you, John, he's...he has a lot of conflict in his mind and he doesn't s-see things clearly sometimes."

John looked up with tears flowing down his face. He was trying to handle himself in the way that he used to, with a stoic look and no external suffering. But now, he was cracking. He was splitting apart at the notion that Greg was hurting. 

"Is he alright? He's alright, isn't he? He has to be alright!" 

Mycroft nodded and kept his face calm. "He is fine. Absolutely fine. I just spoke with him. He's just sad. That's all." 

John scowled and put his face in his hands. "I'm a terrible person," he muttered to himself. "I hurt him. I hurt him so badly. I-I try so h-hard to be good."

Sherlock very carefully pulled the blankets off his lap, checking to make sure he was not tethered by feeding tube or drip line before very slowly turning. It hurt, but he was able to lower himself off the bed, leaning hard against it as he sat without touching John, loathing being on a different level than him. 

"J-John," he whispered quietly, "listen to the w-words your mind is telling you to say. You are not hurting G-Greg, John. The...the s-situation is painful-for the people who love us. Y-You know, somewhere in th-that m-mind of yours that th-those are not your words, they've been put there with p-pain." 

John kept his face down and continued with his futile attempts at staying calm. Sherlock's words were ringing true and incredibly close to home, just as Paul's had. 

"They were put there by pain b-but...I don't know if I-I...I just keep _hurting everyone_ and it feels s-so bad." 

He looked up and held Sherlock's eyes. For some odd reason, he noticed the color. That hadn't changed. Everything else had changed, but that part had not. It was comforting to know. 

John dropped his eyes back down and shook his head. "I feel like a bad person. I-I don't know how any of you can stand me. I-I don't know why I've b-been allowed to live this long."

Sherlock smiled through the sadness he felt for John, his eyes blurring with tears even as his lips curled upwards. He had to curl his fingers in to keep from reaching out for John, wanting nothing more than to show him the way out of the darkness of his mind and bring him into the light. 

"Th-That's because you're an-n idiot," he whispered fondly, an undercurrent of homesick pain to the words, but not overly so. 

"Y-You're the man who rose up from an absent f-family. Y-You are the man who still l-loves your alcoholic sister despite her endless a-ability to hurt y-you. You're the man who told the British Government to m-mind his own affairs. You fought wars and s-saved lives. You forgive...and forgive...e-even when others wouldn't. Y-You have survived hell many times over and _still_ ” Sherlock stopped and took a breath, winded and fighting back emotion. He carried on, voice stoic and strong. 

“Despite _all of that_ , y-you've left months of..." what word could he apply to what John experienced? Everything fell flat. 

"H-Hell would h-have been a holiday from what you've endured, and y-your thoughts a-are still on h-helping others. _ohn_ , don't fight with it, j-just let it soak like water on parched earth. It's uncomfortable and will feel _wrong_ and _bad_ , but j-just...l-let that sit with you.”

He took in another breath through his stinging throat. “You're a g-good m-man, John W-Watson." 

The last sentence knocked the cornerstone from the wall in his mind and it came crumbling. John let out a choked sob and suddenly had his arms around Sherlock. 

"H-He m-made me feel l-like such a bad person," John lamented and pressed his face against the side of Sherlock's neck. 

"He made m-me h-hurt myself in punishment and I don't want to hate myself! I- Last t-time I hurt you I tried to hurt myself with water and ended up bleeding from the back of my head during the struggle. I d-didn't let myself sleep for two days because I hurt Greg. I-I'm fucking p-programmed to hate myself to the point of abuse! I still do! Sherlock, I don't know h-how to stop hating myself, even if I-I know it was him!"

It took Sherlock a moment to reply, as he sat frozen and stunned for a moment, slowly wrapping one arm around John as the other hand tentatively went to the back of his head, palm resting against his hair. His eyes fell closed and he simply held John, allowing himself a minute to take in the impossible. 

It was nothing to him that he had to work so hard to keep himself composed, that he had to exert massive energy to keep from begging John to stay, to _love_ him. He simply would not. This was a gift far beyond anything he deserved, even if he never saw John ever again. He would not fall apart, would _not_ allow gnawing fear to get the better of him. 

His body began to burn slightly as he gently rocked John as much as he could physically manage, his voice reverberating from his chest, pressed so tight against John's. 

"That's the f-first bit, John. Cannot scale a mountain if-f you never take the first step. You will see yourself reacting to programming and it...the anger comes-next, and it helps shove all that away. You d-don't allow yourself to do anything hurtful to your b-body, no matter what, and the rest will swiftly out." 

John ground his teeth together and wept onto Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I HATE THEM! They had no right to just fucking destroy our life like this!" 

John referred to their old lives as a singular object, as after his wife had died, John and Sherlock had gone back to a similar routine that left their lives entangled. 

John abruptly sat back and held Sherlock's shoulders so he could look at him with grave importance in his tone. 

"I never stop asking about you," he said with determination that helped with his stammering. "I always ask how I can help. I never wanted to abandon you. It's just...Everytime I come here I hurt you and I make it worse and I get taken away and I am not strong...I'm not strong enough by half. I know y-you don't agree, but if I were strong this wouldn't have happened. I would have fought back and escaped. Or I would have recovered faster and shot M-Moran in the fucking skull when he came for us. This...all of this is because I-I'm not strong enough. I...I wanted so badly to protect you-" 

John's voice cracked and he doubled over, head touching his knees in sharp, overwhelming grief.

Sherlock sat in stunned silence, staring at John even as he doubled over. It was..much to take in. John had not asked about him in the beginning, and he'd loathed him so deeply, blamed him hours after Sherlock's rescue for everything that happened...

He cleared his throat, hands shaking, determined to be sturdy for John. 

"A-And yet...if-f I'd only been brave e-enough to say _I love you_..." Sherlock had taken those pained, screamed words that John had stammered when he'd first returned and locked them deep into his mind, branded them across his heart, felt it in his bones. "If-f we n-need to discuss strength...all th-that I had to do was _speak_." 

He reached out and tried to unfold John from a position that would surely be painful, hating that John was pulling himself away. 

John sat up obediently at Sherlock's touch as if he'd been trained to. 

"I was wrong to say that to you. I...I doubt Moriarty would have stopped if I didn't go to Africa. I'm sure he would have found a way." 

Suddenly he took in Sherlock's posture, his physical state, his light tremor and the way he moved. 

"You shouldn't be on the floor," he whispered and slowly got to his feet. He'd failed at helping those he loved so many times before. He could at least do this. John bent down and gently helped Sherlock back into bed, then sat on the edge of it. There were far too many things to think about as he slowly eased back and reclined next to Sherlock. It truly hadn't been his fault, but even with that knowledge he still felt lower than dirt. He hated himself more than he hated Moriarty. He found everything to be his fault. 

"I left Greg even though he was sad," John whispered finally. "I left. I just...I hurt him. I hurt everyone."

Sherlock wanted very much to hold John, but he was not going to push it. He watched John run through mental channels that had been viciously carved with pain and terror. 

"Stop saying that t-to yourself," Sherlock said very quietly, "y-you're exhausted and your thoughts are like water, they run the easiest path. It's n-not your fault you think this way, but you _can_ stop enforcing it. You l-left Greg to protect him. You did not just l-leave him. Any idiot could see how terribly y-you m-miss him right n-now," he added, brushing fingers over Greg's shirt. 

It was painful to see John pining after someone else again, but that was just...he was lucky to see John doing anything at all, and so chastised himself for the juvenile ache deep in his heart. "Y-You are trying to protect him." 

John nodded and turned on his side to face Sherlock. "That's true! I'm just trying to protect him! B-But I'm hurting him! I can't d-do anything right!" 

He tried to listen to Sherlock's words. He tried to put them in a box and file them away somewhere. 

"I'm s-sorry. I'm trying! I'm trying! I'm s-s-so s-sorry!" 

John pulled Greg's shirt up to his face and took a moment to breathe slowly with the comforting fabric over his face. 

"I'm scared w-without him."

Sherlock drew his hands back as he failed to help, forcing himself to appear outwardly steady. John was so low, he'd not give him any reason to feel guilt. 

"Then go _home_ , John," he said very gently, heartfelt concern and sympathy in his voice. He knew that sort of fear all too well, had literally nearly died from fright in his days alone in hospital. 

"G-Go home and stay with Greg. He's hurting-but it's not your fault. You l-left to protect him from what you thought was hurting him. You thought those things were hurting him because of what M-Moriarty did. You s-see? This is a direct result of James M-Moriarty's sick g-game. N-Nothing you d-did wrong. L-Let yourself go _home_ , you d-don't have to b-be here." 

Were John not so terrified and broken, he might have lied and said he wanted to stay. But the idea of home was too alluring and he turned towards Sherlock and wept. John put his head in the hollow between Sherlock's arm and chest, just under his shoulder, where he fit perfectly as though built to match. 

"I w-want to go home," he whimpered. "I want t-to go home but I still f-feel like...just...so, so bad. I hate myself and if I start to hurt G-Greg it will get worse. I c-c-can't go home." 

He spoke the last sentence with despair that told how much he longed for his own bed and his Greg beside him. But this wasn't as bad as he thought. He wasn't alone, at least.

Sherlock dared to wrap his arm around John's back, only ghosting his fingertips there so that John would not feel trapped, never once going below his shoulder blades. It was beginning to make sense why Mycroft had been so terribly afraid when he got back. Sherlock knew very intimately what it felt like to watch John walk out, knowing he was lost. 

Mycroft had blood on his sleeve. 

Greg had tried to die. 

The thought was horrifying to him for many reasons. Greg had been a friend to him despite his horrible attitude and endless disregard for the man. He'd taken care of John and nursed him back to the best health he'd been in since his return. Greg had protected John with his life. And now...because he was hurting...Greg was alone. 

Mycroft had been deeply frightened that the same would happen to him, and Sherlock resolved never to miss paying attention to what his brother was feeling. 

"John...if-f our s-situations were flipped, what would you tell m-me?"

He knew what he wanted to say, but he was hoping a critical thinking exercise might help shift John's mind out of the self-loathing gear it was lodged in. 

"I would...I don't...I think I'd say that you didn't deserve it, and that you should stay with whoever helps you. But I can't say the same thing to myself. I just c-can't. I am hurting too much. It's difficult to think. I just..." 

John grit his teeth. 

“The first thing I got over was speaking. Then it was you. I...Imagine if Moran came and told you that the two of you were actually best friends and that it was all just Moriarty playing tricks. That's what it felt like. It was hard to get over. I mean, I don't think that way now," John nuzzled down on Sherlock's chest to emphasize. 

"But this new thing...not being guilty...it goes just as...as deep. It has just as much pain behind it. I'm scared. I want Greg. I don't...I'm sorry, that...that's not a good thing to say to you. I'm just...I'm hurting y-you and everyone a-a-and G-Greg is h-hurting and I-I-I'm awful!"

Sherlock despised hearing Moran's name on John's tongue and actively ignored the rattle of chains in the background. The comparison was deeply flawed, as Moran had never had any other meaning for him, while Sherlock and John had active _years_ together. Still, he could see what John was trying to tell him. 

He opened his mouth to suggest bringing Greg here, but the problem was that John didn't want to be near him anywhere. 

"John, y-you are doing e-everything you can. We all kn-know that. You are not awful, you are frightened and confused. I...I st-still see _him_ constantly. You are not flawed any m-more than I am, you are healing and it's taking time." 

He decided that it was time to push at that little flare of anger. "It's n-not right what they did to us, n-not fair that they caused s-so much p-pain for s-so many p-people." 

John broke down again and his shoulders shook. He wanted to be happy. That was what he was supposed to do around Sherlock, right? He was supposed to help him, and here he was, weeping because he was tortured without reason. 

"I'm sorry," he sniffled and scooted up so their hug would be more mutual. 

"I'm so sorry. I-I'm trying. I..." Something happy. Anything happy. 

"I had cake a few days ago. I had cake and there was ice cream and I went outside. I told Greg that you deserved to be happy like that and someday when I'm good enough, when I don't do such b-bad things all the time, when I am strong enough, I w-want you to come and stay because we have another bedroom and there's room on the couch for three and it w-would be good because I will stop b-being selfish and b-be strong."

Sherlock took all this in stride, John's promises and supposed wants for him rolling off like water on a duck. He knew well now that John would leave him time and time again, that John would be happy with him one moment and hate him the next. It wasn't John's fault, though it did still hurt terribly. He was firm with himself, though the effort of staying mentally aware on this level, with Moran physically pacing like a caged animal at the foot of the bed, was becoming a herculean effort. 

"You are n-not selfish, John. You are incredibly st-strong. N-N-Nothing to be sorry f-for," he whispered, staring up at the ceiling and blinking rapidly, doing his best not to see Moran. 

"I d-didn't want you to know I-I was here because then I would say the wrong things and hurt you." 

John sat up just a bit and propped himself up on one elbow so he could watch Sherlock. "But you're stronger. You're hurting b-but you're stronger."   
John's expression softened and he smiled through his tears. "I'm glad. I'm glad you're stronger. I hate hurting you. I don't want you to ever hurt again."

Sherlock very decidedly did not feel anything but weak. It was humiliating to him that John had seen Jared, that he'd know they were paying for people to sit companion to him, as no one would volunteer. Not that he could blame any of them, but to be so obviously left behind that he required a man on payroll to help him to the toilet...

He swallowed and was suddenly overcome with a shocking wash of mind-numbing envy. What he would give for a Greg in his life. He forced himself to remember that Mycroft was doing all he could. At least he had Mycroft. 

"Y-Yes we...a-are working on...I...pl-play chess to t-teach my h-hands to w-work and I've...l-letters...b-been tracing..." he looked down, shame flooding across his chest. 

He was tracing block letters and learning to hold a fork to feed himself. Of _course_ they were paying for someone to pretend to care, he was _pathetic_. Dutifully he did his best to mask his feelings, keeping his posture and trying to keep his hands still. He tilted his chin up in a move of defense, just as he had when he knew someone was likely to call him _Freak_. 

"Tracing l-letters. I...I c-can recognize a f-few." He spoke the last with a feigned air of pride, utterly despising himself. 

John gave a small smile. For him it had been food and water, for Sherlock it must be letters. "That's great, Sherlock. I'll keep writing to you until I'm good enough to stay. I-I want to help you. I'm so glad you're doing better. You look better too. Same eyes." 

John didn't look up from where he was positioned on Sherlock's chest. He hated the fact that he was being comforted, not comforting, but his Greg was far away, and he couldn't bring himself to be strong.

Again, Sherlock had to brush off what John was saying. John would not write him letters. John would go back to Greg, as he should, and then he'd disappear again. He had no interest in helping Sherlock, he only wanted free of his guilt. He carried on gently rubbing at John's back, no idea what to say to that. He'd been told he was losing weight, chastised for not eating, his brother looked at him with such sad eyes. 

He let John have his illusion, though. "Y-Yes I'm...I'm...m-much improved," he breathed, lying literally through his teeth. "M-Mycroft b-brought in...I h-had a h-air cut...apparently." 

John dove into the easy conversation like a man dying of thirst. "It looks like it used to. I got a haircut a while ago. It's a bit longer than I used to keep it, but I don't care much anymore." 

John ran his fingers through his hair and thought vanity a ridiculous notion.

Sherlock had not paid his hair any attention whatsoever. John's was much longer than he was accustomed to seeing it, but it wasn't surprising. He watched John run his fingers through his hair, wanting to settle him down in his chair, hand him a paper, and make him a cuppa. He'd play his violin and stare out the window and when he turned back around John would still be there, and Mrs. Hudson downstairs, and he wouldn't have to pay for care or companionship. 

He nodded dumbly, trying to cover his lapse as he blinked away the welcome image.   
"S-Suits you," he said honestly, watching John's face before he caught Moran in his peripheral. His focus jumped, but he soon forced himself to look back at John and ignore the threat that could not possibly be real. 

John smiled and began to slowly relax from the all consuming grief of a few moments ago. "Thanks, Sherlock. You're s good man, you know that? A really good man."

The weight on Sherlock's heart eased as he watched John relax. It was still blindingly painful to hear all of these things, so desperately wanting them to the point of having to actively remind himself how this was going to end. 

It could suffice as a form of goodbye, at least. Perhaps this memory would stick in John's mind, so that he had something other than anger and regret when he thought of Sherlock. John had been very happy and pleased with him before. His gut twisted in anticipation of watching John's face change, of having it all abruptly ripped away like blood-stuck gauze on a painful wound. 

"N-Never as g-good as you," he whispered, pleased to find his voice strong despite his internal distress.

John muttered something and shook his head. "You're a good man. I'm sorry I keep hurting you. Paul says that once I stop feeling like this is my fault I'll be able to help you more but it's hurting and I’m going too slow. I promise I'm trying, though. I swear it."

Sherlock gave John the best smile he could, nodding before closing his eyes. He just didn't want to watch John leave again. A year later and it still was painful for John to bear the sight of him.

A lump swelled up in his throat. He swallowed around it and spoke softly to John, "Thank you f-for sp-sp-eak-king to m-me again," frustrated with his suddenly worsening stutter.

"I'm sorry I hurt you last time," John muttered with a hitching breath. He'd never hated himself as much as he did in this moment. He hated how he left Greg, how he always hurt Greg, how he was hurting Sherlock, how he shouldn't have even come, how stupid he was, how weak he was...But it hadn't been his fault. The torture had not been his fault. 

Even knowing that logically, he still felt the pain of it. "Sherlock, I'm hurting. I'm hurting r-really b-badly. I f-feel bad." It was as close to asking for help as he could get.

Sherlock reached back out for John, settling him in the pocket of his shoulder. He trailed his fingers through John's hair, praying to all holy that John would stay, would allow this.

He pulled his voice together and began to speak to John as he gently touched him, voice low and reverberating.

" Do n-not go gentle into that good night,

Old age sh-should b-burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against th-the d-dying of the light.

Though w-wise m-men at their end know dark is right,

Be-cause their w-words had f-forked no lightning they

Do n-not g-go gentle into that good n-night.

Good m-men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds m-might have d-danced in a green b-bay,

Rage, rage against the d-dying of the l-light.

W-Wild men who caught and sang the sun in f-flight,

And l-learn, t-too late, they grieve it on its w-way,

Do not go gentle into th-that good n-night.

G-Grave m-men, near d-death, who see with b-blinding s-sight

B-blind eyes could b-blaze like m-meteors and be gay,

Rage, r-rage against the d-dying of the light.

And you, my f-father, th-there on the s-sad height,

Curse, bl-bless, m-me now w-with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do n-not g-go gentle into that good night.

R-rage, rage against the d-dying of the light."

John's hitching breath began to slow. Sherlock's voice was perfect for poetry, deep and vibrating, and John could feel it in his chest as well as hear it. He settled on Sherlock as one would sink into a lush mattress and slowly moved one arm from where it was clutching Greg's shirt to rest on his chest. Tears of longing, heartbreak and guilt still ran down his cheeks and dripped off the tip of his nose onto Sherlock's shirt, but he was calm. He was to fight. He wasn't to accept this peacefully. 

"Thank you," he whispered with his eyes closed when Sherlock was finished. "It's beautiful."

Sherlock tilted his face closer to the top of John's head as he closed his eyes, trying to relax as he slid into a string of poetry from Burns, keeping his voice low and battling like hell with his stutter. He carried on speaking for the next half hour, until the act of reciting had stolen all of his voice, leaving his throat raw and scratching. He went quiet before it became frightening, all the while taking his fingers through John's hair.

John had eased into a state of quiet grief for what he'd lost, what he was going through, and who he was, but it was quiet, and while he was sad, he was also peaceful. With a soft sigh he nuzzled against Sherlock's chest one more time, eyes still closed, and began to drift off somewhere between awake and asleep where his thoughts were liquid and free.

Sherlock was putting his entire focus into staying steady. Cool beads of sweat dotted along his hairline and his hands were trembling, though John likely could not feel from the light touches.  
He looked over to his brother, moving very slow to keep John from feeling it, and offered Mycroft the hand that was not running through John's hair, looking down at the port in a silent, frightened plea for help.

Mycroft felt out of place beside Sherlock and the one his brother clearly preferred, and was grateful when Sherlock reached out for him. He took Sherlock's hand and leaned over so he could speak softly to him. "You're alright. You're doing so well. Everything is alright. I'm so proud of you." 

Perhaps Greg wasn't needed after all. But if that were true, eventually he wouldn't be needed either. 

Mycroft held on a little tighter.

Sherlock clamped down on Mycroft's hand, desperately wanting to crawl into his brother's lap and be held. His heart had been galloping for the last hour, exhausting him. He was steeping in pain, both physical and mental, taxed to the breaking point.

The anticipation of John's eventual catastrophic departure was sending his blood pressure through the roof and at his brother's soft words, Sherlock was in silent tears, mouthing for help. He looked back down at the port in his hand and back to Mycroft, silently pleading for medicine.

Mycroft slowly got out of bed, as he didn't want to risk breaking John's calm by bringing anyone else in, and fetched the medicine quickly. "It's alright," he whispered and took his hand to access the port. "It's all going to be alright. You're okay. I've got you. You're doing so well. Remember that if he has to go, it will only be down the hall."

Sherlock flinched, looking directly to John in hope that he did not hear Mycroft. He forced himself not to tighten his grip on the man.

He gently shifted John closer, though he still held tight to Mycroft. It hurt, temporarily having John, knowing he was going to lose him again, but he would take everything he could get.

Mycroft put his hand over Sherlock's and looked him in the eyes. "If this is too much for you, we can take a break. I'm sure he'll come right back."

"N-No...please...l-let m-me try," he whispered in French, terrified John would catch on. He grit his teeth as his pulse shot up, breathing show despite the burning urge to pant for air. He was okay, this was okay. John would leave but he could still have this a little while.

He tightened his grip ever so slightly on John, assuring himself that John was still there,.and better still, John was calm.

Mycroft slipped into French as well. "I won't take him away from you," Mycroft whispered gently. "I won't. I swear. He's so calm right now. You're doing very well."

Sherlock eased his grip on Mycroft's hand, though he kept hold of John, running his fingers over John's head in a predictable pattern so that he would know where to expect the next touch. Sherlock closed his eyes, resting his forearm flush along Mycroft's as he held Mycroft's hand.

John wasn't asleep, but he wasn't quite awake either. He was exhausted and trying feebly to sort through his broken mess of a mind. Occasionally he stirred and shifted against Sherlock, but he was mostly quiet. When silence had settled over them like a thick blanket, John spoke up to tear it's uncomfortable weight off his lungs. 

"Thank you for helping me."

Sherlock stirred, nearly asleep when John spoke. 

"You're welcome," he whispered, hearing the tension in John's voice. He looked at him as he gentled his hold. 

"I...if th-this is hurting...I don't w-want to hurt you. Y-You...you can leave any time you n-need to and I'll be fine."

Sherlock was brilliantly proud of how steady he sounded.

John shifted and reached down to pull the covers up over both of them. He relinquished a bit of his blanket to drape over Sherlock as well, but the shirt he kept close to his own chest. 

"I'm okay," he whispered as if trying to convince himself. He sniffled and put his hand over his eyes to hide his own tears, though he'd no idea why he should even make an attempt. 

"I just...I've never been away from him this l-long. I-I've never tried t-to sleep without being sedated without him there. N-Not once since I-I got out."

Sherlock blinked in surprise at that. Oh, how he envied John. He'd been left to his own horrific fear many times. Then again, he'd deserved to feel that terror, John deserved all the peace in the world.

"It's alright, J-John," he whispered, adjusting his hold, "I understand...h-he...you l-love one another." It was easy to keep the pain from his voice, honestly wanting John to know that he was aware it would never be him, and that he'd still be there.

 

John breathed a long, deep sigh that ruffled Greg's shirt that he held up to his face, then the blanket, then Sherlock's shirt. 

"It's not like that," John whispered. "It's not...romantic. You know what I mean. I'm not...I can still care about you. I just...I get so scared, Sherlock. I get so scared. I know you understand. I'm sure you hate it when you're away from Mycroft."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, nodding swiftly, "I u-understand." He tried to shift in a way that let John get closer if he wanted without trapping him. 

"Y-You're s-safe here. I...I am n-not him, but I know wh-what scares you and...you're safe. You can have m-medicine a-and Gladstone and...wh-whatever we can do to m-make you comfortable."

"If I start to hurt you, please send me away." 

John slowly gathered up a bit of Sherlock's shirt to hold in his hand as well as Greg's. "I really...God, I'm being such a child, but I'm just...I'm not g-good enough to go back yet, and I-I'm not good enough to stay with you."

Sherlock shook his head, "yes you are, I refuse that. You are good enough. I...l am...always here if y-you want m-me...I...that...n-no matter what. You are j-just fine, I want y-you here."

John continued to go over the workings in his mind, and ended up saying them out loud even they were not a response to what Sherlock had just said. "If I didn't deserve it, why do I feel like I did? Why is...I have so much evidence in my mind that it was my fault!"

"T-Tell me wh-what evidence you h-have, John. I sp-specialize in e-evidence." He kept his voice calm and gentle.

"I...I w-would be told to do something easy and I wouldn't because I'm stubborn and then I-I'd get hurt but if I-I just listened I w-wouldn't have so many scars." 

John opened his eyes to look at his hands, then buried them under the blanket. 

Sherlock started at John for a moment before speaking. "That's not the truth John, a-and you know it. What h-happened when y-you constantly did what they asked? Th-they demanded th-the impossible just to h-hurt you more."

John knew that Sherlock was correct, but it was still too much to accept. "He...Sometimes when I did the right thing he would give me nice things, though. H-He wasn't always bad to me."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, loathing those words on John's tongue. "Y-you have t-to know that f-for the lie it is, John. Don't allow y-yourself to attach to him. H-he was n-never kind or g-good to you."

"I'm not attached to him!" John suddenly shrieked, then checked himself and calmed. 

"I'm sorry. I know. I'm sorry. I should not believe his lies. But I just..." 

His heart rate kicked up at the idea of not believing Moriarty. 

"I know it was a lie because he made me think you hurt me and you wouldn't ever hurt me. That's the truth. You don't hurt me, but he...he hurt me to make me believe it. I d-don't believe him anymore." John curled up a bit tighter and pressed Greg's shirt to his face. 

Sherlock had jumped hard when John shouted, his pulse rocketing fast enough to crack gold stars along his vision. He masked himself as he quickly regained his outward posture, though his heart was slamming painfully against his ribs, despite being in his stomach. Tears burned at the back of his eyes and his throat was swelling up on him, having had a taste of how horrible it was going to be when John remembered that he hates him. He listened to John over the shrill tone in his ear, too overwhelmed to speak. 

He reached out slowly and began to trail his fingers through John's hair again, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep. 

John let out a growl of irritation through clenched teeth. "I hate him! I'm not attached! He just...I'm just saying he was always reasonable, okay? Just that. He stuck to the rules. I'm sorry. Should I not...Is that another lie? Jesus, how much of my own mind is fucked up?"

Sherlock did his best to recover his normal voice. "M-Most of it-t if y-you can d-describe J-James _M-Moriarty_ as r-reasonable," he responded, pushing through the shock of panic and focusing again on helping John find his way. 

"H-How is d-de-m-manding a b-bit of y-your _shin bone_ reasonable, J-John?" 

John flinched and resisted the urge to reach down and touch the three puckered scars. "II...I don't know," he whispered. "He feels reasonable in my mind! That's just what I feel! I feel like it was my fault, that I am guilty, and that he was being reasonable. I know that isn't true, but it's how it feels. I don't know how to make it not feel that w-way." 

He was starting to break down and forced himself to stay as calm as possible.

Sherlock hummed in thought as he pulled John in closer, noting how his voice wavered. "When y-you feel s-something conflicting t-to what they're telling you," he whispered, fully believing that John would not see him again when he eventually left and therefore leaving out the "I', "then you know one of them is a liar. If Greg is telling you something c-conflicting, you must decide who told the truth: Greg o-or Moriarty. P-Paul or Moriarty? My, or Moriarty?" 

John sniffled and nodded, which rubbed his face on Sherlock's chest and made the wet patch a bit bigger from his tears. "Greg doesn't lie. You wouldn't lie to me. Not anymore. I know you wouldn't. I'm s-sorry. It -hurts n-not to believe him. That h-hurts the most out of all of the things. That w-was the first part. B-Believe and obey. It's h-how I survived."

Sherlock brushed his fingers through John's hair, remembering well what had been done to John, having watched literal weeks of footage. "A-And you d-did survive, but n-now it's time to live, John. You can stand down on survival mode, there. It's n-not l-life or death any longer, John."

John was very much stuck in survival mode, and had absolutely no idea how to relinquish it. "I can't," he choked and was immediately ashamed with himself. He ducked his head down and reluctantly released Sherlock's shirt so he could cover his face.

Sherlock's own efforts to relinquish the tight hold he had on his own form of survival mode had been derailed since the incident with food. He'd been making clear gains, before hand. He knew he was stuck as well, and had no idea what sort of solution to offer. 

"Y-You can...you c-can, John. If y-you can be aware, you c-can ease off the b-behavior more and more. It will come, j-just not overnight."

John shook his head. "It's been a year! I've been out for a year! Just two days ago, I think, I was eating cake and going for walks outside. I was peaceful. How can I still be this...this damaged? This delusional? How can I still have so far to go?" 

John was a man lost in the desert, a man who had walked for hundreds of miles yet could not see the distance he'd gained for the thousands ahead of him. He was sinking to his knees in the hot sand, unsure even if he was walking in the right direction. 

"I'm lost," John whimpered. "I don't know how to let go of this."

Sherlock carried on lightly touching John, not knowing the answer. 

"I th-think it's like stepping off a cliff and trusting the net below. Y-You have to try it...have to be vulnerable and...and t-trust. When they t-tell you you're not guilty, you can just...push the guilt away and th-then see what happens in it's place."

_Sadness_. 

For Sherlock, under guilt lay a crippling sadness, grief at what he'd lost overwhelming even the anger. He hoped for John's sake under guilt would lie peace. 

"I don't want to," John whimpered. He scolded himself and said that he shouldn't be seeking comfort from Sherlock. He'd had more time to recover and it was clearly his job to help fix his still healing friend. He smiled up at him with as genuine a smile as he could muster and tried for some light banter instead of this raw truth. 

"M-Maybe jumping off of things is just easier for you."

Sherlock's lips curled up and he spoke quietly, "F-Far easier with an a-air bag below." He missed his John so terribly, it was a remarkable gift to be given a whisper of their former banter. 

His fingers carried on trailing through John's hair as he held him, wishing he already knew the way. He felt as though he'd done nothing but backslide, losing his gains and shifting back to where he'd been when weeks ago. He felt just as lost and reluctant. He leaned in closer to John and whispered softly to him, 

"If-f I ever f-find the w-way out, I s-swear I'll sh-show it to you." 

John reached up and sank his fingers in Sherlock's dark, richly curly hair and whispered in return. "Thank you. I'll tell you if I find a way to let go as well." 

He leaned back then and tried to slip back into the light conversation. Frankly, he'd had enough for the day, and while it might be productive for him to keep at it, he was mentally exhausted and had no desire to do so. 

"Yes, an airbag and an entire street full of people in on it must make jumping a bit easier."

Sherlock could not speak. John's hand in his hair was causing a blinding mix of chaos through his mind as he stared at John. Belatedly he smiled, humming for his inability to respond. His gut twisted in aching homesickness and panic bit at his heels; it was going to be so much harder to watch John go. It would be like hunger when the appetite _finally_ resurfaced after starvation; insatiable and overwhelming. 

_This_ was what he'd wanted for such a long time, that he'd never realized how starved for John's affection until he had a taste of it. The urge to beg John to come back, _oh god, please come back_ , was exhausting to suppress. He tightened his grip despite himself, heart racing. 

John brushed Sherlock's hair back over and over as he relaxed and compartmentalized the things in his mind. "Remember the time you stored some organs in a glass jar? Don't remember what for. Something about the lining. But you ran out of room in our fridge and put them in Mrs. Hudson's. She had company over and mistook the jar for jam. She needs glasses, I think. Opened it up to the smell of slowly decaying flesh. Oh, she was angry. Like a scolding mother."

Sherlock was fighting tooth and nail to retain a stoic look about him. It was akin to being forced to pretend that seeing a loved one once thought dead had little to no effect. He sounded so very much like _John_ , his stutter gone, recalling memories Sherlock thought to be lost, relaxing and touching him willingly. 

"Sh-She-" he'd pulled his lips up in a smile, though it looked quite strained for the tears he was battling, "y-yes...quite...f-flustered w-with me. Th-There w-was not m-morning t-tea for a w-week." 

"I had to suffer for it too," John said with a small laugh. "I'd gotten used to that tea. You made it, though. Said I got irritable without it." 

John was always blindsided by Sherlock's kindness, as he never thought he mattered to the man. So when he saw the tall, thin detective silently handing him a cup of tea, he'd stared at it as if expecting it to have fingers in it or some other oddity.

Sherlock recalled the discovery fondly. John had been hellishly pecking away at his blog while Sherlock was working advanced calculations. It was oddly distracting, and so he brewed John tea to give him something else to do with his hands that did not require bashing the keyboard in mono-digit frustration. 

That aside, John Watson did not need that level of frustration for a reason other than himself. He took to making John the tea daily, allowing himself to feel as though there was a modicum of benefit to John in their mutual living arrangement. 

"Y-You w-were such a _loud_ t-typist. I c-could not hold a th-thought. Entirely s-selfish, I assure y-you."

"Well not everyone can type a billion words a minute and perform advanced surgery on dead faces." John looked at his hands, which used to be strong, tan, and lightly callused. Now they were scarred, frail and weak. 

"And it's your own fault for having such sensitive hearing."

Sherlock closed his eyes as the wretched sound of John screaming exploded inside his head. It had been overwhelming, too much detail in the echo of the room and the shuffle of differently sized shoes and the small inflections in the way John sounded as he screamed and pleaded for mercy until he was sick or unconscious. 

"M-My f-fault, indeed," he whispered, forcing his eyes open and maintaining his light tone despite the crushing weight of it all.

John was relaxed now that the topic distracted him from Greg and required no difficult thought from him. "But I think y-you had some other reason. I know you're a sweet man." John didn't think he'd ever heard someone call Sherlock sweet, but after looking back on their lives, he could see the gestures he'd been blind to.

Sherlock could hardly believe that, and stared at John as he spoke French a bit louder to his brother. "D-Did you hear that, M-My," he said with a smile, immediately quieting and switching to English. "First to d-direct such an adjective towards m-me, I'll have to admit." He stared down at John, shifting his head on the pillow to hide a tear that slid past his restraint. 

"Y-You...when y-you didn't t-take the money...e-everyone h-has a price and y-you just w-walked away. It...then y-you shot a m-man f-for me and...I'm only a necessary evil to n-nearly everyone else, but _you_...called me brilliant and...endured m-me f-for far too long...y-you deserved to look forward to _something_ when y-you woke." He was screaming at himself to _stop. talking_. as truths close to his heart slipped free.   
Mycroft hummed happily. "I heard him," he responded back in French. 

John shrugged as if it were of little consequence. "I called you brilliant because you are brilliant, Sherlock. You just are. Anyone who says otherwise is stupid. You are wonderful. I looked forward to seeing you even when you didn't bribe me with tea. Though, I must admit, that was a bonus."

Mycroft's voice had been highly welcome in the mix, pulling Sherlock back closer to something grounded. It was wonderful to be with John, but always so terribly painful to hear reminders of what he'd so _stupidly_ lost. Three little words and this would have never happened. 

_Temporary, this is temporary. It's temporary._

He silently reminded himself that this would never last. John was there for want of Greg, and when he allowed himself to go back, he'd be forgotten again. 

_I looked forward to seeing you_

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat as his lashes fluttered in effort to banish the blurring tears. It was nearly too much. "I..." he shook his head, fully unable to finish what he was trying to say. 

John found it unusual to have the last word, and he tried to press Sherlock on. "But, of course, I always dressed better than you."

It was so unexpected that Sherlock let out a laugh, the sound both parts happy relief and pained grief. "Y-Yes, of c-course. I c-could n-never do a j-jumper s-such justice," he returned, though his voice wavered despite himself. He tightened his hold on John ever so slightly and smiled at him in assurance. 

"Absolutely. Cable knit. Fuzzy. Warm. None of your fancy button down shirts. I clearly had better taste." John was trying to prod Sherlock into banter, as he knew that the man used to have some sort of glee from insulting his jumpers.

"Obviously," he returned, his voice low and aloof despite the tear sliding down his face. What he would do now to find some way to get a proper jumper to John right then. Sherlock desperately wanted to bundle John up and take him home, let Mrs. Hudson fuss over them. That was never to be, he knew, but oh, _god_ how he longed for it. 

"I-I'm quite s-sure your s-sweater st-stipend is what's kept Tesco in b-business all these years going." 

John snickered and turned slightly so he was lying on his back, flush against Sherlock's side, with his head on his shoulder. He folded his hands over his chest as he often used to, and tried to think of another thing he could prod Sherlock into teasing him about. 

"At least I wore clothes. Sometimes you just showed up in a sheet."

Sherlock hummed at that as well. "Y-You're the f-fellow who b-bid an otherwise n-nude man to nick h-him an ashtray f-from the Palace. Glass h-houses, John." 

He let go of Mycroft long enough to drag a shaking hand across his face in an effort to hide his distress, clenching his grip back down hard on Mycroft's forearm, as it was the first bit of his brother his hand came back into contact with, and he was loath to let him go again. His knuckles blanched on Mycroft, while the arm around John remained relaxed and heavy. 

"And you did! You stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace!" John exclaimed the deed with the same enthusiastic disbelief as he had years ago. "I mean, who does that? It's ridiculous! You're just....amazing.

Sherlock blinked at John's enthusiasm, his grip on Mycroft a little less desperate. 

"D-Don't be an i-idiot. Of course I did i-it." He arranged his voice in the best semblance of his slightly bored, 'John's being an idiot,' tone. To Sherlock, there had been no other reasonable option. 

"Y-You w-wanted it." To the exclusive exception to helping with the woman John was after, Sherlock had made it his life's work to give John everything it was in his power to obtain. 

John closed his eyes and hummed at that. "You stole from the Palace because I wanted something. That's..." John shook his head. "That's...I never thought about it before. You're..." 

He remembered how flustered Sherlock could look when he complimented him, and decided he wanted to see that again. "Brilliant. Wonderful. Kind. Loyal."

Sherlock felt each word like a gunshot, impacting center mass and punching through his heart. Another tear followed the first, seriously beginning to question his odds of surviving this. He spoke to John in that same lightly condescending, lightly endeared tone. "Again I'll remind that y-you do th-that out l-loud, John."

John could hear a bit of the old Sherlock in his voice and he tried to encourage it as Greg did when he did something right. He laughed a bit and nuzzled down on Sherlock's chest. "I say it out loud so the other idiots know the truth."

Sherlock smiled as his lashes began to cling to one another, damp and heavy, his lower lip less than steady. "Th-they cannot recognize the t-truth f-from a t-tea biscuit, J-John. W-Wasting your time."

"Idiots, the lot of them." John raised his chin a bit. "I'll always argue your case. You know I punched a man in the nose because he he was talking shit? It was...I suppose I was a bit over emotional at the time. About a month after you...you fell. People were all talking about it! I had to disable comments on the blog for a while."

Guilt settled in like an old friend and Sherlock closed his eyes. Here it came, here was John starting to remember how much he loathed Sherlock. How he no longer thought him brilliant, but rather violent or at best, culpable. His heart rolled over in his throat, galloping so fast it was making him physically ill. 

_I can't do this_ , he thought to himself in a panicked rush, the anticipation of the fallout nearly overwhelming _, I can't- I can't do this! Oh god, I can't. I can't._

"I'm-m...s-so sorry John," he whispered, wondering if John needed to hear his reasons for that again or not. He wasn't sure he could get through it. While John had come back to him, something had changed. Before the fall, John would never have left Sherlock for Africa. "I...i-if-f I c-could change-" his voice pitched abruptly, grief stealing away his composure, anticipating the fallout with fear that was disturbingly similar to hearing Moran's voice. 

"I'm s-sorry."

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, it's okay. I'm here." John leaned down and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms. "I was always on your side. Always. I always believed in you. I always did. I always spoke well of you. Please, whatever I said to hurt you, I didn't mean it. I don't ever want to hurt you." 

John sat up slightly and pulled Sherlock into his arms. He leaned down and tried everything he could to be just like Greg. What did Greg do to help him?

John leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I'm here. I'm here."

Sherlock was in a silent panic. John had gathered him up and he wanted nothing more than to relax into it, He was terrified his distress was going to drive John away, unsure how much he was allowed to relax against him, or if he could curl his hand up around John's forearm. 

_Calm down or he'll leave. Calm down. Calm_ down _, Sherlock_. 

He put his focus to breathing, knowing he had to master that to feign a steady sense of calm again. He wanted to reach out to Mycroft with such intensity his palms tingled, unsure and frightened in John's arms. John, despite his intentions, had never failed to mean pain over the last year. The idea of remaining as he was, was slightly more tolerable than the idea of letting go. 

John rocked back and forth slowly in an attempt to be just like Greg. He kissed Sherlock's hairline again and hummed something he couldn't remember the name of. 

"It's going to be okay. I promise. I'm going to make sure of it. You're alright. You're safe."

Three times Sherlock nearly broke, his brother's name dying on his parted lips as he shored up just enough courage to endure. It was odd, wanting John so terribly for such a long time, but John's deep resentment and fear of him after months of torture while surrounded with John's voice had worked to solidify something terrible and dark that slid over him like cold oil any time John made assurances Sherlock was dying to hear. 

When he got what he wanted, he was so afraid of it he could hardly breathe. But John had, so many times before, smiled at him and in the next breath cursed him and fled. It would happen now, Sherlock knew, though an absurd part of him clung desperately to hope. 

"O-Okay," he breathed, unsure what else to say as he wrapped one trembling hand around John's forearm at his chest, lightly holding on. 

John didn't know if he was properly being Greg, and was wrought with worry that he was worsening the situation. 

"If I'm making you uncomfortable, I'll stop. I'll do whatever you want, Sherlock. I'm here to make you feel better, because you asked for me."

Sherlock frowned at that, gently pulling away from John and struggling to sit up without support. "I...I a-asked for y-you b-because I..." he swallowed down the panic that was twisting his pitch so terribly and making his voice shake, "I...th-the h-hospital w-was… _t-terrifying_ without M-My...I kn-know how frightening alone can b-be. I w-wanted t-to help you, I w-wasn't a-asking f-for..." 

He stopped abruptly as John's words caught up to him. 

_Because you asked for me._

He blinked at John, his gut twisting in nausea. "A-Are...are y-you...trying to b-be _g-good_ , John? You k-kept s-saying it's your _job_ to f-fix..." as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him, his skin was suddenly dripping with cold. 

"D-Did you c-come...b-because y-you th-think that's wh-what you had to do?" 

John shook his head. "It's been made abundantly clear that I'm not being forced to do this. I know I don't have any sort of obligation to be here." 

He stared down at his useless hands and pain twisted in his chest just behind his breastbone. 

"I'm sorry. I'm making things worse. I shouldn't be here. I knew I wasn't good enough yet. I knew it. I knew it. I'm just being so stupid. I thought..." 

He'd thought. He'd thought he could finally be of some help. Then he'd gotten too friendly and messed things up again. 

John curled in on himself and pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'll jsut...I'll shut up. If you want me, I'll stay here. If not, I'll just...I'll go b-back to the room...I'll b-be okay. I-I have a d-dog now so its n-not like I'm completely alone."

Sherlock tore his hands through his hair as he listened to the damage he'd just done with his own idiotic fear. 

"N-No, please, J-John _please!_ " 

He reached out and touched John's shoulder, panic moving from a hazy form in the back drop as it began to solidify around his heart. "P-Please, I'm s-s-sorry, I'm s-sorry. I g-get...it's...pl-please it's _m-me_ , n-not you. I- I g-get...I get..." 

Moran walked casually across the room, distracting Sherlock's attention as he trailed off. Sherlock failed to remember that while he didn't turn his head, he still tracked Moran's progress with his eyes. He sat there, paralyzed, as he watched the man pick up a crowbar and turn around, licking his teeth as he made a show of deciding where first to swing. 

_Not real! Not real, Sherlock!_

He took the leap as he always did, trusting that My would never allow him in the room, returning to the conversation. "L-Lost...I get l-lost," he had no awareness of how his shoulders rounded down and he was whispering so quietly he was hard to hear. "Please...I...I...d-didn't m-mean to." 

John looked over his shoulder and saw the empty room that Sherlock had tracked with his eyes. "I'm sorry," he gasped, "It's okay. It's all okay. I'm not mad. I'm fine. Let's just...let's just be calm." 

Mycroft reached out and wrapped his arms around Sherlock protectively. "I've got you. It's okay. I'm here. You've done beautifully." 

He spoke in French, which seemed to be Sherlock's default language when avoiding English. 

Sherlock was made aware of how hard he was trembling with Mycroft's familiar and incredibly welcome arms wrapped around him. He began to cry as his brother spoke to him, still watching Moran as he absently dragged the crowbar behind him, metal on concrete reverberating through the room as real as any other sound. He could not take his eyes off the man, the faint color he had draining from his face. 

_Stay calm. John's here. Stay calm._

He slowly pulled out of Mycroft's arms just enough to still have his brother's hand on his shoulder, while he lay down next to John, as close as he could without upsetting him, not sure how close John wanted him. 

"P-Please don't l-leave. If-f you w-want to g-go that's...different, but p-please, _please_ d-don't b-blame..." Moran struck the base of the bed, at the metal supports, with the bar and Sherlock felt the bed shake as surely as if he was standing right there. Tears fell steady from his eyes as he did his damnedest to ignore it. 

John shrank away as Mycroft hushed Sherlock and rocked him gently. He turned his face away and took a gasping breath as self hatred began to once again gnaw at his very bones. 

"I w-won't leave. I don't blame you. I d-don't want to keep hurting you. I'm so s-so sorry that I-I..I'm just...I'm n-not any g-good anymore, especially without him." 

Sherlock reached out with a trembling hand and wrapped his fingers around John's. "St-stop l-l-listening-g to h-him-m. S-Someone is l-lying to y-you. Is it m-me or h-h-him, b-because we b-both can't be r-right." 

He shifted back ever so slightly, still holding tight to John's hand, though very terribly wanting his brother. Ignoring Moran was devastating his coping mechanisms, overwhelming him and exhausting him to no end, all on top of trying to maintain for John. 

"That's not a new feeling, Sherlock!" 

John sounded very angry in that moment, though not a bit of it was directed at Sherlock. 

"It's not new for me to feel like dirt! I've had that for ages. This...this is much worse but...It can't be all him. I just...I'm being selfish. Let me help you. How do I help you?" 

John took Sherlock's hand in both of his and gave him an earnest look. 

His chest twinged violently as John got angry, and he only narrowly found it in him not to flinch away. "I'm sorry," he breathed in a rush, hardly enunciating. 

He blinked rapidly to keep from breaking down into tears. He was making John hurt, and he was making him angry. "I...I d-didn't m-m-mean t-t-" his jaw tingled and he closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of pain to pass. 

"T-to imply th-tha-that you j-j-jus-st get...g-get o-ov-ver it-t. I'm s-s-orr-y." His voice had faded to a whisper, pulling his eyes away from Moran to look at John. 

"P-Please...I...I am-m t-tryin-g." 

John bit down on his own tongue to punish it for speaking harshly to Sherlock. He tasted blood and was calmed a bit, just for a moment, that he could pay for what he did wrong without them seeing.   
"I'm sorry," he began once he was able. "I was wrong to shout. I wasn't upset with you. I was upset with myself. I apologize. Would you like me to stay?"

Sherlock stared at the blood on John's lip, his vision tunneling, nearly causing him to blackout. "I'm h-hurting y-you," he whispered, reaching up and touching his finger to John's lip. He lowered his hand, staring at the small dot of blood on the pad, looking back up to John. 

" _S-Stop_ ," he breathed in a rush, reaching out and grabbing both of John's shoulders, looking him in the eye, "Stop p-p-punishing y-yourself. John! _St-op_! You m-must f-force yourself to s-s-see this f-for what it i-is! I am wr-wrong or h-he is, it's th-that s-simple, John. It's th-that simple." 

John leaned away and covered his mouth as tears sprang into his eyes. 

"You aren't hurting me," he whispered with desperation in his tone. "You're not at all! I'm just messing up! I'm ruining everything!" 

Pain twisted in his chest again and he let out a sob. Everything in him screamed to be strong, stoic and reasonable, as he needed to be for Sherlock, but another sob shook him and he dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Y-You're n-not wrong! I-I j-just k-keep messing up! E-Even if I-I didn't deserve the t-torture, I-I'm h-hurting you now! I'm doing bad things right now!"

Sherlock tightened his hold on John and shook his head emphatically. "N-No you are n-not! H-How could you be hurting me? You came to help m-me, you've joked with m-me, you've l-let me _h-hold you_ , you're not hurting m-me! You are doing _nothing_ bad n-now! I am sc-scared b-because I can see _Moran right n-now_ , not b-because of you! Please, John! Don't just tell _me_ I'm n-not lying, t-tell _yourself_." 

John looked over his shoulder to be sure that the man wasn't just alive somewhere in the room. He was intensely focused on helping Sherlock now that he had something to go on. 

"T-Tell me where y-you see him," John breathed, eyes still roaming the room. "Because I don't see him, but I understand that it's scary. I hear Moran a lot. I was...I was blindfolded frequently. I don't like the lights off. It's easier to hear him in the dark. I know what this is like. P-Please look at me. Just me. I'm here. I'm trying v-very hard to stay with you. T-Tell m-me something. Just t-talk about something." 

Sherlock let go of John long enough to point to the foot of the bed on Mycroft's side, keeping his face locked up like stone as his finger shook in the air, tracking Moran from that side to John's and back. 

"H-He paces, a-alw-ways p- p- p-" his eyes fell closed as his stutter got away with him, speaking again with the visual off, "p-aced. H-He's...he's been with m-me since I...first-came home." 

A bone-jarring shudder ran down his spine and he turned his eyes back to John as requested. 

"D-Do you know th-that when I w-was g-gone those two y-years...I h-heard you? Constantly." 

"I heard you too sometimes," John returned. "Couldn't go back to the flat once I left. It was...I just couldn't. That flat was so beautiful. So wonderful. Then it was...Then it was just...I couldn't go back knowing you weren't there. But then you came back and it was alright again, right? We had good times again. Things were good." 

John reached out and brushed his fingertips over Sherlock's cheek. "I'm glad you came back to me. I know I was an ass when you first...surprised me."

Sherlock bit down on his cheeks, leaning into John's hand and closing his eyes. He didn't want to ever, ever talk about that again. He'd learned his lesson, he did not require a refresher. 

"I was wr-wrong to..to s-say that...I sh-should never have...wh-what you th-thought of me and then I s-said _that_. I...I thought you were g-gone, that I'd-" John knew, John already knew. 

"I just n-never thought I'd e-e-ever see you again and-" his focus dropped, terrified to watch John's expression snap shut on him, "I'm s-s-sorry that w-w-was so selfish on my part, I...I th-thought it-" his voice dipped and he felt his throat closing on him, "th-thought it would h-help." He cringed at his own stupidity, grief and regret setting into his features. 

"It's okay. I'm not upset. I'm not upset at all." He ground his teeth together to keep himself from biting his tongue, and his expression was mournful. "I'm...I can't do this very well w-without Greg, and I'm nervous that I-I'm about to hurt you. What can I-I do to make you feel better? Please, tell me what I can do."

Oh, how Sherlock despised that question every time it was asked. If he knew, he'd have done it himself.

"D-Don't l-l-leave," he whispered, "p-please be patient w-with m-me, John. Please," he was sure that if John went away frightened or sad, that he'd spend the night trying to hurt himself without bringing attention to it. "Even if-f you don't w-want to talk...st-stay here and w-we will sit quietly. Th-There is another b-bed if you don't want th-this, but...I...it w-would help m-me f-feel better if-f you just st-stay. We can g-get Gladstone." 

John sniffled and looked around the room. He wanted Gladstone, and he wanted Greg. He wanted his Greg so achingly badly that he was certain it was gnawing at his insides. "I don't..." He looked around the room one more time and a small laugh escaped him. "The aid is still in the bathroom."

Sherlock looked up to see the light under the door. "J-Jared," he called, his fingers curled in John's shirt, determined to keep him there, "Would you p-please g-go get G-Gladstone?" 

He turned back to John. "Please..e-either st-stay h-here or g-go home. I'm sc-scared f-for you. Please, it doesn't have to be m-me, j-just don't b-b-be alone."

Jared slowly opened the door. He kept his hands still by his sides and walked swiftly to the door in a clear display of not wanting to frighten John. 

Gladstone was let in the room just a moment later and John became instantly more sure of himself. The dog trotted over and set his head on the edge of the bed. "Good boy. There's a good boy."

Sherlock let go of John so that John could turn towards the dog if he wanted to, drawing his hands back to his chest as he waited to see what John would do. He was actively fighting the intense desire to hide in Mycroft's arms, laying there with his pulse thundering in his ears, Moran pacing about. He found Mycroft's hand and pulled it around him, still facing John, his back to his brother. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock to his chest in a way that he could still watch John.   
"You're okay, 'Lock. You're okay. I'm here." 

John looked back to Mycroft in question. "Can he come up on the bed?"

Mycroft nodded, and John opened his arms. That was all the dog needed in cue and he jumped up, licked John on the face, then curled up with his back to him so John could wrap his arms around his neck as he often did. 

"Sherlock," John said softly, "You can pet him too. He's really, really friendly. He'll protect you too if you need it. He'd bit Moran's hands off if we needed him too. You're safe."

Sherlock kept one hand on his brother, clinging to the man like a life raft, while reaching out and letting Gladstone sniff him. His vision blurred as he sank his fingers into Gladstone's fur, shivering with exhaustion. Fighting against panic and fear had been exhausting. He looked to John and then back to the dog. 

"H-He...he's v-very h-handsome." 

"Isn't he?" John was grateful for a change of topic, and the previous conversation was gone to him. "He's so fast, and he's never disobeyed anyone ever. He protects me. He knows things. He understands." John thought back to the time he'd tried to kill himself and Greg said it was Gladstone that notified him. He wondered if he had a mark still.

Sherlock carried on petting the dog, listening to John talk about him. It was slowly setting in how...different their experiences and situations truly were. The dog lay there, eyes half-closed, panting and calm as he allowed Sherlock to touch him. John was automatically calmer with Gladstone around. 

John was at a place in life with chocolate and walks, domestic routine, and those sorts of things. 

Sherlock was abruptly self-conscious of the tube in his nose, the medical equipment in the room, the pacemaker sewn under his skin. John had progressed past this, at his _home_ with _Greg_. He pulled his hand away from the dog and spoke very quietly to John. 

"Y-You sh-should-d...g-go home, John," he breathed, loathing the need to say the words at all. Selfishly he wanted to pull John to him, to keep him there and remind him that once they had been a sort of family themselves. He wanted to scream for John's help, tell him that My was going to return to work soon and that he'd again be alone. He wanted to call Mrs. Hudson and go back to Baker Street and sleep in his bed.

"Y-You're n-not h-h-happy here and G-Greg...I know h-he m-m-misses y-you t-terribly." 

John held Greg's shirt to his face and pressed against his dog. He was tired, but the feel of Greg's clothing and the dog's fur was a calming combination. 

"I can't go home yet," he whispered and tried to get his surroundings to feel as much like it as he could. "If I-I start to hurt Greg, I'll hate myself even more and the progress will go away. I just n-need to get this solid before I can go back. I really...Sherlock, I don't want to hurt anyone. I was hurting him, and it was hurting me. I don't....I can't punish myself like I have been. I have these...these countdowns...and it hurts. I need to stop, because they hurt, but they're....comfortable? No...Familiar? I don't know. I can't stop. If I told Greg it would m-make him sad. I need to work on this for just a bit longer. I need to not hurt myself and not believe it was my fault."

Sherlock drew his hand back, gripping Mycroft nearly painfully tight. He would _never_ do this to his brother. If Greg had tried to kill himself in the first _day_ away from John...

But what John was saying was also true. He had to stop with that. "J-John...you've got to st-stop resisting help, then. You need to tackle this h-head on if...if y-you're g-going to do this w-without Greg. It's t-t-time to st-stop defending Moriarty." 

"I'm not defending Moriarty," John whined and Gladstone turned a bit to lick his face again. "I'm just...I know. I know I should be doing a lot of things differently. I want to stop hurting Greg, and I want to be able to help you. I'm so sorry I am hurting you. I want to not hurt anyone ever again. But it...it's hard! It's really, really hard! Tell me..." He ran his hands over his eyes and took a breath. 

"Tell me what I need to change about my thinking to be done with this. I like lists. I like facts. Just do it the way you used to. A blunt list with no embellishing. I like that."

Sherlock somehow managed to tighten his grip on Mycroft, forcing himself to speak for John and Greg's sake. 

"J-James Moriarty is a murderous psychopath.   
"James M-Moriarty w-was wrong in e-every single _second_ he h-had you.   
"J-J-James Moriarty psychologically manipulated y-you with text book t-torture m-methods.   
"James M-Moriarty only d-deserved the b-bullet through his skull, n-never your obedience.   
"You are _defending h-him_ every single t-t-time you cl-claim h-he was r-right."

John listened quietly while Sherlock listed and was still for some time after as he processed. He could understand, logically now, that Moriarty was wrong for what he did. He could not, however, translate logical knowledge to emotional acceptance. "And, and what about when I hurt you or Greg now? What about that?"

Sherlock shrugged, still clinging to his brother as though he'd die if he let go. "I h-hurt My all..all th-the time. D-Don't intend to b-but I do. I've h-hurt you countless..." he couldn't go there and keep it together, he just couldn't. 

"Wh-What do y-you want me to do when I accidently and unintentionally h-hurt someone?" 

"Forgive yourself," John said with incredible conviction. "You...You never did anything wrong. If I had been...been better in the beginning, you would not have been taken. This," he gestured to Sherlock, to his tube and his scars, "all rests on my shoulders. I take full responsibility for it. I'd like to say that I'm sorry." 

Sherlock shook his head. "That's...n-no...they t-took you to g-get to m-me. You...I r-refuse to allow you to take responsibility for what..." he shook his head, thinking of Moran's hands tearing into his hips. With a full bodied shudder, he went quiet, tears in his eyes. "N-No."

"I know it isn't logical," John looked down in shame. "I'm sorry. I'm trying very hard to be good. Y-You are wonderful and I w-want to help you. I'll try not to blame myself. I know..I think...I think I know logically that it isn't my fault, but it still feels bad. Is that good enough for now?"

Sherlock shrugged, "You a-are the one that h-had to b-be good enough f-for. You m-must drop the effort to b- be 'good,' as well. N-No one w-wants you to b-be good."

John reached one hand back and touched Sherlock's face. "I don't know how to let go of this. I just don't. I can't. I'll...You said not to hurt myself anymore. I don't know if I can do that, but can that be where I start? That and trying to remember that the torture wasn't my fault?"

Sherlock flinched as John reached for him, brilliantly glad he couldn't see. "Y-Yes," he breathed, shrinking back against his brother.

"Those two things, right? Those two things is how I do it?" John turned around a bit and looked at Sherlock. Self consciously he pulled the blankets up over his neck, as since remembering about it while complimenting Gladstone, he'd been worried Sherlock would see. Perhaps it was gone. It was probably gone. It'd been so long and there were so many other scars. It must have faded. Surely. John found himself obsessing over the one detail and snapped his attention back to Sherlock. 

"Just those two for now?"

Sherlock grit his teeth, breathing right and fast. "Y-Yes...those two th-things, John."

John slowly turned his back to Gladstone and curled up in a small ball right next to Sherlock. "I'm going to do those things, then. I promise."

Sherlock reached out and rest his hand on John's back, frightened and exhausted. He just held fast, running his thumb over John's back.

John began to shiver as if freezing as his resolve began to crumble. "I'm s-so sorry I'm not doing better," he whispered. Slowly his mind began to go back to Greg and delve into the tiny details. The way Greg clung to him and cried, the weeping he could hear down the hall, and the pain of walking away anyway even though he hated leaving. John whimpered and slowly inched his hands up to cover his face. He wasn't good enough to go back yet, but he had his list. 

_I did not deserve the torture. I did not deserve the torture. I feel like I deserved the torture. I did not deserve the torture. Greg says so. Sherlock says so. Mycroft says so. Paul says so._

Sherlock pulled John's blanket up, trying to help him. "Is going t-to be alright, J-John."

John had a death grip on his blanket and held it over his mouth. "Left him," he gasped and his eyes slowly became glassy and unfocused. "I l-left him crying on the ground."

Sherlock was not sure how to respond. "He knows y-you are trying. He'll be a-alright, he l-loves you." He tried to rub John's back in an effort to comfort.

John could feel himself getting worked up and tried to slow down. Greg's desperate tears were burned in his brain. 

"I'm s-sorry! I-I-" How the hell had he left? How had he gone away when it was hurting Greg? John whimpered and his calm began to crumble.

"John...b-breathe. Just breathe. You d-don't need to be sorry, you don't." He pulled gently at John's shirt before rubbing his back again. "It's g-going to b-be ok."

What if Greg had hurt himself? "I n-need to talk to him," John gasped. "I need t-to call. Mycroft, I need to call G-Greg." 

Mycroft looked to Sherlock first.

Sherlock was very still for a minute. "John...I don't...m-maybe you...if you w-want to call him w-why not g-go home?" He wasn't sure what a call would do to Greg, very much doubting it would help.

"I-I'll tell h-him what I have done and a-ask him if it is enough. I'll ask h-him if it is enough t-to g-go home." John was trembling now. He knew that Greg would say yes, but was worried his progress wouldn't be enough. 

"Mycroft, let me call. P-Please. I-I need to talk to him. N-Now."

Mycroft handed over his phone and John held it with shaking hands.

Sherlock held tight to John as he heard the line ring.

There was a shuffling after the call was answered, and the barely audible sound of Greg's voice came over the line. "What, Mycroft?"

John let out a choked sob as soon as he heard Greg's voice and he curled up around the phone. "I-I-I w-want t-to come h-home," John stammered, "B-But I-I d-don't know if I-I'm g-good enough y-yet."

Greg's tone shifted, instantly louder and yet somehow more desperate. "Y-you want t-to come home? To m-me? You...you've always been g-good enough! I never wanted y-you to leave!"

John whimpered and reached out for someone to help him stay grounded. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and held on tight. 

"I-I d-don't feel g-good enough," he explained. "I don't feel l-like I d-deserve t-to see y-you. I-I know it w-wasn't my fault. I-I know it w-wasn't. I know I-I don't deserve it. I-I need t-to tell myself that a-and stop h-hurting myself as p-punishment. Sherlock s-said those things. D-Does that mean I c-can come back now?"

Sherlock felt a great swell of compassion for Greg as he pulled John closer. John was obviously suffering terribly. He listened as Greg fell apart on the line, sobbing just before a loud shuffling told Sherlock that he'd covered the mic.

It took several agonizing moments of silence before Greg spoke, his breathing hitching terribly. "If-f...if it...of course you can come b-back, but if...if it's...I don't th-think I can do you any good. I held...held you back. I....god I'm so sorry, I th-thought I was s-still helping!"

"Y-You do help! I-I-I-" John began to openly weep then, eyes wet and his chest pained. "I'm s-s-sorry, p-p-pl-please c-come g-get me! Please! I-I m-miss you! I-I w-w-will g-g-get b-b-better! I-I swear!"

Greg nearly fell out of bed in his haste to move. "I'm coming," he breathed, tugging on long sleeves despite the warm temperature, glad that London did not get overly hot. "I'm c-coming, John, I'm coming."

He had been awake the thirty hours John had been gone, aching in pain for want of medicine he'd been denied for his own good, pale and weak. He stumbled down the hall, grabbing his keys and making for the street, hoping to hail a cab. "I'm coming, J-John."

John cried out in relief when he heard that his Greg was on his way. He doubled over with Mycroft's phone clutched to his chest, weeping openly and trembling with anticipation of the coming comfort. "M'sorry," he cried in such abject despair that it made Gladstone whine.

Greg's voice came over the line, rough and exhausted, "It's alright, John," he breathed, full of worry, "I swear it's alright, I'm coming, I'm coming." 

Sherlock heard him mutter to a driver and reached out, taking the phone from John and holding it to his own ear. "We w-will s-s-see you soon, G-Greg." When he hung up, he looked to Mycroft, "They w-will need a c-c-car to take them h-home. No m-more cabs." 

John was a mess. He was sobbing into the mattress with Greg's shirt pressed over his face and the blanket that had originally been from Baker Street but now smelled like Greg's flat wrapped around his shoulders. After a moment he noticed Sherlock again and reached up to take his hand. 

"I-I'm g-g-going t-t-to come b-back," John said with as much conviction as his shaking voice could portray. "I p-promise."

Sherlock was expertly pulling off the outward appearance of being completely steady and composed as he took John's hand. 

"Okay J-John, wh-whatever you need to do...that's wh-what I w-want you to do. R-Right n-now you need t-to go home and f-feel safe." His voice was strong and even, only the stutter bleeding through from time to time. 

"I w-will come back," John stated again. "I swear. I-I will come b-back to you. I p-promise. L-Let me c-come back when I-I'm ready. I'm c-coming back f-for you when I-I am r-ready." 

Slowly he leaned over and rested his face down on Sherlock's shoulder and breathed a slow sigh. 

"It h-hurts you when I-I leave you."

Sherlock pressed his hand to the back of John's head, holding him close. He shook his head, carrying on with years of well honed acting. "I'm alr-right, J-John. I have My...and n-now there is J-Jared s-so I won't be alone-" his voice wavered on the word, the state of being incredibly stressful and frightening for him, "and I'll f-feel b-better knowing you are s-somewhere y-you feel s-safe and c-comfortable." 

John nodded. "Okay, I-I'll go. But...Please, Sherlock, please. Please understand that I-I-I will not b-be gone forever. I'm...Jesus, Sherlock, I work on stuff every day! I-I try so h-hard to improve s-so you can h-have a good life too."

Sherlock could hear the staff down the hall, assuming Greg was there. He spoke to John as fast as he could, wanting him to hear this. 

"I d-don't want you to f-fix m-me. Y-You are not r-responsible-for the q-quality of my life. I w-want you to find happiness, and I know th-that likely w-won't be w-with m-me anywhere around you. Y-You...th-there is n-nothing on you f-for whatever happens with m-me. If I see you a-again, all th-the better. If not..." he trailed off as Greg himself pushed into the room without knocking, pale and disheveled, nearly falling over himself in his haste to get to John. 

"John," he called out, moving to the bedside. 

 

John was out of bed and halfway across the room when Greg appeared in the door. He collided with his love and wrapped both arms around him in a desperate, pleading embrace.   
"I-I'm s-sorry! S-Sorry! P-Pl-Please, I-I've l-learned! I'm b-better now!"

Sherlock rolled over, finally burying his face against Mycroft's chest, clutching at his brother's shirt. He couldn't watch, couldn't face the greeting Greg was receiving from John.

Greg wrapped his arms around John and pulled him in tight, ignoring the flare of pain from his arms. "It's okay, it's okay. I've got you, I'm here."

John pressed his face into the crook of Greg's neck where he could feel his skin and cried. The warmth of being in Greg's arms again was overpowering, and John leaned on Greg heavily. "L-Lo-Love y-you," he whimpered and latched on tight. Thoughts of Sherlock were abandoned as he was mentally, emotionally and physically consumed with how much he missed his love.

Sherlock's shoulders pinched as he lost hold of a choked sob, the sound muffled against Mycroft's chest. He was shaking horribly, doing his best to keep from falling completely apart before John left.

Greg kept hold of John, holding him tight to his chest and closing his eyes. He was still aware of Sherlock and Mycroft. He began to slowly moving he and John to the door. "I love you too, John," he whispered as he held him tight. "Let's go home."

John went willingly for a few steps, then stopped and turned a tear filled face to Sherlock, who Mycroft was trying to comfort. "I'll come b-back. Greg, tell him. T-Tell him about how I-I ask about him and t-try to help."

Greg looked up at Sherlock, intimately familiar with the signs of an encroaching collapse. He shook his head, burying his nose in John's hair and whispering to him quietly. "He knows, love. We need to go, we just need to go now. He's...He looks tired, let's go home."

"No, no t-tell him," John insisted and pulled Greg over. He stood by Sherlock's bed as Mycroft rocked the devastated detective and reached out one hand. 

"Please, I'm going to come back. P-Please unders-stand that."

Sherlock dug his fingers into Mycroft's chest through his shirt, the movement intentional, a desperate act of panic. He tried to speak, the sounds clipped and fading against Mycroft's chest. He simply nodded, absolutely refusing to watch this. It felt like dying. He wished that he was. 

Greg kept hold of John. "Sherlock it's all true," he said quietly, trying to pull John away, guilt washing over him for all of this. "John...we need to go."

Mycroft pulled Sherlock away and covered him with blankets to shield him. "I'm here. It's okay. Right here. You're safe."

John turned his attention back to Greg and walked out with him, Gladstone at their heels.

 

Sherlock waited until he heard the clock of the door before quietly breaking apart in his brother's arms.

Mycroft hated that Sherlock was upset, but all in all it was a marvelous event. John had been calmer than he'd been in ages, and the two had approached some semblance of normal conversation. "It's alright," Mycroft whispered. "You're alright."  
Greg kept John flush to his side, met by Paul and Mycroft's staff, helped to a car with John's bag already packed. When they were all properly loaded in, he pulled John to him, holding him in a desperate, tight grip. "I thought I lost you," he whispered, kissing John's head as he pulled him closer.

 

John held on tighter than he thought his battered limbs capable of. He cried desperately and shook his head at Greg's words. "I-I w-was just...just t-t-t-trying t-to h-help y-you," John lamented. "M-My fault. P-Please, I w-won't leave again."

Greg held John tight, and when the car finally arrived at their home, he kept John flush to his side, gritting his teeth as he helped them both up the stars and immediately headed for their room.

"It's alright, you're home, you're home, let's lie down?"

John was a nervous wreck by the time he was at home, and clung wordlessly to Greg with eyes a bit to wide and knuckles a bit too white. 

He nodded nervously and stood hunched over with both arms wrapped around Greg's waist.

Greg brought John with him into bed, wrapping him up tight and taking his fingers through John's hair. "Please talk to me, John. What can I do for you? I...I'm sorry you...I don't want to...to drive you away again. Please...whatever I wasn't....wasn't doing, I will. I swear I will. Please tell me."

John shook his head and tried three times to speak around the lump in his throat. He thought that perhaps screaming would help dislodge it, and turned his face into a pillow to expel the silence. When he sat back up, mouth in a thin line and his eyes sad, he spoke. 

"I just kept h-hurting you and n-needed to figure some things out."

Greg sat up with John, refusing to let go of him. He held John's hand in his, brushing his fingers over the back of John's knuckles. 

"W-Will you leave me if...if I c-can't..." he hung his head, his gut twisted up in terrible guilt. "I c-can't help if...I don't m-mean to...to f-feel hurt. I shouldn't do that...I just...I try, I really try, John, but s-sometimes things j-just...hurt. I'm so sorry. I'll...if you need me to go away, please don't f-feel like you have to leave. I'll go...I'll go and you c-can stay here where you are comfortable. I'm _sorry_ , John. I'm sorry." 

John reached up and took Greg's face in his hands. He tipped his forehead against his and was quiet for a bit as he pieced together his thoughts into words. "I d-did not leave because of a failing of your own. I-I l-left because I w-was hurting you. I did n-not deserve what Moriarty w-was doing to me. I did not. S-See? N-Now things won't...won't spiral. I'm not allowed to bite my tongue anymore or hurt myself on the inside. I'm supposed to remember that it wasn't my f-fault. N-Now I c-can be better and help you more."

Greg kept hold of John's hand, leaning into John. "I...th-that's very good, John. I'm so glad to hear that you were able to...to see that. I...I think I'm in your way," his voice was hardly over a whisper and he could not stand to be physically so distant from John, pulling him into his arms and holding him close, shaking as he allowed himself to finally realize that John was _home._

"I don't want to be in your way, but oh god, John, I don't want you to go!" 

John kissed Greg's cheek and shook his head. "No, no, that's not it at all! That's not it at all, I swear! I left because _I-I_ was hurting _you_!" 

Being surrounded by warm, strong arms was intoxicatingly good and John began to release some of the tension he'd been holding. Perhaps he couldn't let go of his survival mode elsewhere, but if he worked on it, he was sure he'd be able to with Greg. 

"I n-needed to stop feeling guilty for a while s-so I could work on s-some things."

Greg was in tears, holding tight to John, one hand splayed on the flat of his back, the other against the back of John's head. 

"I don't mean for you to feel so much guilt around m-me! I want to make you feel safe and loved, not guilty and deserving of torture," he wept as he began to rock the both of them. 

He was completely unable to make himself remain calm in the wake of a very real attempt on his own life, believing he'd lost the very last person he loved. "I am so sorry you feel so bad here, I want to fix it, please let me fix it before-" he shook his head and pulled John in tighter, breathing through his nose in an effort to calm down. 

John understood now what devastation he'd brought in his wake and it stabbed through his chest and straight into his heart. Instantly the temptation was there, to hate himself, to mentally and physically abuse himself to right what he'd done, but he could not. He'd promised. Still, thoughts slipped through. 

"I'm sorry," John gasped. "I will _never_ leave you again. Never. I swear it. I l-love you. I-I feel guilt f-for the same reasons I-I feared Sherlock. B-Because I was trained to. You're no more guilty than Sherlock was when I was afraid of him. I-I feel guilty because I-I was made to, not because of you." 

Greg nodded against the side of John's head and just held him there, rocking slowly and keeping him close. He tipped his face to the side of John's neck and breathed in deep, trying to quiet the quaking panic that was rising up now that he was no longer laying, numb and despondent, on their empty bed. His arms flared with pain and his stomach ached with exhaustion and grief and he was forced to confront the fact that he was decidedly not okay. 

He also could not help John any more. He'd told him the same thing, over and over, and _over_ , that had taken Paul and apparently Sherlock one sodding day to explain. He clearly wasn't of use any longer, and the thought tore the air from his lungs and made him clutch at John more desperately. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, broken and down to nothing, "I'm sorry." 

"Greg," John whispered, "You love me, right?" He did not wait for an answer. "You don't want me hating myself because you love me. I don't want you to beat yourself up about this because I love you, and I don't want you to be sad. I just...God, I hated being alone, I just...I don't want to ever be alone again. I can't stand you not being there. I-I just needed s-some sort of motivation. Not hurting you, and getting back to you."

Greg could not understand how John could possibly try and frame this as not being his fault, his failing, but chose not to argue over it. He simply nodded and eased John down with him, careful to keep John off his forearms, wrapping them up in the blanket and holding tight. 

He'd nearly _killed himself_ over this. Now he would have to sort how to pretend to be okay, but that was fine. It was worth it. He'd sleep tonight and make eggs in the morning, he'd smile and encourage. John was never going to see him like this again, he couldn't allow it. More showers and more time to himself would be required to pull it off, but he could do it. He could. Anything was better than the sucking void that was his life without John or his family. He couldn't do it.

John was grinding his teeth in an effort to not bite his tongue in guilt of what he'd put Greg through. He kept his hands flat to avoid digging his fingernails into his skin, and he forced himself to think about nice things instead of punishment. 

_Cake._  
Gladstone.  
Greg.   
Breakfast.   
You made him cry.  
Movies.  
Tea.   
You deserve to be whipped for this.  
Going outside.   
Worthless. 

John whined and withdrew one hand to press over his eyes. "Greg, I'm t-trying n-not to feel guilty for this, b-but..I..I'm just s-so sorry I did this t-to you and it w-won't happen again! I promise!"

John's shifting body language and desperate words tore across Greg's mind and he was instantly speaking, doing his best to back pedal. "It's okay! It's not your fault, John, you didn't do anything wrong. Okay? You did nothing wrong. I...I'm fine, I am fine. It was hard to see you go, but you're home, and I...I'm f-fine! Everything is okay," he was rambling, tripping over his words in his haste to not lose John again.

John nodded and forced the words into his mind. He did not deserve pain because of this. He did not. John found Greg's hands anyway and held on tight, just in case. 

"N-Not my fault...I-I was just trying to help. That's all. All I wanted. I'm okay. I'm n-not a b-bad person. I'm okay." His lower lip was trembling and he took short gasps which he held until he noticed, then let out in a rush. 

Greg did not know what to do, so he leaned in and gently pressed his lips to John's, lingering in that chaste, nearly familial way for several heartbeats before drawing back. 

"You are not a bad person, John. You aren't." He pushed all of his sincerity into the words, meaning them to his core. "You were trying to help m-me and no matter what, you are not bad. You were trying to help and I w-was an idiot and thought-" he cleared his throat and shook his head, glossing that over, "You are perfect and I love you. I am so sorry I'm...doing such a fantastic job of losing it, that is not your fault. It's not. You are not responsible for what I think or feel." 

"You understand," John breathe when Greg said he was trying to help. "Thank y-you! THank you." He kissed Greg again and held for a moment, trembling, frightened and sad, before pulling away and dropping his head on Greg's shoulder. 

"I-I'm so s-sorry I didn't explain b-better first. P-Please d-don't be m-mad at me."

Greg shook his head, trailing his fingers through John's hair. "I was never mad," he whispered, closing his eyes at the weight of John's head on his shoulder. He pulled John slightly closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. 

"I was never mad. Even if you l-left for...the reasons I thought, I wasn't mad. I...I'm...j-just f-feeling so lucky that you came back." 

"I feel lucky that you'd have m-me back after I left you." John nuzzled Greg's neck affectionately and for a moment the self-hatred and compulsive desire to punish himself was gone. "Love you," he whispered and the tension he held in his shoulders and back began to bleed away.

Greg inhaled deeply and slowly let out the breath, relaxing along with John, responding to John's tension. If John was relaxing, he wasn't about to bolt. Greg could handle anything other than driving John away again. He could not even consider it. "I love you, too," he responded in the warm quiet. Gladstone rest his head on the bed and Greg called him up, the bed dipping under the weight of the dog as he spun at their feet and flopped down. 

"Greg, that won't ever happen again," John asserted and his arms slowly lost their frantic hold on Greg. Not for lack of love, or desire for distance, but because he'd not slept, and he'd been in a state of survivalist panic for several hours. 

"I won't leave you."

Greg made up for what John was losing as far as his grip. He kept hold of John as though sure he'd vanish into thin air. He wasn't sure what to make of John's assertion, other than he believed that John believed that true. John hadn't seen what Greg had done, did not know how severely ill Greg was, and when that eventually came to light, Greg was sharply aware of the extraordinary likelihood that John would take off again. 

"Th-Thank you," he whispered in return, watching John as the man lay against him. 

John broke down again softly and went limp in Greg's arms. "I thought I-I was going to die," he whispered. "I-I thought..." He looked down at Greg's shirt he was still wearing. "I f-feel like I'm dying when y-you aren't there. Like weight pressing here." He pushed down on Greg's chest to demonstrate.

Greg nodded as John pressed on his chest. "Me too," he breathed, covering John's hand with his own, "me too. I always want to be here for you. Even...even if you left again I'd still..." he pressed another kiss to John's forehead to cover how his lip trembled, "be here. I'm...I love you." 

John relaxed suddenly, but continued to cry. "Can we sleep? I d-didn't sleep. I've n-never slept naturally without you. Every t-time since the capture. I c-can't sleep without you." John decided that right now he didn't give a damn about how pathetic that sounded.

Greg nodded easily, very much wanting sleep. "I h-haven't slept either," he whispered, trying to let John know that he'd not been alone in that. He trailed his fingers through John's hair and settled them in more comfortably. 

"We can sleep, that sounds wonderful. I have you, John."

John went to sleep feeling like an awful person, but he managed to keep the main, crushing force of the guilt at bay. He was exhausted, his throat burned and he couldn't stand to see Greg cry, but he was back with his love, so things couldn't be that bad.

Greg retrieve his mobile after John fell asleep, sending a text to Mycroft. 

_I am sorry for the display in front of your brother. Thank you for taking care of John. He may very well be back to you soon._

Sherlock shifted as his brother's mobile vibrated, burying his face down as another sob tore out of his chest. His head ached and his throat was scratched raw, still in tears from the moments before John left. 

Mycroft looked at his phone then set it back down. "Could you tell me what you're feeling?" He looked down at Sherlock and tried to get him to look up. 

"I'd like to help you, if I can."

Sherlock had adhered himself to Mycroft's side, his arms and legs long since trembling with exertion, exhaustion warring with grief for primary attention. He shook his head, pulling in a messy series of stuttered inhalations before carrying on, sobbing against a well established wet patch near his brother's heart. 

"I- he- and th-then- M-Mor-ran and- J-John was- Greg- it- I c-can't-" he clutched as hard as he could to Mycroft, too panicked to explain himself. 

"Okay. Okay. Thank you for trying. You've done so well today, Sherlock. He stayed in here the entire time! He stayed for nearly two hours! You two are getting closer. I know it." 

Mycroft did his best to comfort Sherlock with light touches and gentle words, but all in all felt today was a small victory, not a crushing defeat. But, perhaps that would depend on how Sherlock handled the aftermath.

Sherlock bit down on his lips, doing his best to get a grip on himself. He'd been locked in a defensive, artificial mindset, and exhaustive effort for John's sake, but he'd been terrified the entire time and was exhausted now, unable to handle the onslaught of _panic, fear, elation, grief, victory, failure_ churning in his gut. 

He pulled at Mycroft, moving as though he wanted to climb him, too exhausted to get his limbs to work. "M-My," he sobbed, his voice a nearly panicked plea for help. 

"I'll get you something calming," Mycroft offered, and text Jared instead, who could reach it without moving Sherlock. The man came in and. after seeing Sherlock's state handed Mycroft the medication instead of pushing it himself. "Would that help. Sherlock?"

"I'll get you something calming," Mycroft offered, and text Jared instead, who could reach it without moving Sherlock. The man came in and. after seeing Sherlock's state handed Mycroft the medication instead of pushing it himself. "Would that help. Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded against the side of his brother's chest, still trying to pull himself closer to Mycroft. He was unaware of Jared or anything else going on. For Sherlock, there was the chaos in his mind, the feel of Moran in the room, and the mix and muddy waters of John's presence. 

Mycroft pushed it slowly then handed the empty syringe back to Jared. "Sherlock, please, it's going to be alright. I promise. You're safe with me. I'm keeping you safe. I'll be here as long as you want me. Try and sleep, alright? just for a bit."

Sherlock's anguish was immediately subsiding with the flow of medication in his veins. He was able to fill his lungs, shifting against Mycroft. "H-He sc-scares m-m-me," he breathed, shuddering and finding one of Mycroft's hands, holding it to his own chest. He was still in tears, but the frantic nature of them had eased. 

Mycroft wasn't sure if he meant Moran, Jared, or John, and thus could only comfort. "Nobody will hurt you, 'Lock. Nobody will ever hurt you ever again. I promise. You're safe here."

Sherlock shook his head, growing heavier by the second from the sedative. He whimpered and scrambled to get in a position where he'd still be close to Mycroft if his limbs failed him. He couldn't get close enough to his brother, no longer wanting to occupy his body alone, wishing like hell he could remove himself and hide somewhere inside his brother, odd as that sounded. 

"He- no he always hurts....al-always h-hurts and he...and I..." he pressed shaking hands to his face, hiding as a pained tone of grief reverberated from his chest. 

"I'm sorry John hurts you," Mycroft whispered. "It is always your choice if you want to see him or not. It will be alright. I promise. Everything will be alright." Mycroft laid down on his back and pulled Sherlock onto his chest where he could relax and sleep without slipping away.

Sherlock exhaled in relief and sank down against his brother, shivering in the wake of such turmoil.  
"Greg d-does not l-look well," he whispered, tears still sliding down his cheeks.

Mycroft nodded and breathed very slowly. "I know. I'm going to keep an eye on him. He's been with John non-stop for a year. It's taking it's toll."

Sherlock nodded, curling his fingers up to his lips. "I t-tried to...to st-stay...steady f-for him, My. I tried. He..." his breathing hitched again and he shook his head, "I d-don't know h-him. Why d-does he k-keep s-saying he'll come back! H-He is a _l-liar_ why w-won't he j-just be honest w-with me?"

"Well, Sherlock, technically, since he came back, he never lied about it before. It seems reasonable that he will try very hard to come back." Mycroft prayed for Sherlock to just fall asleep. "If you want, I can ask him not to come anymore."

Sherlock shook his head, tightening his heavy fingers on Mycroft's shirt. "No! H-He came h-here...he c-came here to esc-cape something and I- I d-don't unders-stand what. But h-he has to hav-ve a place...and g-god...I...h-he was..." his voice clipped up into unnaturally high registers just before he began to cry in earnest again, remembering the spectacular feel of John in his arms, teasing him, making Sherlock remember what they'd lost. 

He tipped his forehead to Mycroft's heart as he sobbed in frustration. "I h-hate w-w-watching h-him _leave_! H-How m-m-many times do I h-have to p-p-ay this penance!" 

"I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock." Mycroft filed through the options in his head. "You're scared when he is here, and you're sad when he is gone. You want him to come here, but you don't want him to leave. If you want, I can ask him to stay away. If you want, I can ask him to visit more frequently. It is all up to you, 'Lock. I'm sorry this is so hard for you."  
Sherlock flinched and closed his eyes, biting at his fingertips. He shifted uncomfortably, a flush running across his cheeks. "S-Sorry," he whispered, pulling in on himself. He was being unreasonable, that was all there was to it. Mycroft was right. He had to get it together. 

He pulled himself off his brother's chest and wrapped his arms tight around himself, feeling small and idiotic. 

_I love John._  
I miss John.   
John scares the hell out of me.   
I should not be afraid of John.   
I want to go home.   
I can't go home.   
Mycroft is tired of me.   
Mycroft is going to leave. 

He closed his eyes, still in tears, though much quieter now. Fingers to his lips, he did his best to stop being so difficult. 

Mycroft swept Sherlock's hair back off his face. "I love you so much, Sherlock. I just want you to be happy. You can tell me what you want, and I will try to get it for you."

Sherlock flinched back from Mycroft, biting down on his fingertips hard enough to light up pain in his hands. He'd made such an effort to do well with John, tried with all he had to be calm and reasonable when all he'd wanted to do was hold on to John and beg him to never leave again. It felt like his own skin being torn from his chest when John left. 

The way John had called out Greg's name, so full of relief, as though he'd been enduring torture just sitting with Sherlock, had been indescribably upsetting. He'd thought he'd done so well, and John could still hardly stand to be near him. 

Sherlock pulled his hands away from his teeth and covered his face, not wanting Mycroft to see him struggling, already having irritated his brother. "I'm s-sorry! I _tried_!" 

"You did so well! I was honestly impressed! You have made such great strides, 'Lock. What you did today gave me hope." Mycroft brushed his hands over Sherlock's and tried to pull them off his face just a bit. 

Sherlock did not have it in him to physically resist Mycroft. He gave his hands freely, though he kept his eyes shut. "H-He scares me because I know...I know th-there is n-no...no g-guarantee of e-ever seeing him again. He'll always _l-leave me_. I w-won't ever...n-not like Greg. N-Never..." 

His chin wavered and he bit down on his cheek, struggling to keep his composure, "Or I'll s-say the wrong...wrong thing and h-he'll sc-scream and M-Moran-" he shook his head, curling down on himself despite the loss of his arms. 

"I kn-know I'm stupid. I sh-should...sh-should b-be happy that he..." his voice snapped off and he shuddered, wishing that sleep would come and rescue him as he began sobbing anew. 

Mycroft looped one arm under Sherlock's knees and the other around his back. He lifted him into his lap and supported him fully while he rocked. "You did so well. John will get better with time, and you'll stop seeing Moran so often. I promise you that. You will stop seeing him. You have such a strong mind that you are able to stay calm even when you do see him."

Sherlock simply lay against his brother's chest, sobbing quietly over the next half hour before slowly and gently falling asleep. John's unexpected return and even more surprising response to his letter had been supremely difficult, and he could no longer manage much of anything. 

Mycroft was disheartened by his brother's response, but he was terribly glad that John had stopped by, and that they had such a pleasant interaction. He managed to fall asleep a little after Sherlock, though he arranged the pillows first so he could keep holding him.


	15. Chapter 15

Greg was having a difficult night. Twice already he'd jerked awake, tears on his face, John's name dying on his lips. He'd managed to keep himself quiet, staring at the man in his arms before drifting back into a restless sleep. The pain along his arms was deep and unsettling, giving him a much more...intimate appreciation for what John and Sherlock had endured. The feel of a wound far below the skin was fighting, constantly leaving him feeling as though something was very wrong, and a bit feverish. He debated texting Paul for help, thinking that perhaps pain medication might be his only chance at sleep. 

Then he'd look at John and decide against it. John had endured a hell far worse than this for much, much longer. Greg knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he'd never have survived it. 

John only woke a few times, always in a slight panic that Greg would be gone, and always instantly relieved to have him there. In the late morning when he woke and did not drift back off, he nuzzled against Greg's chest just to feel the warmth and friction of his shirt on his face. John was drained, emotionally and physically, but he could keep himself together when he focused only on Greg.

The telly was on, playing a sitcom quietly in the background. Greg had given up attempting to sleep hours ago. He looked down as John began to shift, humming and wrapping a hand around the back of John's head to hold him closer. 

"Morning," he whispered, heavy bags swathing under his reddened eyes. He was bone weary, though much improved from the day last. 

John's tired, pain lined face clearly brightened at the sound of Greg's voice and he stretched his arms over his head before letting them flop over Greg's shoulders. He lazily opened his steel blue eyes and blinked at Greg. 

"Morning. Are you alright?"

Greg smiled warmly at John's behavior and response, wrapping him up into a hug, careful to keep his forearms off him. "I'm fine," he whispered, keeping John as close as he could without hurting him. "I'm so, so glad to see you." 

John hummed and turned over so he could rest his head on Greg's chest and stare up at the ceiling. 

"I'm not going to go away again. I hated that. I've got things to work on, though. Things in my brain. Can I give a suggestion that might help? I mean, you already do it and you already help, but it would be wonderful if you could bluntly tell me when I'm feeling illogically guilty. I know you do. I just wanted to say that it works. So, thanks. I'll...I just forget sometimes. I hate hurting you." 

He smiled and propped himself up on one elbow. "You're wonderful. Beautiful."

Greg's smile became a bit more forced as John began to compliment him, moving his eyes away from John's, though keeping his head still. 

"I'll keep that in mind, John," he said quietly, if not a bit strained. That was the same tactic he'd been using. The issue was not with the method, it was with _Greg_. Sherlock and Paul had been able to get the points across, had been able to use the same words to get the message to John. The only difference was who John was listening to. 

It wasn't Greg anymore, and that was going to be alright since John was home. Greg's pride was down the drain. All he cared about now was that he was allowed to be near him. Nothing else mattered. He'd do whatever John wanted him to. 

John could sense Greg's discomfort with compliments and kissed his forehead in a loving way. "Would you like to stay in bed, or go make breakfast? I'll unpack my things later today." 

John decided that there would be no more relaxing for him. He was going to do everything he could, every second of the day, to make sure he was making Greg's life better. He had to.

Greg wanted to stay put. He looked back to John, surprised to hear him so steady and level. 

"I...it would be nice to rest, but we can also get up. Whatever sounds better to you." He wasn't entirely sure he was up for it, physically, to take the dog out or walk farther from the bedroom to the sitting room. He felt physically weak, drained and sick, though he was sure he wasn't. 

John considered Greg's word to be final and snuggled back down next to him. "Alright. I'm sorry again that I left. It wasn't the right thing to do. I just needed to sort some things out in my head so I could stop hurting you. I had the best intentions, I promise."

Greg gratefully pulled John to him, shaking his head and responding immediately, "You were trying to help me." 

He did not, for a moment, believe that to be the case, but he was not going to let John see his doubt. It didn't matter to him if John came back simply due to being attached by necessity to Greg. If it returned John to him, then he'd not question it. 

"Yes! I was!" John sounded utterly relieved that Greg understood and kissed him happily. "I was just trying to resolve some things so that I could be a better man. Paul said it was a good idea and I assumed he knows what is best."

Greg swallowed down the startled, pained shock. _Paul_ had encouraged John to stay away from him? Was he that terrible for John? What if he was, and John couldn't see it? 

_Oh, god._

Should he make John go back? Force him to stay away? Could he even do that? Greg inhaled sharply and then remembered himself, swiftly nodding. 

"He likely does." 

"He said I was thinking clearly. I don't think it was a good idea anymore. I just...See, you said that I am not guilty, but I kept feeling guilty for failing you, then I'd make you upset because I was upset, then I'd feel even more guilty..." 

He shook his head sadly. "I just needed to break the cycle for a bit. I'm good now."

Little bits of Greg were breaking off inside, floating to the ground and burning to ash. He kept his false, easy smile plastered on his face as he thought on what John was saying. 

It had all been him. 

All his doing. There was no way around it. He'd created a cycle and trapped John. 

"I...I'm glad you...are good now," he struggled to reply, stuck fast in his own bitter self-loathing. 

John caught the shake in Greg's voice and analyzed it. It had not been there before. It must have been the last thing he said. "Does it hurt you that I feel guilty around you?" 

John cringed and hugged Greg tighter. "Shit, that was blunt. Sorry."

His gut twisted sharply and it took all he had to maintain the faint smile. He swallowed several times, immobile, before breathing his reply, hardly audible. "I'm fine, John. I'm just fine." 

Greg's heart clenched, stomach pitting out. Again he tried to speak, "It's...perfectly understandable. I'm sorry that's how you feel." 

He kept his voice as light as he could, lips curled up in a faint, understanding smile while his eyes burned. 

"I can see that it does," John spoke softly and dropped his eyes. "I want to say that it is no failing of yours. I was...You said you watched some of the tapes. You saw that he made me believe I was guilty. We don't blame Sherlock for scaring me, do we?"

Greg choked down a whimper of distress, looking away though he still maintained the artificial smile. "It's daft, I know. I'm...it's ah...it's me, John, it's just me. I'm fine, it's nothing you need to worry about. I'm alright, perfectly fine. Can I get you something to eat?" Anything, _anything_ to distract John from this. 

John sadly shook his head. "Greg, I want you to tell me that Moriarty tortured me into feeling guilty and that it is not your fault. Could you say that for me? I'd like you to at least acknowledge the possibility."

The skin at the corners of Greg's eyes tightened and he swiftly said, "You were tortured into feeling guilty. It's n-not my fault." 

He snapped his jaw shut as soon as the words were out, swallowing hard before resuming his effort to smile. 

"You had a hard day yesterday, can I do anything for you?"

"Greg, let's work on this for a moment." John was feeling clear, and he was absolutely no stranger to avoiding topics. 

"You believe that this is all your fault, just as I do. Did. Trying not to. I'd like it if you would at least acknowledge the possibility that this was Moriarty's doing."

Greg swallowed hard and had to remind himself to carry on smiling. "I do, John. I do. This is not your fault, not at all. I hear you when you say it's not mine." 

He was close to tears, doing his damnedest to float along until John was satisfied. 

"I've been foolish, John. I'm going to change, if you'd give me the chance, you won't see any of that anymore. I'll do my absolute best."   
John gave an understanding smile and brushed Greg's hair back. "You don't have to pretend to be okay, love. I've got you. I understand you feel guilty. I'm not asking for you to change any of your behavior. You are wonderful to me. I just would like you to maybe work on letting the blame fall on Moriarty instead of yourself."

Greg decidedly wanted that for John, but could not see how it applied to himself. Especially when John could be near others, and hear what they were telling him, without such obstacles. If a day away had done John this much good, how well would John be if he had a week? A month? Forever? No, Greg drove everyone away and he knew it. John was being very kind to him, but that was all that was happening. 

"I'll work on it," he responded, praying that John's expression didn't crumble, that he would not soon hear the sound of John begging forgiveness of him. "I will." 

John breathed a long, slow sigh in hopes that Greg would do the same. He sat up a bit and pulled Greg to him so he could properly hold him. 

"I love you," he whispered. "You've been my friend for years and now you're my life. My entire life. You're everything I could ever want."

Greg was as relaxed as he could make himself as John pulled him over. He closed his eyes as he rest against John, listening without believing a word. It was a kindness he did not deserve, and he'd not question it. John's arms were comforting, despite the terribly flipped nature of their roles. He knew he shouldn't be allowing himself this, he was supposed to do this for John, but he felt so ill and was so worn down that he could not force himself to move. 

"I love you, too." 

John rocked slowly and ran his fingers through Greg's hair. He loved this man. He very dearly loved him. 

"Good, because that's what's keeping me going." 

John bent down and pressed his lips to Greg's forehead where he lingered for quite some time. 

"We'll get through this."

Greg relaxed slightly as John remained calm, savoring the feel of fingers in his hair. He was so painfully exhausted, and swiftly found himself fighting off the lure of sleep. John wasn't magically cured after a day, but oh god was it a relief to have a few moments of help.

"You can relax, love," John whispered. "You can relax. I've got you. I'm safe and calm. You're loved and appreciated. I won't go away." He gently massaged Greg's scalp with his fingertips in slow circles. 

Greg's breathing hitched and he nodded to try and cover it, tears pushing hard at the backs of his eyes. John's words addressed all of his fears and he wanted them to be true so terribly. He reached out and twined his fingers in the fabric of John's shirt, holding to him as he struggled against sleep. 

John could tell that Greg was having a difficult time, and he pushed himself to do exactly what the man needed. 

"You are loved. I am so grateful to have you. You can rest, my love. I'll be here with you. I love you. I appreciate everything you do for me. You've devoted an entire year of your life to me and I am so grateful. I love you. You can rest. I'm safe and doing well. You can rest, love."

Greg turned his face so that John could not see him, biting his lip as he lost hold of quiet tears. It wasn't five minutes later that he had gone limp in John's arms, worn down too thin to hold himself awake.

John bent over Greg and kissed him once on the head before tipping his head back to the headboard and letting his own eyes fill with tears. He was so clearly failing. He would simply have to do better. John resolved that he would hold Greg for as long as the man was asleep, and offer to hold him after still.

There was a very light knock at the door, interrupting John's time alone. Paul's voice came quietly from the other side. "John? You need your meds, and I'm sure Gladstone could use going out. May I come in?" 

Greg did not stir in John's arms, sinking low into sleep his body screamed for. 

John nodded and waved him in. "Greg holds himself responsible for this," John said in a voice that was clear and calm. "It upsets me greatly."

Paul walked inside as he took in the state of the men. John looked to be mostly...surprisingly...alright. He began to hand John his pills as he spoke quietly. 

"I strongly believe that he is compiling his other issues into this one, John. It is far more than just this that he blames himself for. He has some unresolved guilt to mix in with this. It's not your doing. I am impressed, though. You seem to be doing...very, very well. I'm very proud." 

John looked down at Greg and shifted him closer. 

"I've decided that nothing matters outside of him. Now, before you tell me that is unhealthy, consider it a motivator. Greg is very hard on himself. I wish this to stop. I'll lead by example and stop being hard on myself. If I can. It's hard. But that is my goal. I need you to give me more information as to how I can make his guilt weaker."

Paul looked down at Greg and back to John. "That's fine, so long as you continue to do well. To be honest with you, John, I cannot guide you very well without counseling Greg. I have my guesses as to what is happen with him, but that's all unless he lets me counsel him."

Greg shifted in John's arms, face pinching in pain as he did so. When Paul stopped talking, Greg settled back into a better rest.

"I'll talk to him about it," John said gently, as if directing the words to Greg in his sleep. "I love this man. He's all I have. All I want. I'm sure you remember how I was when this started. He's guided me through every step. All of my progress has been for him, or for Sherlock."

Paul nodded and patted his leg for Gladstone. "I'll take him out, feed him, and bring him back if that's alright."  
Greg again shifted, grimacing and drawing his arms in. A moment later he was relaxed back down into sleep.

"I don't think he likes your voice," John whispered. "It's okay, Greg. It's okay. I've got you. You're alright. You're alright." He looked back to Paul and nodded. 

"I'd still like you to work with him sometime today."

Paul quietly left with the dog, gone for the next hour, taking Gladstone for a long walk.

Greg woke nearly forty minutes later, drawing in a sharp breath, eyes snapping open. He exhaled slowly once he caught sight of John.

John bent down and kissed Greg's forehead when he woke. He had spent the time thinking and preparing every word he would say to Greg to boost his confidence and self esteem. 

"Hello, my love," he said and bent over so he was looking at Greg upside down. "Are you doing alright?"

Greg nodded and slowly shifted so that he was sitting up, though he kept himself close to John. "I'm sorry, I did not intend to fall asleep. Are you alright?"

John hummed and nuzzled the side of Greg's face. "I'm alright. I love seeing you so peaceful. You're beautiful."

Greg simply pulled John into a quiet embrace, not wanting the complements. He began to gently rub John's back, rocking them slightly.

"Is there anything you want to do today, love?" John wanted things back to normal as quickly as possible. How could he boost Greg's self esteem if the man flinched from compliments? 

"I'd appreciate it if you would massage my neck and shoulders a bit. I'm sore."

Greg shook his head, "I don't need anything," he said quietly, flexing his hands to see how well they we working. "I'm happy to rub your shoulders, of course."

John kept his face pleasant even as his heart fluttered. He needed to make Greg feel useful and loved. That had to be it. That was the only thing he could do. He needed to be useful while making Greg feel useful. 

"Thank you so much. I was all tense without you. I actually..." John blushed a bit and shook his head. "It's pretty pathetic. I draped your shirt over a pillow and curled up with it. I never thought I had it in me to be so needy."

Greg shook his head, looking down at his hands. "That's...I'd have likely done the same," he whispered. He looked up suddenly, worry across his features. "What time is it? Did you eat? Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. You've got to eat."

John was quite hungry and had to use the bathroom, but he was comfortable with Greg and didn't want to lose contact with him. "I ate a little when I was there. Paul said I had to or we wouldn't make progress and I wouldn't go back to you. But..yeah. I'm hungry. I'll be in the lav for a second, though."

Greg nodded, groggy and exhausted. "I'm...I'm going to make you something to eat." He pulled John to him for a slow embrace, kissing him just before leaning back. "Meet you in the sitting room."

John loved Greg's affection and he let it shine on his face. "I adore you," he said in response and headed to the lav.

Greg was in a daze as he made food, glad John could not see him using his shaking hands. The pain was much worse now, and the sick, feverish feeling had only gotten worse.

Paul came in, causing Greg to jump so hard he knocked a glass off the counter, shattering on the floor.

"Greg," Paul whispered, letting Gladstone go and crouching to help the pale man with the cleaning up, "let me finish in here, go sit down, I'll bring it out."

Greg bowed his head, ashamed with himself. "Thanks," he whispered in return, getting up and carefully leaving the kitchen.

In the sitting room, he settled on the sofa, wrapping his arms around Gladstone and waiting for John.

John stood just inside the door for a solid minute before he moved. His wide, shocked eyes took in the telling details as he scanned the room. Tints of pink in the bathtub. Red drops on the floor. Razors left on the side. And the bags…

John felt as if the floor was wavering beneath him and he grabbed onto the counter. He had done this. He'd driven Greg to the point of suicide. John was immediately tempted to snatch the razors, which his terrified eyes could not tear themselves away from, and carve his guilt out through his skin. Instead he took a step back and hit the door he'd closed before he noticed. 

The shocking realization that Greg had almost left him was nauseating. He'd hardly survived one day without Greg. What would he do if he saw his love's body lying cold on the floor? 

John looked to the terrifying razors again. He should punish himself, John thought. Surely, he deserved it. Crushing guilt weighed on his chest and he pulled at his hair. Greg was very, very sick, and it was because of him. 

_Damnit! Just do better! You're killing him, you bastard! Stupid! Stupid!_

John knew what happened after he did something wrong. He'd been given the opportunity to punish himself, or he'd be subjected to whatever Moran had planned that day. John reached out and took the cold metal razor in his hand and stared at it. His mind grew fuzzy as it always had when he was about to be in a serious amount of pain, and somehow that retracted from the guilt he was feeling. 

But, for just a moment, he had clarity. He was decidedly not supposed to be carving his own skin, even if he felt he deserved it. He could do better and learn to not make this mistake without punishment. Fear suddenly hit him like a truck and John backed away from the tub, razor still in the fingers of his left hand. 

"Greg! I-I need help!"

Greg heard John's voice and froze, his stomach dropping out, gut twisting horrifically. The bathroom. Oh god, the bathroom.

He nearly fell over the dog as he scrambled for the door, wrenching it open. He did not hesitate, the skills of his line of work instantly kicking in as he grabbed John's wrist and held the blade far out, pulling John into his arms as he backed them out of the lav.

"Let go of it, love, let go," he said far calmer than he felt, cursing himself for the oversight. "Drop it for me."  
John whimpered and dropped the razor. He recoiled from it and turned to press his face into Greg's chest as if checking for the heartbeat that dictated his own. 

"Y-You w-were going t-to leave me!" He couldn't think of anything else to say. Betrayal, raw and painful, sawed at his voice and made it nearly unrecognizable.

Greg could hardly work his throat, drowning in guilt. "I...I thought you'd...I didn't th-think you...were ever coming back," he whispered, shuddering hard.

John's calm was shattered with hopeless despair at the thought of losing his only protection, his only comfort. He was severely dependent on Greg in every aspect in his life. He hated to know that he was to blame. "A-Am I-I r-really this b-b-bad f-for you?" John's voice was a tiny whisper and he looked down to the blade again.

A pitiful whimper tore out of Greg's chest and he grit his teeth, dissolving into tears. "Please," he sobbed, shaking his head, "oh god please don't leave. I'm...Oh god, please."

John shoved himself out of Greg's arms even though he wanted more than anything to hold on. He grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him out of the horrible room and into the living room, where he sat him down on the couch and stood over him. 

"You were going to fucking LEAVE ME! How...How the hell did you think I-I would survive? H-How did y-you expect m-me to live w-without you?" 

He turned around and ran his fingers back through his hair. His jaw hurt from clenching it and he turned back to face him.

Greg wrapped his arms around himself, nearly doubling over. He started at the floor as heavy tears slid quietly down his face.

"I- I-" he shook his head, gritting his teeth and choking on a sob. How could he defend himself? John was going to leave. Again. Mycroft had been advised to let Greg die, and oh god how he wished he had.

"I thought...I...I thought ..."

John's chest heaved and he stared lividly at Greg. 

"What would I have DONE? What w-would b-be left? WHAT? What d-do I h-h-have other than y-you? LOOK AT ME!" 

John held out his arms, palms facing Greg. He was terrified beyond all things of being left without his Greg, and his fear was turning outward into anger. 

"I am b-broken! I need y-you! If y-you want to die, then y-you go get the sedatives, you bring them here, and you _kill me first!_ If y-you're leaving, at l-least s-spare m-me of having to b-be alone!"

Greg was in complete hysterics, aggressively despising himself. He could hardly catch his breath, panic shredding his composure. He could not speak as guilt seized up his chest. He'd had a taste of what life would be without John and knew for sure he was going to die as soon as John left. 

Paul made his way out, following the shouting. Quietly he stood to observe for a moment.

"I'm SERIOUS!" John shrieked and pointed to where his medication was kept. 

"If I've made your life so terrible that y-you need to kill yourself, then you are going to be the one t-to push enough sedative to k-kill me first!" 

He balled his hands into fists as his entire body shook. He was violently afraid now and wanted to be absolutely sure that he would never have to be alone. 

"I can NOT be left here! I-I WILL N-NOT BE LEFT BEHIND!" He reached out and wrapped himself around Greg, squeezing tighter than was necessary or comfortable. 

"Do you fucking hear me? D-Don't you DARE leave me on my own!"

Greg was gagging around the pain in his throat, trying to breathe through wracking sobs, fingers tearing at his hair. Pain flared brilliantly as John squeezed him, and his thoughts raced too fast to grab hold of one. John had left him, he'd been left behind, sobbing on the floor. Several times he tried to explain, ultimately unable to do so.

Paul was conflicted. For a moment he nearly stepped in, but it was good for John to be assertive and it was clear that Greg's mental health was never going to be a priority. He allowed John to carry on.

John could hardly see he was so afraid. When his anger suddenly fizzled out, he was left with broken sobs. "P-Please," John cried, "P-Please d-don't l-leave me!" He grabbed a fistful of Greg's shirt and held on tight to keep him from leaving. 

"I-I can't! J-Just d-don't l-leave me! If I-I-I'm m-making things t-too hard y-you can kill m-me! I-I don't care! J-Just don't leave me!"

Greg could not get himself together. He remained as he was, folded over himself, wracked with grief. The pain screaming down his arms had nothing on his heart.

"Y-Y-Y-ou w-wer-wern't c-com-ing-g b-b-ba-ack!" He managed the broken defense before nearly choking on his throat, unable to hear John accuse him of leaving, when it was John who'd gone away. 

"I- I- f-f-fucked u-up-p and...y-you..." He couldn't even say it.

"NO! NO! I would never leave you! I was going to come r-right back! I was! I DID! You couldn't come back if y-you were dead!" 

John's arms were shaking with exertion and he pressed his face against Greg's neck. "I-I t-told you! I-I told you I-I was coming b-back!!"

Greg covered his face with his hands, giving over to the overwhelming guilt. He'd thought himself toxic to John, used up and pointless. He still did. Other people could help John, but not him, not any longer, which is why John left him in the first place. He shook his head, completely losing it, sick with grief as he sobbed into his hands.

John saw what he was doing then, how horribly he was hurting Greg, and his heart sank like lead. 

"M'sorry," he whispered and took Greg's face in his hand. "Just please d-don't leave me. I couldn't take it. I-I'd die. Please promise me."

Greg could not bear to look at John, still in complete hysterics. "I wasn't!" He sobbed, dragging in a wet, stuttered inhalation, "you left m-m-me! I'm-m not e-e-enough anymore!" 

His complete, crushing heartbreak was evident in his anguished voice, "everyone leaves me! I'm horrible and I f-failed you!"

"No. No. Hush! That's not how it went at all!" 

John took Greg's face and forcibly pointed it towards his. 

"Look at me. Don't you dare leave me. I would die. You are all I want. You have never failed me. You were shot protecting me. You've given up your entire life for a year to help me. I love you. I don't deserve you."

Greg kept his eyes averted, shuddering with overwhelming defeat. How he loathed Mycroft for stopping him. John was doing well with Sherlock and would have stayed had Greg pulled the fucking trigger. Now John was furious with him.

"I m-m-make...you feel guilty with me! You have to go away just to get h-help! You left! I _begged you_..." He pulled away from John, covering his face in shame, "I m-ma-make it worse!"

John did not agree. He wanted Greg to stay with him but found himself unworthy. He blamed himself for Greg's attempt at suicide and hated himself for causing him pain. John took Greg's face again and kissed him, not the sweet, familiar way of before, but in desperation, fear of loss and intense desire and need for closeness with the one person he felt truly safe around.

Greg did not dare pull away, though he could not stop the shuddering tears. He reached out, wrapping his arms around John, oblivious to how he was beginning to bleed through his sleeves.

He tipped his face down after a moment, leaning on John's shoulder. He was terribly nauseated, hiccuping with panicked tears.

John saw the blood and his heart leapt into his throat. "Paul, w-would you get new bandages? And something for pain?" He got off the couch and dropped to his knees in front of Greg. 

"Just promise m-me you won't leave me alone. Okay? Please just promise me."

Greg blindly nodded, drawing in on himself as John broke contact with him. He pulled his arms in to protect and hide them. "I thought you were done with m-me," he whispered to his knees, dizzy and lightheaded.

John was locked hard in a survivalist state in which he needed to do exactly the right thing or pain would come. He kissed Greg's forehead before resting his head on his knees. 

"Tell me what t-to do," he whispered. "I-I don't know. T-Tell m-me how to help you."

Paul had an answer for that, crouching down and handing John banding materials, a cold bottle of water for Greg, and pain killers. He stepped back to make it clear he had no intention of fixing Greg up.  
Greg's sobbing had changed with John's words, panicked and guilty. "This is m-my f-fault," he wept, shaping his head and pulling at his hair, "I...I watched my family...and then you...and I thought..."

John saw the problem, then. 

"You think I'm going to leave you b-because you think you're not good enough. I think you're going to leave me because I h-hurt you."

It was clear then, what he would need to do. He needed to make Greg feel useful, loved, and make him sure that John would stay. 

"I hated it there. You were gone and I-I was in pain. I need to stay with you. I learned. I will n-never leave you ever again."

Greg looked up then, tears streaming down his face. 

"I've never left you! I couldn't...couldn't f-f-face my failure and...I was trying to make everything easier! I d-did everything I could!" 

The flat had been tidied to perfection, all of Greg's personal effects packed up, the bathroom lined. He'd spent his last day in agony, but his only thought was for those that would have to deal with him. 

"I..I don't want to hurt you anymore! Look how horrible I am!" He shook his head, tearing his fingers through his hair. "I'm so sorry! God I'm sorry!”

John shook his head. It was all terribly wrong. 

"No! No! That isn't how it worked at all! You...Jesus, you don't fail! You are wonderful! I love you s-so much! Greg..." He trailed off. Words were not working. 

"Would it be easier for you if you died?" His heart squeezed painfully at that. He could imagine it, his love, his savior, lying cold in his arms, the metronome that kept his own panic down finally still. 

"I'll go with you, if that is what you want to happen."

"No!" Greg wailed, shaking his head as tears dripped off his chin, "I want you to live!" 

How could he explain the hell it had been to watch John leave him there on the floor? That he'd been sure John was never, ever going to come back to him.

He hugged his searing arms to his chest, rocking himself as he sobbed, despising himself bitterly. "I honestly thought...y-you were never coming back."

John tried to understand. If he'd thought Greg was leaving him to never come back, he'd surely have killed himself as well. "I...I never meant to make you feel that way. Have...Have I not shown my love? H-Have I not...am...am I not kind enough? Am I not...What am I doing wrong?"

Greg grit his teeth as his strength failed him and he slumped to his side, knees drawn up and arms guarded against his chest.  
"I...I...c-couldn't...y-you left...I...I couldn't u-under-s-stand...y-you t-took your th-things and..." He shook his head, sobbing despite his exhaustion.

"You packed them," John said lightly. "I never intended to stay more than I needed to to come back and help you! I-I left so I could be a better man so I could help you. It was all centered around you. I love you." 

John kissed Greg again in an effort to show his affection and love. "I would never leave you. I'd sooner die."

And yet, John had still left, and then he'd come back in a rage. Greg did not have anything to offer. He lay there in tears, bleeding and so aggressively hating himself he could taste it.

"Pl-l-lease f-forgive m-me! I....my f-family a-and th-then y-you and I...I'm w-weak! A c-coward! F-forgive m-me!"

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I won't leave you." John ignored his own tears as adrenaline surged in his veins. His heart hammered in his chest and he handled Greg as if he were a delicate bomb. 

"I am s-so sorry. I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry. I just thought...I don't know. You and I were friends b-before and I didn't know you were as attached as I am. That's...I need to be useful because I thought..." John shook his head and sat back on his heels. It didn't matter what he'd thought. It mattered what he'd done.

Paul stepped out of the lav, carrying trash in one hand and Greg's blood-smeared pictures in the other. Gladstone sat at John's back, watching Paul go into the kitchen before walking over to John and setting the pictures down at his side.

Greg had blood smeared on his face, pale and sickly looking. Paul spoke softly to John. "Can you do this, or do you want me to?" He'd been hoping that seeing Greg like this might bolster John, but it seemed to only do him damage. He'd have to speak with Mycroft later, if John did not choose on his own to leave again.

John took the bandages and slowly reached for Greg's arms. "Love, can I help you? Please? I've d-done enough wrong. Please just let me do this one thing. Is that alright? Can I do that?"

To say that Greg was reluctant to show John the severity of his arms was an understatement. He slowly offered one arm out, hysterics renewed in the panicked force of his crying.

"I'm s-s-sor-ry please, pl-l-lease d-don't b-be angry," his hand was trembling as he offered out the arm, hardly pulling in enough air to remain conscious.

John took Greg's arm and took off the old bandages as carefully as if he were working on a kitten. "Oh, love," he whispered when he saw the cuts. They were not the horizontal, shallow cuts of self harm. These were cuts made by someone hoping to open an artery, someone desperate to die. 

"I'm so sorry I did this to you." The sight of open skin had kicked his ability to reason down several levels, and he whimpered once before starting.

Paul helped John by handing him things, taking a look at the stitching Miller had done, pleased to see no infection. It was clear it had been mended fast, leaving skin somewhat gaping between sutures.

Greg could not watch, sobbing throughout. His entire chest hummed with pain while humiliation dragged him down low.

"N-not your f-f-fault," he wept, pressing his face to the sofa.

"I feel like it is," John said softly. He worked incredibly slowly, even more gently than he'd been with the scared children that came to the clinic so long ago. 

"I love you so much. It hurts me to see you hurting. I called you in the bathroom because I was scared I was going to start hurting myself because I felt guilty. But I didn't punish myself. I'm staying above it. Thank you for that."

Greg could not see how he was helping at all. He managed to quiet himself some, despising the wreck he was being.

He kept his eyes pinched closed, "I...I th-thought they'd...I didn't know they'd l-left...left it f-for me to cl-lean up. I sh-should h-have l-looked. I...a-are you g-going b-back now?" His voice cracked on a sob at the thought.

John shook his head. "Absolutely not. I'm not leaving you alone. I don't want to be alone. You're good for me. You're so kind. You're so loving. I need love. I need love and affection after what happened to me. That's all I need, really. You love me. It helps me every day."

Greg nodded, greatly relieved. "I'm s-so sorry, s-s-so sorry, J-John! I...I c-couldn't...n-not after what...I f-failed and d-drove y-you out and..." He shook his head, shuddering as he lay there."

When John finished wrapping he took Greg's hands. "Could you come to bed and hold me? I'm very frightened right now."

Greg was dazed and withdrawn by the time John was done. He nodded slowly and got up, face a complete mess, moving with John back to the bedroom.

Paul followed them, intent on keeping a very close eye on John for the next few hours.

John led them to bed and drew Greg into his arms under the covers. His heart was hammering but he was externally calm, as he knew he needed to be. "It's alright," John whispered to Greg. "It's all going to be alright. We're still together, yeah? We can get through this."

Greg moved, docile and quiet, into the bed with John. He lay down next to him, leaning in the direction John put him. "I'm-m sorry," he murmured again, growing heavy with the pain medicine.

"Shhh....It's alright. I'm not upset with you. You haven't hurt me. I'm here. Just go to sleep. I'll stay right here and be here when you wake up. It's alright. I've got you." 

He rocked slowly and was careful of Greg's arms. "I'm not leaving you. I love you. I love you."

Greg turned his face so that he was hidden, closing his eyes and rapidly sinking into the darkness. John would still be there when he woke up, or he would not.

With tears on his face, Greg was soon off into a restless sleep. Paul watched John's behavior, keeping a keen eye.

John doubled over when Greg drifted off, eyes wide and full of tears. He ground his teeth together and held his breath to keep from screaming. 

"I'm hurting him," John whispered and looked to Paul with sheer panic on his face. 

Paul walked in and settled down in a chair by the bed. "No, John, you are not hurting him. He has several issues outside of what's happening here."

"Bullshit!" John was trembling lightly and very clearly holding in a full blown breakdown. "I yelled at him! I yelled at my Greg! I w-wasn't angry, I just...I get so scared and..." He looked down and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Paul hummed and leaned back. "Alright, well I'll give you that one, yelling was painful for him. You had good reason, though, and in sure he'll understand when he wakes up."

He watched Greg for a moment before speaking to John again. "He honestly did not think you were coming back. You told him you were, but the issues he has from before your relationship stopped him from understanding."

"I only left because I wanted to help him," John responded quietly. "And I feel terrible that I yelled. I just...I get so scared sometimes. It hurts. Sometimes I can't control it even if I know I'm hurting someone." 

John curled around Greg protectively and decided that while perhaps he did not deserve his torture, he was most definitely a terrible man.

Paul watched as Greg shifted heavily in John's arms, a sound of distress reverberating in his chest as he reached blindly for John. When he made contact, he instantly relaxed, settling back down into a drug-induced sleep. 

"John, it was very clear that you were frightened. That aside, he needs to know the consequence of his action. It may have been harsh, but it does him no favors not to speak up."

John was silent for another moment and ran his fingers through Greg's hair slowly to remember the feeling. "I love this man," he whispered. "I don't want to hurt him anymore."

Paul was not quite sure what John meant. "He's going to be alright, John. I know you are very upset." 

He left it open, giving John the ability to say what he needed to, or not. John's explosive reaction had been encouraging, what with the man finally standing up for himself. It had been fear, but seeing John do anything other than cower was always a step in the right direction. 

John kept his eyes on his lovely Greg. "I hurt him. I can't get angry again. I saw the blood and I had the razor and I was going to punish myself for hurting him. I don't know how to stop. I mean, I did stop, and I called him, but he shouldn't have to deal with that."

Paul shook his head. "You shouldn't have to deal with any of this either, John. I'm sorry that happened. Is there anything I can do for you?"

John took a deep breath and held it for a moment. "This is all hurting me so much. I hate it. I hate that he is hurting because of something I did. I want you to tell me just how I have to behave in order to make him feel loved and wanted."

Paul drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, irritated but uninterested in allowing John to see it. He nodded and looked down at the sleeping man. "You can't, John. No one can, not until he's had a chance to work on these issues himself. He did feel loved and wanted, but he was easily convinced that he did not matter in the end. Worse, he was sure he was a scourge for you, something negative and ultimately harmful. I wonder if you see the parallels between his life with you, and his life with his family?"

John didn't like Paul's answer, but he listened anyway. "He is hurt because they left him and because I left him."

Paul nodded, "Only, you didn't leave him, not really. You explained very clearly what you were doing, but he could not hear you in his state. That's not your doing, you are not at fault for this. Greg has unresolved feelings of guilt and abandonment from losing his family, which is unfortunate in that it makes him...difficult. You are not at fault for this, John." 

"I feel at fault," John whispered. "I feel like this is all my fault. All of it. I've...I hurt everyone. I don't want to. I shouted at my Greg. I love him. Can you see that? Can you at least tell that I'm trying to be good?"

Paul nodded immediately, "I can absolutely see how hard you are trying for him, John. It's not a matter of being good, it's just a matter of being his friend, and I can see that you are doing that. You are allowed to yell when you are angry, John." 

"I will not yell when I am angry. Not at him. He is such a wonderful man. He only ever wants to help people. I love him. I'll be his friend. I'll make him feel loved and useful." 

John was giving light affection to Greg's face and bent down to kiss the top of his head. 

"Let me know if I'm doing it wrong."

Paul shook his head. "There isn't a way to do it wrong, John." He went quiet for a moment before leaning back. 

"You should lie down and rest with him, and when you wake up, we should get you both fed. You've missed too many meals, last thing you need is to get sick." 

John was hungry, but did not feel as if he deserved to eat. "If it will help him," John said softly, "I will. I'll just sleep now. I want to help him."

Paul nodded and stood up, leaving the men to themselves. Greg shifted in John's arms, but otherwise remained hard asleep.

John began to cry again as Paul left, but kept himself quiet. Although it took nearly an hour, he ended up drifting off into an uneasy, fitful sleep.

Greg woke in a calm, sluggish haze. Already a weight was on him, though he wasn't sure what it was or why. He opened his eyes and blinked up at John. In the next few seconds it all came rushing back, complete with the pain in his arms. His gut twisted and he pulled John in closer, trying to tuck John to him.  
John came awake instantly and began to attempt soothing Greg. "It's alright," he said groggily, "I'm here. You're okay. I've got you. I love you. Everything's alright."

Greg bit his tongue as he pulled John down against him. He ran his fingers over the back of John's neck, tucking John down against his chest. Tears burned at his eyes while he clutched to John as a child would a beloved bear. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered urgently, needing to know that John understood how deeply upset he was with himself, "I'm so sorry."

"My love," John began affectionately, "I would like this pain to be over someday. I would very much like to give you a good life. Would you mind telling me what you think you are to me? How you think I view you?"

Greg bit down on his cheek and nuzzled against John, very concerned at the idea of failing to answer correctly.

"I...I'm your Greg," he responded gently, hoping that would suffice.

John hummed happily to show that he approved. 

"Yes, you're my Greg. And that name has come to be my entire world. Greg. My Greg. But I'd like to know how you think I view you, or how you view yourself in relation to my progress. Any answer will do. Please don't worry about hurting me. I feel quite calm now."

Greg knew that falsehood well. He tucked his face down against John, allowing himself a few minutes to breathe. His arms ached terribly, but he rather figured he deserved at least that much.

"I've...I'm...I make eggs the way you like," he whispered, already in tears without realizing it.

"And before we got here? Before you started cooking for me?" 

John was gentle in his tone and kind in his wording. 

"I appreciate you giving me food more than you'll ever know, but you mean a great deal more to me than that.

Greg swallowed hard and ignored his own elevated heart rate.

"I..wasn't someone who scared you overly much, wasn't a doctor, and...had a hand to hold."

"Nonsense," John said softly, without a hint of scorn. "I love you. You are...Okay, think of it like this. When I was in the hospital, I felt as if I was still with Moriarty. I felt like I was still in his control. And you came, and slowly I escaped. I feel like you pulled me out of his hands. Then you stayed with me, I learned that I had no pain when you were there, that I could talk when you were there, that I could eat and drink and walk when you were there. I know that it isn't just because of your presence that I can do such things, but at the time, it was. You've given me a life here. I have a family and a dog. I have a home. I never thought I would..." 

John's voice grew thick and he took Greg's hands. "I never thought anyone would ever be loving towards me, but every day you are nothing but loving to me. I never thought I would be loved by anyone."

 

_Sherlock has done for years. ___

__Guilt twisted in Greg's stomach as John spoke. Had he overridden John's recall of what life with Sherlock had been like? John had a family, and a home, and someone who loved him far more than John realized. John was supposed to be back with Sherlock, not here in his bed, in his arms. He'd never felt worse for not pulling the trigger._ _

__"It wasn't because of me," he answered very quietly, "I was just...the one who happened to be there. Nothing to do with me specifically, but I'm very glad you...felt safe."_ _

__"It has everything to do with you," John said softly._ _

__"There were days on the floor or table, or tied up to something, where I'd weep simply because I felt so hated and worthless. Sometimes I'd hurt myself more than he'd asked because I felt I deserved it. I tried...Jesus..."_ _

__John shook his head. Some things were not meant to be spoken of. "You saved me from that, is what I'm saying. Pulled me out of it. You stayed with me even when I was just a screaming mess."_ _

__Greg nuzzled closer to John, breathing him in and thanking all that was holy for more time with him._ _

__"I...I wasn't trying to leave you," he whispered, guilt heavy on his chest, restricting his breathing, "I...I hope you'll forgive me."_ _

__John did not deserve to have such a mess on his own hands, when he was working so incredibly hard at getting better and overcoming the...unimaginable hell he'd been in._ _

__John didn't feel like Greg had done anything wrong, but sometimes forgiveness was needed anyway. John took Greg's face in his hand and looked at him with an open expression of honest love on his face._ _

__"You're forgiven."_ _

__Greg's breathing hitched and he shut his eyes, nodding and pulling John back in close to himself. He did not deserve it, but oh god, was he glad to have it. He never wanted to make John that angry ever again, never wanted to hear John scream at him ever again. None of it, he couldn't deal with any of it. So he held John, and breathed, and sat with the pain he'd inflicted on himself with tears on his face and guilt still heavy on his chest, even with John's gracious gesture._ _

__"Will you forgive me for what I've done to you, for shouting, for making you feel..." John's breath hitched. "It's the w-worst thing in the world to feel unloved, Greg. Feeling useless and worthless is just... I know it so well. I know h-how it feels and to think that I've made someone as wonderful as you feel that way is...Just please, forgive me."_ _

__Greg nearly argued, nearly came to John's defense to deny the claim that John had hurt him. But the argument died on his tongue, and he had to simply nod and keep John close. Begging John to stay with him, packing away John's things, watching John get up and leave him despite his pleas for John to stay, to forgive him, to give him another chance...it couldn't be coincidence that he'd run off his family, and then run off John._ _

__Again he kicked himself for not pulling the trigger before Mycroft inexplicably showed up to chastise him. All he had been doing was hurting John. He'd made the man simmer in so much guilt he had to flee their home just to breathe. If Greg had just shot himself, John would still be curled up with Sherlock, right where he belonged, and not trying to put Greg's sorry arse back together._ _

__"I love you," John was saying over and over again. "I want you to feel loved. I'll do a better job. What would you like to do today? We could play cards, or go outside, or watch telly, or see the birds."_ _

__He knew better than to make a list or schedule, though. Greg did not like those, and John would relinquish what small control they gave him._ _

__Greg kept John close, trying to find his voice as he trailed his fingers through John's hair. It was all so wrong that John would be trying to comfort _him_. John deserved nothing but peace and comfort, happiness and security for the rest of his life. He nuzzled against the top of John's head, starting to rock them slowly as they lay on their sides. _ _

__"Could I make you something to eat? I'm sorry I ruined breakfast...I'd thought...they'd help me. I should have checked, I'm...I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry. Please can I make you food?"_ _

__"Yes, I would love to eat. Thank you so very much." John gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek and sat up just a bit. "If you're in pain, let me know and I'll get something for you. I don't like the idea of you in pain."_ _

__Greg managed to sit himself up, dragging his palms over his face to try and clean up a bit. He had no interest of asking for something for pain. He deserved it, and he would be a supreme bastard to ask John Watson for pain medication._ _

__Getting up and making it down the hall was a less than steady affair. He parked John on the sofa, wanting him far away from the kitchen and anything that might scare him. He left him there with Gladstone and a light documentary, the windows behind the sofa open and an evening breeze rolling in along with the chirping birds. It took Greg longer than was usual to cook, the act of moving his fingers very difficult, but he managed it all the same and soon was back beside John with a single plate of food and a single mug of tea, setting it in front of John before sitting down a tiny distance away._ _

__As soon as Greg could not see him, John grabbed two fistfulls of his hair and looked wildly around. He was failing. Failing horribly. He composed himself and smiled up at Greg when he came back. John scooted over and closed the small distance between them so he could be flush against Greg's side._ _

__"Thank you, love. Is there anything I can do for you?"_ _

__Greg wrapped his arm around John and shook his head, sitting higher than John as usual, doing his best to scrape back the illusion of peace and happiness he'd thought had been real, before John left. Ultimately, John's expression of happiness and content had been a ruse, but Greg still longed for it anyhow. He'd thought they'd progressed, that he was giving John something close to a good life, that he was making things better._ _

__Knowing it for the lie it had been, it was a struggle to even think about that sort of calm quiet ever returning. He looked up at the telly, rubbing John's arm lightly, and did his best to appear as though nothing had happened between them at all._ _

__Truly though, the rift was massive and impossible to overlook._ _

__John began to panic internally while appearing calm. He continued to eat, which he assumed would be a positive thing in Greg's eyes. He remembered when he'd been scooped up and loved on for drinking water. It had been easier to please Greg then._ _

__"Nothing? Maybe a massage? I could let you win at Rummy?"_ _

__Greg shifted and watched John eat, relieved to see him managing that, at the least. "You wanted me to work on your neck, I can do that for you," Greg offered quietly. He watched John at his food, and could tell that John was forcing himself to eat._ _

__"Is...I could make you something else? I'm...I'm upsetting you, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be."_ _

__John turned to Greg and shook his head. "No, I was really hungry, I'm just worried about you. You aren't hurting me. I promise. You are beautiful. Thank you for the food. I would love it if you would work on my neck, or find something that I can do for you."_ _

__He gave a small smile and leaned forward to kiss Greg softly, just a gentle brushing of lips._ _

__Greg waited until John had finished his food before shifting them. He put several pillows on the floor and moved John to sit there on them, leaning John's back between his knees and very gently starting in on the muscles around John's neck. He was glad for the telly, hiding him from how horrifically distressed he was. He was causing John pain, even now, and he had no idea what to do to make it stop. Hell, he'd thought he'd been making John happy._ _

___Does it hurt that I just feel guilty around you?_ _ _

__He closed his damp eyes as he set in on working along John's scarred and knotted neck and shoulders, doing his best to ease pain and never inflict it. Absently he began to calculate how long it would take for John to leave again. Obviously Paul, Miller, or John himself had suggested letting Greg die, so if someone was going to counsel John to leave...how long did he have?_ _

__A few days, likely._ _

__The stress of that reality forced Greg to abruptly begin speaking, nearly tripping over his words in his haste._ _

__"This isn't your fault. None of it. You are not responsible for me and my issues. I don't know how to do better, I thought I'd been doing well, if...if you need to leave please don't hesitate for me. If Sherlock's is comfortable and you feel better there, then that's what you should do. I'm not worth this, I'm nothing in this, John, nothing. You matter, and Sherlock matters, and that's it. That's _it_. I...you aren't- I don't know how to- please don't f-feel bad on my behalf, I'm- it's- whatever you need to feel better that's what-" his throat closed on him and he cleared his throat, hands starting to shake as he worked at John._ _

__"I'm glad my being around helped you at one point, I really am, but I-"_ _

___I mean it, you kill me right now if that's what you want!_ _ _

__"I...I don't know what...what m-more I could...I don't know what to do. I didn't think you'd come back."_ _

__

__John's head turned around instead of lolling back as it had been when Greg began to speak._ _

__"Love," he whispered, tears in his eyes, "That's not how I feel at all."_ _

__He climbed back up onto the couch and knelt in front of Greg, his posture speaking of urgency._ _

__"First, you matter to me. You're fantastic and wonderful and I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I left because I was hurting you. I always had the intention to come back, and leaving you was like parting with my own soul. I love you so very, very much. You have done brilliantly. You've learned how to care for me so quickly. You've learned exactly how to calm me down and make me feel loved. I felt guilty because I was programmed to feel that I hurt those I love, so I needed to get away from the people that I love."_ _

__He felt a bit bad then, considering he'd gone to Sherlock's, but the point had been made regardless. He loved Greg, and did not wish to leave him._ _

__Greg carried on speaking in a rush, the shaking in his hands working up his arms as tears spilled down his cheeks._ _

__"I...I thought I was showing you love, but you just feel guilt around me. Why did you want me to come get you? I make you feel like you...like you _deserved_ what was done to you. There isn't a worse way for me to make you feel? How could I possibly hurt you more than that? And I did that just by...just by being _me_. I...I thought...all that time...and none...it wasn't...I'd just....how did I not _see_ that I was making you _miserable_? I- this is what I _do_. I...god I'd thought..." _ _

__He couldn't carry on speaking, his lip trembling before he curled down on himself, dissolving back into tears. All Greg could see through depression that had overpowered him, was the wake of disaster he left behind. John had said that he loved him before, John had said that Greg made him happy before, but that had all turned out to be lies._ _

___I feel like I deserved it when I'm with you._ _ _

__He choked on a whimper and shook his head, sinking his trembling fingers into his hair. He knew that even then, he was making things worse, but he was powerless against the hopeless despair._ _

__"Greg listen to me."_ _

__John took his face in his hands and held him at arm's length._ _

__"You are not the cause of my guilt. It was Moriarty. He did it. He beat it into me, not you. He made me feel like it was my fault, not you. He told me I would hurt those I love, and now I am. I felt guilty around you because of what I was doing, how I was feeling, and what had been done to me. You've shown me nothing but love."_ _

__Greg could not get hold of himself. He did not resist John, but he could not look at him._ _

__"Y-You've been w-with me for a y-year, has it been the whole time? I...what good am I if I can't...can't help you out of...it was _m-me_! You are s-so much better after a day away from me, so much better! _I_ am the problem! I'm always the problem, I should never...I didn't mean...I was trying to help Sherlock because you couldn't be near him and he was going mad and I was losing both of you and I overstepped and now I'm-" his words fell apart until he was just in tears again, feeling the physical distance between he and John acutely. _ _

__"I j-just wanted to help you, I wanted to help. I'm so sorry, John."_ _

__"It WAS NOT YOU!" John shouted with emphasis but not anger._ _

__"It was Moriarty! He _tortured_ me into thinking that I am guilty all the time for everything! You're the reason I started to question that. I just needed to be in a place where I couldn't hurt anyone. I didn't leave you, I removed myself so I didn't do damage."_ _

__Greg flinched as John shouted at him, keeping his head down, raking his fingers through his hair as he made the situation worse._ _

___Shut up Greg, shut up, shut up, shut up_._ _

__He rocked himself slightly, anything to help ease the anguish crushing his heart._ _

___Are you going to punish him for trying to get better, Greg?_ _ _

__Mycroft's cruel voice slid across his frantic mind, making his breathing catch._ _

__"I'm sorry," he managed on a wet exhalation, elbows on his knees, fingers tearing at the hair over his ears._ _

__Shit! "No, I didn't mean to shout. I'm sorry. I just wanted to explain to you that it was never your fault."_ _

__John reached out and took Greg's hands, which he held firmly to keep him from injuring himself. "I love you so much. Please, could you at least consider that perhaps you're wrong? That it wasn't your fault?"_ _

__Greg did not resist John taking his hands, allowing John to do as he liked. He could not see how this wasn't his doing, and oh, how he'd tried. It had been a blindsiding, crushing revelation to learn that all he did was induce and feed guilt for John, delivered just before John walked out, and he could still hardly fill his own lungs and force himself to keep breathing. _This isn't helping him,_ he thought to himself, aware that he needed to get a grip and unable to do so. _ _

__In the only move he could manage just then, he nodded, doing what he could to appease John while heavy tears flowed freely down his face._ _

__"I feel like I am failing to show you how much I love you," John whispered. "Is there any way, any at all, that I can explain to you how I feel? Anything that I can do to prove how wonderful you are?"_ _

__Greg kept his head bowed, glad at least that he did not have to watch John's face. He had lost all faith in John's words, in their entire relationship. What was abundantly clear to him now was the fact that John would walk out without hesitation if he felt he needed to, that he had no qualms leaving Greg in hysterics, and that everything he'd believed their relationship to be was ultimately a lie._ _

__John did not feel love when he was with Greg, he felt guilt. He did not feel safe, he felt unworthy. He'd not been happy, he'd been smiling while in torment and Greg had been too damned stupid to know. All of this had thrown their reality into sharp relief, pulled back the veil, erased the full year of work and left Greg right back on the floor in tears, watching the people he loved leave him behind._ _

__"I kn-know how y-you feel," he whispered down towards his knees, hating that the pain in his arms was not more intense._ _

__John wrapped his arms around Greg, but it didn't have the same warmth that it had before. John squeezed harder and let out a soft whimper of distress. If he could not find comfort in Greg's arms, what did he have in life to look forward to? He had Greg's promise, the one he'd promised never to cash, but that would only make people hurt even more._ _

__"Let me prove myself to you," John pleaded._ _

__Greg held on to John as though sure he'd get up and leave, hugging him as though it were the very last time he'd have the opportunity to. He had no idea how many more chances he'd have to hold John like that. Despite being so close to one another, John still felt incredibly far away._ _

__"I'm here no matter, John. You don't have to prove anything to me. As long as you want me, I'm here," and that was the truth of it. John didn't feel loved by him, or happy with him, but if John wanted him he'd stay. There wasn't love, there was some form of desperation, and that was fine. If he could keep John calm until John was more comfortable going back to Sherlock, then that's what he'd do._ _

__John could feel panic stirring in his breast. He desperately loved his Greg. Everything about the man was beautiful. His voice, his eyes, his hair, the way he stretched in the morning and the way he rolled over in his sleep. And John was failing him. He didn't feel loved._ _

__John leaned back and pressed his lips to Greg's again in the loving, affectionate and chaste way they always did in an effort to show that yes, he did love him and no, he would not be leaving._ _

__Greg lingered there, confused and grateful for the affection. He would no longer allow himself to take in moments like this as anything more than isolated periods of time, they meant nothing more than the desperate act of a man who was likely forcing himself around Greg as some form of penance._ _

___He seemed so relieved to see you when you came. He was relieved. He was. Surely that wasn't-_ _ _

___He was desperate. You are familiar, that's all. He was scared in a new home. Don't be an idiot_. _ _

__He did not pull away from John, his own heart twisting and aching with want for someone, _anyone_ to love him. Mycroft had turned on him, made it clear he was no friend of Greg's. Outside of John, Greg had lost everyone. Everyone. _ _

__And truly, he'd already lost John as well._ _

__John stayed exactly where he was. He was afraid that by breaking away, he would be leaving, and only hurt Greg further. Besides, he longed for the closeness. He ached for love, even if he had been shown so much of it already over the year. He'd gone without compassion for just under nine months, and it was clearly going to take longer than that to repair._ _

__Greg finally eased them down to their sides on the sofa, keeping John tucked in close. He broke off the kiss, but touched their foreheads together and closed his eyes, just holding John as he had at the start; John's back to the cushions, Greg's back to the rest of the sitting room, keeping John protected on all sides. His own body was still feeling weak and fevered, and the pain in his arms present, but he didn't care. He just kept close to John, holding him in the only way he knew had seemed to work in the past.  
As soon as Greg broke the kiss, John kissed his forehead, then his cheeks, sides of his face, top of his head; everywhere on his face in a series of affectionate gestures. He gave a compliment on each one. "Wonderful. Perfect. Loving. Beautiful."_ _

__Greg wanted so desperately for any of that to be true. He craved friendship and belonging more than anything else, was starved for it, had found it in John only to have it so viciously torn away by John himself. He bit at his lips and reached up with a trembling hand, grabbing the throw and tossing it over them, even covering their heads. He never thought he'd long for any of the days that had come before, as John had been so miserable, but here he found himself aching for the feel that he'd had when he and John like this before. At least then, he'd thought he was doing something good._ _

__The darkness made it easier to recall Sherlock, curled to his brother and dissolving into tears as Greg took John away. This was wrong, all of this was wrong. He did not fit in the picture, his usefulness had come to an end, and it left him feeling hollow and empty beside John, like a thief, useless to John and damaging to Sherlock. He also knew he was powerless to do anything about it, selfish and terrible as he was_ _

__John was having a very difficult time not melting down. He was failing so _visibly_ that it stung his insides like a hot knife. _ _

__"I love you," he tried again, but the sentence was weighed down by impending tears. John sniffled and dropped his face to rest in the crook of Greg's neck. "I-I l-love you."_ _

__Greg wrapped a hand around the back of John's neck, thumb brushing rhythmically at the soft hair he found there._ _

__"I love you," he answered, breathless and nearly despondent in his grief. He began to trail his fingers over the well-learned lines of scar tissue on John's back, focusing on the areas of knotted tissue that always seemed to make John uncomfortable. His fingers were shaking, but he knew how to physically soothe John...or at least he thought he did. That could also simply be another thing that he believed he was helping with, when it really wasn't._ _

__"If you don't want me touching you, please just tell me."_ _

__"No, I like it," John assured. "I just like the attention. I need it. I'm sure you understand." John nuzzled the side of Greg's face with his own to demonstrate how good it felt to be loved by another human being. "I just want..." John's voice cracked and he stopped._ _

__Greg kept his eyes closed, carrying on as he was since John didn't seem to mind. When John's voice cracked, Greg shook his head._ _

__"You don't have to do anything. If this is what you need from me, you have it. Anything I can do to help, John, anything. You don't have to do anything."_ _

__If John just needed him for the moment, then it was fine. Greg had zero expectation of the affection being reciprocated, all he wanted with the time he had left was to perhaps leave John with something positive. Again he gained a deeper understanding to Sherlock's desperation to at least have a proper goodbye with John._ _

__"I am here for as long as you want me."_ _

__John was taking deep gasping breaths now and holding them for as long as he could in a desperate, last ditch effort not to cry. He slowly removed his arm from around Greg and held his hand over his mouth. He shook his head to indicate that that was not what he'd intended, but could not speak for fear of breaking down and hurting Greg further._ _

__Greg drew back as though burned, second guessing himself. He took in John's state and instantly his mind screamed at him that he was hurting John, that John was bordering panic because of the position he'd put them in._ _

__He tossed the blanket to the side and scrambled back so fast he forgot that he'd been right on the edge of the sofa, falling right over the side. He ignored the pain in his arms and scrambled to his knees, not daring to touch John though he tipped his forehead down to the sofa right next to him, breaking down in his own panic._ _

__"I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry I- just trying to comfort you I- I didn't mean- I'm sorry, oh John I'm sorry. You're safe, you're not doing anything wrong or bad. I'm so sorry, I won't touch you, I shouldn't have touched you I-" his voice cracked on another wracking sob and he wrapped his arm around his gut, feeling like he was dying. "I'm sorry."_ _

__"No! No, Greg, please!"_ _

__John lost hold of a wretched sob and reached for Greg while tears filled his eyes. He looked so much like a child, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed awkwardly beneath him, his arms outstretched and his hands grasping._ _

__"D-D-Do-Don't g-g-go," he managed before fully breaking down. He doubled over on the couch and began to sob onto his knees. With one hand he blindly felt for the blanket, and the other was still reaching to Greg._ _

__The shock of the abrupt change from sheltered, warm safety of Greg's arms to the open, exposed and lonely feeling he had now was enough to shove him over the edge. He dropped the hand he'd been reaching for Greg with in such a dejected, melancholy and thoroughly heartbroken way that he was sure the bones must have shattered with the weight of it._ _

__Greg took hold of John's hand, keeping on his knees beside the sofa, his head down directly next to John. The shifting blanket ruffled his hair, but he ignored it. He fought down the urge to climb back up on the sofa and fold John into his arms, confused as to what John wanted. He'd drawn away, fighting panic, clearly in tears before Greg had let him go._ _

__"I'm not leaving," he whispered in defeat, too afraid to take liberty with John, too afraid to try and comfort him as he had in the past, "I'm right here."_ _

__John didn't know why he'd been left so suddenly, but his mind jumped to the exact same conclusion it always did; he'd done something wrong._ _

__"C-C-Come b-b-ba-bck," John cried pitifully and reached out for him again. Slowly John decided that it didn't matter if he did not deserve comfort, he was going to have it anyway. John slid off the couch and crawled right on top of Greg, pulled the blanket over their heads, and pressed his face down into the spot on his shoulder he always did._ _

__"Stay," was the only plea he could manage through his tight throat._ _

__

__Greg wrapped his arms around John and held him there, shifting so that his back was to the sofa in an effort to better support John. He leaned his head against John's, eyes closed as quiet tears rolled down his face. John sounded just as terribly as he had before he'd made the choice to leave._ _

__After a few minutes of holding John in his lap, he nearly spoke. He was going to offer to call Mycroft and have a car sent over, but damn it all, he did not want John to leave._ _

__"Was...was it ever..." he cleared his throat before trying to ask his question again, "-has it always just been this?"_ _

__John shook his head vigorously._ _

__"I-I l-love b-being here," he stammered and tried to calm enough to put Greg's fears to rest._ _

__"S-So h-happy, just...S-Sometimes m-m-my m-mind h-hurts m-me and I-I h-hurt you and then I-I get sad and hate m-myself. B-But things a-a-are so happy usually. I-I just want that."_ _

__Greg inhaled slowly, doing his very best to look at this logically. The attempt was mostly worthless, but he wanted so badly to understand. "So...so when I'm...sad...you are going to go away," he breathed, gently rubbing John's back, rocking them ever so slightly._ _

__His gut twisted and he swallowed down the panic as best he was able. He'd done his best to pretend to be alright, and it was never good enough. Was John going to leave right then? The tears on his own face were obviously causing John pain._ _

__John shook his head and let out another sob. He held on to Greg as tightly as he could and made no move to let go._ _

__"No! Never! I left b-because my guilt w-w-was hurting you and I-I needed to be away from the people I loved so I could learn. Everything I did I did with the goal of a happy life with you in mind."_ _

__Greg tipped his face to the side of John's neck, breathing in a messy, chaotic bit of desperation. "But I...I just make you feel...and I make you leave and...h-how...that's n-not your fault, it's mine! I'm- I ruin _everything_ ," he hissed at himself, despising Greg Lestrade above all other men, "I don't understand, John! I don't understand!" _ _

__"Y-You don't make m-me sad," John managed to say. "You m-make me happy. I-I feel g-guilty because I-I was trained to do so! Y-You don't blame Sherlock for m-me being afraid of him, right?"_ _

__Greg shook his head, gathering a fist full of John's shirt in his hand as he rocked them. "He's...that's different," he whispered in return, voice rough and heavy. John had been specifically and horribly trained to fear Sherlock. Greg was never brought up, never part of it._ _

__"I was trained to feel guilty more than I was trained to fear Sherlock," John returned gently. "How is it any different?"_ _

___Greg was quite for several minutes, trying to sort through his own mind. He carried on rocking John gently, clutching to the back of John's shirt.  
John didn't feel guilty when he was away from Greg. John could heal when he want around Greg.  
"I...I've been hurting you-" his voice broke apart on the words, crumbling like like his heart, "it's different. He didn't pretend to....to be me."_

__"No, love, he did not pretend to be you. What's happened is that I love you. He's always told me I'd be his....his pet...and that I'd hurt everyone I love because that's what I was trained to do. I don't want to do that. I had to go away from the people I love to sort it out." John bent down and kissed Greg's cheek. "You've never hurt me."_ _

__Greg pulled John in closer as he quietly wept. None of this made sense to him. The fog of depression was thick around his mind, blocking his ability to see himself in any other light. He was guilty of something, had to be. John had been happy and then he'd...he'd just left. Ignored Greg's pleas and left. He'd also come back much improved, which was more evidence that Greg was hurting him._ _

__"Okay," he whispered against the side of John's head._ _

__"Could you just r-remember one thing?" John looked to Greg hopefully and his eyes were clouded with tears, pain and self hatred. "Just one thing?"_ _

__Greg drew back enough to look at John, taking in John's facial expression like a punch in the gut. He swallowed his heart down and nodded, tears spilling over his lashes as he took in what he was still managing to do to the man without intending to._ _

__"Just know that I love you?" John felt woefully inadequate. He wasn't even capable of showing Greg his love. He was failing in the one thing he had believed he could do easily. It was crippling, as aside from loving Greg, he had nothing else he believed himself capable of._ _

__Greg nodded immediately. "I kn-know you do, you wouldn't put yourself through this if you didn't," he whispered, hoping to hell it was love and not fear that had John back, though he highly suspected the latter._ _

__John was attached to him, but out of necessity._ _

__Perhaps John confused his appreciation for kindness with feelings of love. Either way, it wasn't as it should be. Greg had failed to help John in any meaningful way, had only shown him guilt. He was going to put his fist through Mycroft's damned nose the next chance he got, damn that man and his meddling._ _

__John shook his head for the hundredth time that day._ _

__"I am only alive because you've given me a good life. I don't want to die anymore. I want to live and I want to live with you. If I can't live with you, then I'll die. But you're here, and you love me, so I'll live."_ _

__Greg sucked in a sharp breath and held John to him and buried his face against the side of John's neck. He lost hold of a sob, gathering John as close to himself as possible, rocking them as he clutched to the man._ _

__"I...I d-don't want to keep hurting you! I am so sorry I...I get like this, I'm...I'm _trying_ , I'm trying." _ _

__"My love, I know you're trying. I know that. You're wonderful. You are doing so very, very well. You are not hurting me. Moriarty is hurting me. He sort of...he whisperers things, but it sounds like my own voice, but it's his things, and it makes me feel guilty. How is that your fault?"_ _

__John ran his fingers through Greg's hair and down his neck. "How could that possibly be your fault?"  
Greg shook his head, shifting his knees so that he could hold John closer. "I m-make you feel bad, I make you feel l-like you deserve _pain_ -" his voice broke on the word. "I wish I could st-stop being so _fucking weak_ ," he loathed himself desperately, trying to explain himself. _ _

__"No. No. Just...no! You are not weak! You are strong. You are everything I lean on. You don't make me feel bad! That's just my own mind! I-I promise!" John couldn't think of a way to explain it any other way than he already had._ _

__Greg shook his head, keeping his eyes away from John. That wasn't a truth, not at all. If he messed up, John would leave. He did before and he would again. He blinked up at the ceiling and drew in several sharp, stuttering breaths._ _

__Greg clutched at John and nodded, saying nothing else. He was hurting John, and John was doing his best to try and fix him. He stood up with them and settled back on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around then._ _

__John turned so he was facing Greg on his lap like a tiny child. He dropped his head down on his shoulder and let out a shuddering breath. "This is s-so complicated," he lamented. _Like one of his games.__ _

__Greg trailed his fingers through John's hair, loathing himself for this. "I'm sorry, I'm....I'm sorry."_ _

__"We'll figure it out though, right? I-I don't like this. I-I want to b-be happy again." John was crying into Greg's shoulder quietly. Stress was overwhelming him, and he was desperately trying to keep himself together._ _

__Greg nodded, desperately wanting that to be true. "What can I do? What..what can I do to help? I'm...I'm sorry, John I'm sorry. I'll do whatever you need."_ _

__"All you can do is just know that I love you, that I was gone for about a day, that I always intended to come back, and my guilt is a result of torture." John looked at him then to make sure he'd heard._ _

__Greg looked down and away, nodding, feeling rather stupid. "Okay, John," he whispered, "okay." He shifted them back so that they could see the telly, hoping to distract with that at the least._ _

__"I'll...make you more food soon...I..." he trailed off, feeling utterly worthless and stupid._ _

__"How about we just think about something nice? You'll see eventually that the guilt is from Moriarty. Let's just be happy for now. I know we aren't, but maybe if we pretend, it'll be alright."_ _

__John sighed and nuzzled his face on Greg's shoulder._ _

__Greg nodded, already turning his attention to the documentary. "Your stars are on," he whispered, nodding to the telly. He was happy to think of anything else, any other focus than his crushing failure._ _

__John watched the screen with fascination. "Pulsars are beautiful," he remarked quietly. While the man explained superclusters, John turned to Greg._ _

__"I'm very, very small."_ _

__Greg kept his eyes to the screen, not sure how to respond to that._ _

__"As are we all, John," he tried, hoping it wouldn't upset him. He personally felt far too large, taking up too much space and causing too many issues. What he would give to just fade away into nothing. The narrator carried on in a calm, steady voice, which was a welcome respite to the panic of the week. Greg contented himself to rocking John slowly as they watched the stars on screen._ _

__"Nothing I do matters. Nothing will be remembered. Hell, there are ancient kings we don't know the names of. Rulers of the world who we know nothing about. What has happened to me is...nothing. Nothing at all. I'm one person on a speck of dust hurtling through vacuum. None of this matters."_ _

__John kept his eyes on the screen. Quasars were beautiful. Supernovas were beautiful. Dwarf stars were beautiful. The dance of a binary star system was beautiful. John was not beautiful._ _

__John's words sank into Greg's mind and settled down deep, simmering down deep and staring Greg in the face. He looked over John, ignoring the images on screen._ _

___What good have you done him? He's still feeling worthless, he's still feeling as though he deserved it. What the fuck have you done other than upset him? You're making it worse. You're making it worse._ _ _

__He did not realize he was in tears until one broke apart in John's hair. He was breathy as he responded._ _

__"It...matters to me," he whispered, his tone making it clear that he knew how worthless his encouragement was, how little that mattered."_ _

__John decided he wouldn't mention it again, since it was clearly upsetting Greg. "I'm sorry," he whispered and a stab of hatred tore at his heart. "I'm not good at this," he whispered. "I just...You matter to me, too. I'm so glad I have you."_ _

__Greg sighed quietly, upset that he'd yet again bothered John. He spent the next hour in silence, just putting his eyes to the screen as he took time to think. As the documentary ended, Greg drew out his mobile and sent a text to Mycroft._ _

___I believe John is better off in your home._ _ _

__Mycroft was both pleased with and worried by this. Had Sherlock had a better reaction to John lying in bed with him, he would have jumped at the opportunity. But it had been so stressful, and now he hesitated._ _

___For what reasons?_ _ _

__Greg closed his eyes and pressed a slow kiss to the top of John's head. He pulled John closer to him, holding him tight for a few minutes before going back to texting, hardly able to breathe as he forced himself to text._ _

___He made more progress in 30 hours at your home, than the last three weeks with me. I'm useless to him. I'm going to send him and Paul back to you._ _ _

__John hummed happily at the affection, but his heart was heavy. "I love you," he whispered and pulled a bit of Greg's shirt to hold to his face._ _

___Is it to be expected that you will take your own life after this?_ _ _

__The small bit of positive feedback from John was encouraging. Greg responded on a similar whisper, "I love you, too." He was battling tears, tipping his nose to the side of John's neck and breathing in the scent of him._ _

__"What was it like with Sherlock?"_ _

__John shrugged and nestled closer to Greg. "Alright, I guess. Better than it was before, but I still don't like it. It's still...I feel like a bad person for saying it, but it's still a chore. I want to do it, but it's not pleasant. He was very broken. We talked normally for a few sentences, then just sort of sat there. I had your shirt but things are more stressful without you."_ _

__Greg shifted again, drawing John closer. He inhaled, exhaled, and repeated for several minutes. John may have been uncomfortable, but he'd also returned much improved. "I am glad it was better than before," he whispered, carding his fingers through John's hair._ _

__"It was likely easier than if I'd been there. Less to keep track of. Less to worry about."_ _

__John shook his head. "I only went because he wrote a letter. I didn't want to. But I'm sure he didn't want to get tortured, but we all have to make sacrifices, I suppose."_ _

__John reached up and took Greg's hand, which he held to his chest in such a gentle, loving way that made it clear the man was precious to him._ _

__Greg allowed John his hand, though he was determined to get a better answer out of him. "You were very distraught to leave him. I was...glad to see that, much as it hurts. He's your person, we lost track a little here, my fault, I'm afraid, but true nevertheless. You...have told me several times you never knew love, but that's just another lie Moriarty put in your head."_ _

__John didn't like the tone of Greg's voice, and he gave his hand a little squeeze._ _

__"I was distressed to be hurting him, but I left anyway. Makes me sad. And he isn't my person. You are. He isn't my Greg. I might be his, but he is not mine."_ _

__This was completely unacceptable._ _

__Greg felt panic twist at his gut and he shook his head. "No. He's been your person for years, _years_ John. You only feel this way because of what was done to you. I...it's never been me. Sherlock would be here with you right now if you'd not been so afraid. You pair...it's never been you and I, John. It's...you only feel that way because I've been here with you. Sherlock could probably do more for you than I can." _ _

__John tightened his grip on Greg's hand again and went very, unnaturally still. "I loved him before, and I still do, but I love _you_ and I want to stay with you. I h-have no personal desire to be with Sherlock. But I will, because he needs me to help him. But _you_..." _ _

__John brought Greg's hand up to his lips._ _

__"What I want is a life with you. I want to help Sherlock in every way that I can, and if that means desensitizing and learning to be his friend again I will, but selfishly, if other people are not taken into account, I'd just stay with you forever. I feel horrible for it, but that's my selfish whim. I do want to help Sherlock, though."_ _

__Greg shook his head, absolutely sure of what he had to do._ _

__"No, John no. That's not...that's not how...I don't _matter_ in this! The point is for you and Sherlock to reunite. You...you would never say this, it's...I've distracted you, been selfish, stayed too long. He gave up so much...he has done more for you than I ever could. He loves you more than he can express and I've...I've held you back and hurt you and-" he shook his head, keeping John close to him despite his words, "I love you, god how I love you, but this...I've been so wrong." _ _

__"What do you mean, ' _stayed too long_ '?" John's eyes were wide and fearful. _ _

__"What...Are you..." John shook his head and absolutely refused to believe that Greg was considering leaving him. That could not be. He had one thing he was sure of in this world. Only one. He was sure of Greg. That could not be ripped away._ _

__Greg swallowed his heart down and squeezed John's hand. his voice was rough as he spoke._ _

__"I...I am not helping. I'm not helping you at all. I've been holding you back, and I don't want to do that any longer. I...I just want to help you. I love you, I want what's best for you. If...if you were to stand with me, before all this happened, and look into the future...John you'd be appalled that I wasn't doing everything in my nature to reunite you with Sherlock. You'd...you'd be disgusted with me. This...I stopped being good for you."_ _

__John had all but stopped breathing. He was frozen in hesitant shock, waiting for some sort of verdict to drop._ _

__"Greg, are you saying you don't want to be around me anymore?"_ _

__Greg shook his head, "No, god no, I _always_ want to be around you I-" his throat closed up on him and he tipped his face down to the top of John's head, "I'm failing you, I'm hurting you, and I'm failing Sherlock. I think you will heal faster, and more complete, if you went to Mycroft's." _ _

__John let out a high pitched, panicked laugh. "Greg, you can't be serious." He could feel his heart begin to flutter in anticipation of pain. "I...You can't. I improved there because I had motivation to get back to you, and because I hated hurting you and wanted to improve."_ _

__Greg was full of doubt as John spoke, second guessing what he'd already second guessed, going back over his decisions. John sounded...John sounded so sure that he wanted to stay._ _

__"But I...you are so...so much better...so much better than you were before you left and..." He was struggling to catch his breath, to remain articulate. "I...I just keep making everything worse!"_ _

__"Greg, I swear to God, if you leave me at Mycroft's I'll not see the end of the week." John spoke with deadpan certainty in his voice._ _

__Greg closed his eyes and could not decide if he was encouraged or deeply unsettled. He choked down a sound of distress, pulling John closer to him._ _

__"But _why_?" He finally asked, voice cracking in defeat, "why would you...why? You are loved by more people than just me, John. Why would you...what difference would it make if I was there or not?" _ _

__He could not get it around his head that John had left him and did so with the purpose of healing, only to want him to stay, despite how much Greg was obviously damaging him._ _

__"Because I love you!" John found it a very simple, easy concept to understand and was confused to why it was so difficult for Greg._ _

__"I love the way you stretch in the morning and the way you smile and the way you take care of me and the way I can curl up next to you and the way your hands move when you talk about something you like and the way you look when you're sleeping and the way you look when you're just waking up and your sleepy voice and your happy voice and the way your eyes crinkle around the edges when you smile at me."_ _

__Greg sat in a silent stupor, blinking at John in complete shock. For several minutes he could not catch a proper breath, so utterly floored by John's words._ _

__"You..." he trailed off, at a complete loss for words, "I- I didn't...I...but you...left."_ _

__He scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked away, "you left. I-" he exhaled a shaking breath and blinked up at the ceiling, so twisted up in knots he had no idea what to do with that information._ _

__John breathed a sigh of relief that it had gotten through. "I left because I wanted to protect you from myself, love. Just as you would send me to Mycroft's because you think it is better for me, I left because I thought it was better for you. We're both wrong. We need each other."_ _

__Greg closed his eyes and shook his head, dragging his palm down his damp face. This wasn't okay, it was _wrong_ , deeply wrong. He couldn't do this to Sherlock, to Mycroft...John was never supposed to love him. He was _terrible_ for John, so bad that Mycroft's people advised that Greg be allowed to die. _ _

__He leaned forward and rest his elbows on his knees, rocking himself as he tried to sort it all out. "I...I love you, I love you but I'm so awful for you. You...you can't know...this...oh god, oh _god_ what have I-" Faced with the outcome of his actions, Greg could hardly stand it. He was elated that John felt so strongly towards him, and terrified at the repercussions. _ _

__"Greg, PLEASE!"_ _

__John was incredibly frightened by this point. It sounded as if Greg was trying to convince him to leave, and he was insecure enough as it was._ _

__"I m-mean...If y-you're just using this as an excuse to g-get rid of me without h-hurting my f-feelings, I understand."_ _

__John's voice was choked as he considered the possibility that perhaps this was just some way for Greg to say he didn't want him anymore. John stared at his lap and let out a choked sob. Of course he wasn't wanted. Who the hell would want a beaten, abused, dirty mess of scars and panic?_ _

__Greg could not bear to hear that. He shook his head as he pulled John to him, holding him close._ _

__"God no, no, John that's not...that's not what I'm..." he sucked in a sharp breath and held it, furious with himself for allowing this situation._ _

__"You...I love you. I love you, John. That's not..." he shuddered and sank his fingers into John's hair, holding John to his shoulder. He spoke, muffled and rough, against the side of John's head.  
"You can't possibly know how much I love you, I could not bear it when you left me and I can hardly think of being away from you again. I'm bad for you. You had to escape me to find your ground, to move forward. I'm holding you back, I can't keep it together like you need. I...I just make you feel guilt. That's no way to live." _ _

__John wrapped his arms around Greg's waist and held on for dear life. "I d-don't want you to leave me," he whimpered. "I-I left b-because I wanted t-to be a better man f-for you! I w-wanted to stop hurting you! I just n-needed to be away for a while so I-I could stop hurting you."_ _

__The idea that John walking away and leaving Greg on the floor was somehow helpful nearly pulled a bitter laugh from him. He was tempted to pull away from John, call Mycroft, and have done with it. This was too twisted, had gone so awry of the plan that he could hardly stand to be in his own company. How had he allowed this to happen? And now, the very man who proclaimed to love him, had thought the best way to help Greg was to abandon him._ _

__"I begged you," he breathed, dragging a hand across his face as he choked on his grief, "I begged...I...I never wanted anything...I just wanted you and...you walked away. I think you managed it because you know, somewhere in your mind, that this isn't where you ever wanted to be."_ _

__"No! No, not that at all! I-I was so scared t-to leave you! I hated it! I hated every second! I-I'm so so sorry I left. I thought it would help. P-Paul told me it would help you! He said it would! He said it was a good thing to do!"_ _

__John slowly curled down and put his head on Greg's knees. He wasn't worthy to look up at his love._ _

__Greg dropped a hand to John's hair, slowly trailing his fingertips over John's scalp. He rest back against the sofa and looked up at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face as he rhythmically worked his fingers through John's hair. How he loathed what he was doing to John. Paul...Paul was not on Greg's side, there was no question of that left. If he'd advised John to do this, then he likely could see the harm Greg was doing._ _

__Why hadn't he just pulled the trigger?_ _

__"You didn't do anything wrong, John," he whispered to the ceiling, his hand never breaking its patterned touches, "I couldn't help you, and they did."_ _

__"I know you don't like promises," John whispered, "but I need one. The first time I said I would put off suicide was so I could help Sherlock. The first time I said I wanted to live was because of you. If I don't have you, I will be working to help Sherlock until he is alright enough so I can have my peace. If you are with me, I will live because I want to. I'm sorry that I feel that way. I'm sorry if the way I feel hurts you. But you should know the way things are."_ _

__Greg closed his eyes and allowed himself time to simply sit there and cry. He was used up, wrung out, and now without options. He was going to be made to watch John slowly learn to love Sherlock again, and watch as John faded away from him once more. The strength went out of his arms, leaving him just barely trailing his fingers through John's hair, while he sat in silence with the weight of his failure._ _

__"So please promise me you won't be gone one day. I couldn't take it. I don't w-want to have to live wondering if you'll be there when I wake up, or if I-I'll..If I'll f-find you dead..." John gave himself a moment to cry, then pressed on._ _

__"S-So promise m-me that if y-you need to leave m-me you'll give m-me a day or two t-to...to make arrangements."_ _

__John broke down hard. Nothing was certain anymore. Nothing. He had nothing he was sure of in his life. He hadn't asked Greg not to leave him. Not anymore. If Greg needed to leave him, that was fine. John just needed time to get the needle before he had to be alone._ _

__Four days ago, they'd been eating cake. He'd watched John laugh, walked the dog with him, played games. They'd been...John had looked happy._ _

__Greg's teeth clamped down together and his chest caved in as he attempted to hold back a sob, covering his mouth and turning his face away from John._ _

___When I'm with you, all I feel is guilt._ _ _

__"You won't ever find me dead," he breathed, absolutely sure of that, at the least._ _

__"And I-I won't ever wake up and b-be alone? Y-You won't g-give me a sedative and leave m-me at Mycroft's?"_ _

__John was so terribly insecure that it hurt. He just wanted one thing to be certain._ _

__Greg shook his head, rolling it slowly on the back of the sofa as he stared up at the ceiling._ _

__"I would never do that to you," he whispered, meaning that entirely. If John went to Mycroft's, he'd know what was happening. He could not imagine doing something like that to John without his consent._ _

__His breath was hitching terribly and he had given up any attempt at controlling himself. That he could even make John worry that he'd do something so terrible..."god I'm s-sorry," he whispered again, choking on the words._ _

__John spent the next ten minutes sobbing onto Greg's shoulder. When he gained enough composure to speak, his voice was rough. "Let's work this out then go back t-to happy," he pleaded._ _

__"Y-You tell me the things you're worried about, the things that make you sad, and the things that you're afraid of. Then I'll tell you the same and we'll work something out."_ _

__That tipped Greg right over the edge. He swore colorfully as he, in sharp contrast to his voice, very gently moved John back away from him. "We've done _this_!" he cried, tears a constant on his face, "we've been here, we've done this! We've made lists and I hurt you with mine! We've… _I'm making you go backwards!_ " _ _

__He raked trembling hands through his hair and dragged in a deep, struggling breath as he covered his face and leaned forward, rocking himself in an effort to calm down. They'd been happy, they'd been happy and then John had just left him and _fuck_ , it was wrong! "I am r-ruining e-everything!" _ _

__John nodded as his small attempt at moving forward with their lives was bashed to pieces. He kept his head down like a chastised child and his shoulders occasionally shook with a stray sob. "O-Okay. I'm s-sorry. I w-won't do it again." John wiped his face on his sleeve and stared at his own worthless hands._ _

__Greg tore at his hair before suddenly pushing himself to his feet. He made his way to the bedroom, snatching John's pills from the dresser before returning to the sitting room. He tipped out John's pain medication and his anti-anxiety pills as well, offering them over in a trembling hand._ _

__"I'm just scared," he whispered in a wavering pitch, "I'm not angry, I'm...I'm sad and...afraid and..." he shook his head, unable to finish, still holding out the pills for John to take._ _

__Terror washed over John like icy water when he heard the rattling of pills in the other room. When Greg came back he was shaking and took the medication willingly._ _

__"W-We can't be stuck here forever. W-We need to find a way to move on."_ _

__Greg watched John take the pills before he stood up and walked over to the kitchen. He grabbed himself a pint and walked back in, dropping down on the sofa and staring off at nothing as he cracked it open. He managed to spill much of it over his quaking hands, downing the entire bottle in one long pull. He got up again without saying a word, binned the bottle, and washed his hands._ _

__When he finally came back into the sitting room, no calmer, he simply nodded and spoke to the floor. "I'll go with you to Mycroft's."_ _

__"And you'll stay with me every second you want me to be alive," John snapped._ _

__Greg broke into tears once again, tossing his hands up into the air for a moment before raking his fingers back through his hair and pulling tight, sliding down the wall until his knees were folded in front of his chest and he dropped his forehead to them. He folded his elbows over his knees as well, hands still tight in his hair, succumbing to sobs as he fell apart._ _

__"I don't know...what...what you _want from me_ , John! I- god I-" he shouted into the hollow space his face was tucked down into, the sound muffled, tearing at his hair, "I'm _trying_!" _ _

__"I will tell you exactly what I want! I just want to stay with you and be loved. I want to stop hurting you, but that's my own deal. I want you to love me and not leave me and stay even if I'm difficult because I swear I'm trying. Just...All I want from you is _you_! I just want you to stay with me! That's all! Can you do that? Can you believe me when I say that you help me just by being here?" _ _

__John reached out and brushed his fingers through Greg's hair. "Please?"_ _

__Greg had not heard John get up to cross the room, was not paying any attention to how close John's voice was getting. He startled slightly as John reached out and touched him, through he otherwise remained with his back to the wall, down on his sitting room floor with his fingers firmly locked in his hair, sobbing with dwindling control._ _

__"You w-want me to be m-more than this! I...I don't h-have anything left! This isn't good enough for you...I...I w-want to stay with y-you but I...I...want to...I..." he tore at his hair and shook his head, loathing himself, "I l-love you. That's all I've got."_ _

__John slowly bent down and kissed the top of Greg's head. "I love you. You have so much left. You love me. You protect me. You keep me safe and I love you so very, very much. Loving me is enough. That's all I've ever needed. You love me, which is just what I need."_ _

__Greg stayed where he was for several minutes, long enough to get himself under control to the point that he could push himself up, standing there before John, pale, shaking, and in pain. "I...I h-have to go to bed," he whispered, not daring to look John in the eye, "I n-need to l-lie down."_ _

__"Okay," John whispered and helped him up. "I'll...can I lie down with you? I mean, I understand if y-you need some time away from me, b-but I'd l-like to be with you."_ _

__Greg wrapped a cold hand around John's and slowly made his way to the bedroom. His shoulders were rounded down, and he was nearly doubled by the time he got to the bed. He laid himself down and drew his burning arms to his chest, shivering and dragging the blankets up. Tears continuously slid down his face, dripping off his nose and splashing to the pillow._ _

__John sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his hand over Greg's hair. He hummed softly, something sweet and slow he couldn't quite remember the name of._ _

__"This will pass," John whispered. "Would you like something to help you sleep, love?"_ _

__Greg nodded as his breathing hitched like a child's. He stared down at one of his arms, tensing with anger at himself that he couldn't just kill himself properly. John would still be with Sherlock where he belonged. He was continuously the problem, always, _always_ it was him. He could not catch a proper breath, falling apart where he lay. There was no point in attempting to be calm or in control, he was neither of those things. He did not think for a moment that he could sleep, not as they were. "S-Sorry," he breathed._ _

__John walked over to the dresser and took out something to help Greg sleep. "It's alright, my love," he said softly and brushed his hair back again. John got into bed next to him and wrapped his poor, hurting Greg back up in his arms. "I love you. It's alright. I'm here. I'm always here."_ _

___Until you're not_ , Greg thought as John wrapped up around him. John would take off again soon, and he'd leave Greg there just as he was, and he wasn't even allowed to take himself out. This was all there was left for him, this endless loop of failure, abandonment, and suffering. The joy and progress from before were just smokescreens. None of it had been real, or ever would be real. As far as Greg was concerned, he had no reason to get out of bed ever again. _ _

__He took the pill in a trembling hand and swallowed it down dry, pulling back in on himself and simply allowing the tears to come._ _

__John was doing very, very well. He was keeping the stabbing guilt, the need to punish himself, and the need to beg for forgiveness at bay only by sheer force of will. He knew he was to blame for this, which looped back, making him think that perhaps he deserved what was given to him with Moriarty. He fought against that thought and strictly schooled his behavior to be loving, gentle, and kind. The need to do the right thing was alone the only reason he kept upright._ _

__"I love you. Thank you for everything you've done. You're wonderful."_ _

__Greg blocked out John's voice and turned as inward on himself as he could. He did not want false promises or praise ever again. He was anything but wonderful, and he'd done exactly fuckall for John._ _

__It took a few minutes, but soon enough he was drifting down into a rough, jittery sleep induced by the medication._ _

__When Greg was finally asleep, John slowly took himself out of his arms and got out of bed. He took a few steps towards the door before collapsing onto the floor. He dropped to his knees and doubled over in a picture of restrained agony. He rocked himself back and forth from his curled position and shuttered with the exertion it was taking to keep his mind in place._ _

___Look at what you're doing to him. Look at him! You're doing this! You're hurting him! Stupid John. Stupid fucking idiot. Always hurting people. You deserved it. You deserved all of it._ _ _

___But Greg doesn't think so. Sherlock doesn't think so. Mycroft doesn't think so. Didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve it_._ _

__"Didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve it. Didn't-" John broke down into tears and rocked himself, unaware of the passage of time as it slid by._ _

__Greg opened his eyes thirty minutes later as a repetitive sound finally tore him out of the induced rest. He shifted in the bed, very swiftly realizing that John was not there. He sat up swiftly in bed, head spinning and stars bursting along his vision._ _

__"John?!" he called out in a strangled, panicked voice. He looked down and saw John on the floor, curled around himself by the door, rocking and mumbling something. The drawer where they kept their medication was still open, and Greg's heart dropped to his toes._ _

__He jerked out of the bed and fell to the ground, moving swiftly to John's side where he looped an arm around John's middle and lifted him up, whimpering with pain that shot across his forearm._ _

__"John, what did you take? What did you take, John."_ _

__John yelped in surprise as someone touched him, then quickly held Greg close to his chest. "Nothing! Nothing! I didn't take anything!"_ _

__He made himself very small and retracted his arms to hold them across his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." John was quickly in a loop and muttered it continuously with tears streaking down his face._ _

__Greg wasn't buying it. He picked John up and carried him over to the bed, pulling his arms away from his chest, looking him over with panicked hands._ _

__"Don't do this, don't do this, I'm- I can't. I can't, John, god don't do this. What did you do? I'm not angry just tell me what you did, please, John god please, what happened? What happened?"_ _

__John began to cry as the stress of it overwhelmed him. "I-I didn't do anything! I-I-I'm fine!" He reached out for Greg like an injured child and his chest heaved. "I-I j-just w-was working...working on some things..."_ _

__Greg sat down next to John and pulled him into his lap. He trailed his fingers through John's hair, rocking him as he sat, crossed-legged with his chin on John's head. "What were you working on? What....you were on the floor, why were you on the floor? Why did you leave?"_ _

__"I didn't want t-to wake you up," John stammered in a voice too panicked. "I w-was trying to remember that...that...Oh, but I'm hurting you! I am!"_ _

__Greg could not stand this, not for another moment. He grabbed at John and pulled them down, under the blankets, lying with John tucked to his side, nearly under him but not quite. He dropped his face to John's shoulder and held tight, hooking a leg over John's hip, pulling him in close._ _

__"Calm down, John," he spoke through his tears, "calm d-down, just breathe. Breathe. I need you to calm down."_ _

__John wiggled under Greg and tucked his arms over his chest so he was completely shielded from whatever horrors the world had in store for him. His breathing slowly calmed and he grabbed fistfulls of Greg's shirt to keep anchored. "H-H-Hurt y-you," he whimpered._ _

__Greg kept John as wrapped up as he could, ignoring the terrible burn from his arms, the pulsing fire that raced up his elbows. He carded his fingers through John's hair and tried to breathe with him, shivering from head to toe, so close to the breaking point he was nearly sick with it._ _

__"Breathe," he kept repeating, doing his best to help John keep himself calm. "Breathe, just breathe."_ _

__John wanted to die. He did not want to stop living, or leave Greg, but he felt that he deserved it. He could not handle this anymore; the crushing guilt, the pain, the fear that it wouldn't get any better. But Greg would be devastated. He couldn't do that to his Greg._ _

__"O-Okay," he whispered. "I-I'm o-o-okay."_ _

__Greg shifted so that he could put his weight on his side, the pain in his arms growing too sharp to ignore. He pulled John to his chest and began to rub his back, "I love you," he whispered, starting to work at the muscles of John's neck._ _

__"I love you and somehow we'll...we'll figure...something out," he trailed off, wishing he had more optimism. He'd nearly brought up the day they'd had cake, but that had been acting on John's part. He drew in a slow, sad breath and carried on working at John's muscles for as long as he could endure using his arms._ _

__"John...have I...ever done anything that made you feel...anything good?"_ _

__"Yes! Every day! When I-I wake up and you're there I feel good. You showed me how I could eat food and not be hurt for it and now I eat breakfast and cake. You showed me the birds and I got to hold a wild one. You play cards with me and protected me while I was outside until I learned it was safe. You help me sleep, you help me walk, you carry me, you love me, you showed me that I was loved, you told me I didn't deserve pain...You've always made me feel good."_ _

__John didn't know how he could possibly have failed to show it._ _

__Greg tipped his head down to John's shoulder, breaking down as John spoke. He gathered him closer and buried his face against John, dissolving back into quiet tears, clutching John to him._ _

__"You said you always f-feel guilty with me and then you left me begging on the floor. I thought...I don't...you were smiling and happy and then you left me...I...why are you telling me that I only make you feel guilty?"_ _

__"Not only! Not only! I promise! You're wonderful!" John wept openly and shook his head._ _

__"It's only when I-I do something wrong that it hurts! Me! My fault! This is all m-my fault! We were s-so happy a few days ago and I-I want that to come back!"_ _

__That could not be the answer. John had told him that _Greg_ made him feel as though he deserved to be hurt, that _Greg_ made him feel guilty and deserving of pain. Greg had been making mistakes, and John had left him because of it. _ _

__"But...but you...you left me...you had to go away from _me_ to get better. I- I don't understand, I don't understand! You said I only make you feel-" he choked off, anguished from the hours and hours he'd spent with the knowledge that all he'd done was harm John. _ _

__"I loved you, I still love you, I've...I don't know when you were actually happy and when you were faking, I don't know how to help you like I thought I did."_ _

__"I wasn't pretending to be happy," John returned._ _

__"Sometimes I pretend like I'm not sad when I think it will hurt you, but I never faked happiness. You always make me happy. I just...I feel guilty when I'm around you sometimes -not because of you- but because that is what I do. I feel guilty around Sherlock too. I feel the most guilty about hurting you because I love you the most. I don't give a shit about Paul. But you? I feel sad sometimes because I see what I've done to you."_ _

__Greg could not understand. He'd been punished for feeling sad, then. Which meant John would soon be taking off yet again. He shuddered and pulled John closer._ _

__"I don't m-mean to be sad! Please...I'm _trying_ , I'm trying. I know I have no right to feel sad, I know I don't. I...I am sorry, I really am sorry."_ _

__"You have every right to feel sad! That's why I had to go away! I needed to learn how to deal with the guilt in a place where I could see it reasonably and not be hurting you while I tried. I'm getting better, but I need to keep working on it so it doesn't hurt me. I know it's wrong. I know I'm being stupid and d-difficult and bad."_ _

__John slowly curled his hands into fists and pressed his fingernails into his thumb. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."_ _

__Greg's lip trembled and he nodded, slowly letting John go. He was already leaving again._ _

__"I..I didn't mean to..." _to what, Greg? Just shut up and let him go_. _ _

__"I...I'll be here if you want to come back. I'm s-" his voice cracked and he covered his face, willing himself to fall back asleep, to pass out, something, _anything_ other that watching John go away again. "I'm so sorry." _ _

__"Okay. Okay." John made it very clear that he was not going to go anywhere. He wrapped his arms around Greg's waist and tangled his legs up in his. He closed his eyes tight and was as still as he possibly could be._ _

__Greg remained just as still, unsure of what was going on. He closed his eyes, hands shaking from the pain twisting up his arms, and held tight to John._ _

__Would Mycroft be coming to collect him? Or would it be Paul again? The thought tore a whimper out of Greg and he burrowed down against John harder, clutching at him._ _

__"Please," he whispered, feeling himself cracking apart, "please don't leave me again, please."_ _

__"I won't leave you," John stammered. "I promise. I'm here. I promise. I won't go anywhere. Will you do me a favor? Please?" John reached up and brushed Greg's cheek. "Just one little thing."_ _

__Greg let loose a sound of relief and shuddered as he held John to him, a weight falling away from him as John promised he'd not be leaving. He nodded as John asked him to do something._ _

__"Anything," Greg breathed, nearly delirious with exhaustion and stress. He was overcome with violent tremoring, reaching the very edge of what he could tolerate, clinging to John for dear life._ _

__"Can we work on this? Can we be open and talk about this until it goes away? I'd like to be happy again soon." John asked so innocently, so pleadingly that he sounded very young all of a sudden. He just wanted this to be over. If there wasn't an end in sight, he would surely go mad._ _

__Greg's expression crumpled and he nodded, "Yeah, okay, okay John we...we can work on it. Anything...anything you n-need we can work on it."_ _

__John bit down on his lip when Greg's expression changed. "I'm sorry! Was that wrong? Was that bad? I just...I just want to be happy again!”_ _

__Greg shook his head and tried to speak through his choking panic. "I- no, I'm sorry I...I'm just afraid I'll...I'll mess up and-" he scrubbed a hand across his face, trying to clear away some of his grief, "I'm...no that wasn't wrong."_ _

__"Y-You're afraid you're going to mess up and I'll leave," John said in question. "I won't. No matter what happens as result of our talks, I will not leave. I promise you that."_ _

__Greg shook his head, keeping his eyes away from John. That wasn't a truth, not at all. If he messed up, John would leave. He did before and he would again. He blinked up at the ceiling and drew in several sharp, stuttering breaths._ _

__"I w-won't," John insisted. "I didn't know you'd try and die! I didn't know! I-I'll never leave again!" And of that, John was certain. No matter what others suggested. No matter what was good for him._ _

__Greg looked back down at John, heavy tears sliding down his face. "I- John I didn't...do this to...get back at you. I- it's hard to explain, it's hard to explain but I swear that's not...I wasn't trying to hurt you or...I honestly believed you were not coming back."_ _

__"You could have called," John whispered. "I don't like...I...I d-don't like being left behind, alright? I hate it. First the war, then he jumped, then...then Mary and...and my baby girl..." John's breath hitched and he covered his face. "Then I-I got left with M-Moriarty on my own, and...Just please d-don't leave me behind."_ _

__Greg shook his head, surprised to hear John speak of his wife and child. "I wasn't leaving you behind. I kknew I'd worn out my use, and that you...you'd not be coming back. I wasn't leaving you behind."_ _

__He reached out and slid his fingers through John's hair, frowning at how red his bandages were. "I wasn't leaving you."_ _

__John had his face hidden from Greg and did not look back up. "No. I promise I will never leave you again. I-I didn't know. I thought you understood what I was doing."_ _

__Greg withdrew his hand when John did not look up. He dropped his eyes away himself, raking a hand back through his hair._ _

__"I...I was panicking. I've been trying to prepare myself f-for when...you decide to leave and I thought it was happening. I...it was the best thing for you. I couldn't...do this alone anymore and...and I thought...the wrong..." he bit off his words, shuddering and closing his eyes._ _

__This was exactly why John should never have come back to him, he was more damaged goods than help. What could he hope to do for John now?_ _

__"Greg, will you do something for me? Something that will help my progress very, very much?"_ _

__John took Greg's hands and looked him in the eyes to show him how serious he was._ _

__"It will make all this forgiven and in the past."_ _

__Greg was nodding before John finished talking, watching him and holding his breath. "Yes, anything. Anything."_ _

__"I would like to be a bit more open about...everything. We won't hide how we're feeling anymore. I know that scares you. No point in hiding it. Also, I'd like to start trying new, pleasant things to make the recovery time go by better. We can try...I don't know. We could play catch. We could learn more than one card game. I'd like to just try and improve things for you, and for me. You've been doing beautifully, but I'd like to do things that make you happy as well." John gave a small smile and kissed the corner of Greg's mouth._ _

__"We can move on from this."_ _

__Greg wanted to back pedal immediately. Letting John see any of his feelings had resulted in this. If he'd been able to keep better control of himself, he'd never have lost John. Even in that moment, he was sure John had only returned because John was addicted to comfort, and Greg was comfortable. It had nothing to do with Greg himself._ _

__He dropped his eyes away just before closing them._ _

__"I- that-" he cleared his throat, "you never have to hide how you're feeling around me, John. We can play whatever card games you want. I'll...I'm sorry, I'll cook more things for you, you didn't want other things before and I was scaring- that was stupid, I should have been giving you more choices I'll-" his voice began to shake and he looked everywhere but John, crippled by the perceived criticism._ _

___Stupid Greg, just bloody stupid. You're boring him, you're not doing this right. Idiot. You'll ruin your second -no, more like your fifth- chance._ _ _

__A flash of memory, the way his skin parted like butter, the pain in direct contrast with the easy visual, blinked across his mind and he hated himself for not managing it. "I'll do better."_ _

__John shook his head and tsked gently. "It's not about you doing better, love. It's about us working together to make a better life for ourselves. You can't carry me entirely, though you have done a brilliant job of doing so. I would feel better if I can he of service to you because I love you so very, very much. Let's work together. It doesn't all have to fall on your shoulders. You've been so strong for so long."_ _

__Greg's lip trembled as he lay there, stuck in his floundering of what to do._ _

___I don't like it when John traps me._ _ _

__He whimpered and then forced himself to meet John's eye, only able to hold it for a moment. "I'm...that's my job though...what....good am I if you're having to care for me too?"_ _

__John sat up a bit and hugged Greg in a way that was mutual. "Who's holding who? Who is comforting who?"_ _

__As he fell apart, a high, keening whine of pain slipped from Greg, trailed by chopped, stomach-curling sobs. The embrace was overwhelming, snapping the thread of his final effort at composure. He tipped his head down to John's shoulder as his grief poured out of him. He felt as though he were losing hold of his soul, such was the wash of grief. The dams broke, and in John's arms, Greg finally gave voice to the anguish he'd been suffering for years._ _

__John kept himself calm. _I'm not hurting him. I'm not hurting him. I didn't deserve it. I'm not doing anything wrong. This is just sadness._ _ _

__He forced the words to become his reality and rubbed Greg's back as he cried. "It's alright," he whispered. "You can let it out. It's safe. You're safe."_ _

__Greg had no concept of time as he gave in to the worst of it. When his breathing began to even out, and the tears at last slowing, he was left nearly limp and shaking in John's arms._ _

__"I'm sorry," he breathed, over and over, too exhausted to berate himself for such a display. There was a strange, hollow feeling of emptiness, leaving him dry and numb. "I'm sorry."_ _

__John kept his face down and his voice calm. "It's alright," he whispered in a very small voice. "I'm here, and I love you. It's safe to be sad. You can lean on me."_ _

__Greg slowly calmed, quiet and lax against John. He felt supremely ill, shivering intermittently. He went down to his side after he realized he was allowing John to shoulder his weight._ _

__"I'm s-s-sorry," he whispered through chattering teeth, guarding his arms, "y-you don't need this."_ _

__"You've carried me for so long," John responded quietly. "It's time for you to rest. I'm strong enough now, thanks to you. You can lean on me."_ _

__Greg closed his eyes, breathing slow and shallow. John was being incredibly kind to him, and he was having a difficult time understanding why. "Can I have...something for pain?" he whispered, running a thumb over the thick layer of blood that had soaked into his bandages. He was in sharp pain, had been for some time, but now he was too exhausted to endure it._ _

__"Yes, of course. Please let me wrap them again too. I understand how badly these things hurt. It might be easier if you sleep after this." John slowly leaned Greg down onto the couch and fetched the pills for pain and the bandages. "Can I have your arm? I'll be careful, I swear."_ _

__Greg offered his arms without a fight, palms to the ceiling, fingers shaking. He watched John in a blur, blinking heavy and slow. "I don't know how you...how you endured..." he licked his lip, dizzy and disconnected, "you're the strongest man I know. I..I'm lucky to know you. I wish I could have c-carried you longer."_ _

__His forearms were throbbing with each beat of his heart, the severed nerve endings screaming as though touched with fire. It was nothing compared to what John had been put through, and instead of soft hands and clean bandages, Moran and Moriarty had used such massive wounds to inflict continuous pain. It was incomprehensible what John had endured, and now Greg was laying there, allowing that very man to care for him._ _

__"I'm sorry, this isn't f-fair."_ _

__John was terrified while he changed the bandages. He saw the wound and the blood and the pain he knew it was causing Greg, and it was enough to stir panic in his breast like leaves caught up by the wind. But he couldn't break down now. He couldn't afford to._ _

__"I've had a lot of pain, but that doesn't mean your pain is any less. You're hurting now, and I'm not. It's only right that I should take care of you."_ _

__Greg was gritting his teeth as John worked, doing his best not to let on to how much it hurt. Tears began to slowly drip down his face and he curled his trembling fingers to fists._ _

__"P-Paul could do this," Greg whispered with his eyes pinched shut, his stomach turning as pain began to get the better of him. "You don't have to."_ _

__"I have to learn to be around such things eventually," John said in a small voice. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and John had to focus on keeping his fingers steady._ _

__"I love you. You've given me so much. I like being allowed to help you. It makes me feel useful."_ _

__Greg watched gold stars dance along the edges of his vision as John worked. His fingers were freezing and his arms so hot he could hardly stand them. It took all he had not to black out, his stomach twisting as sweat beaded up on his brow._ _

__"I don't feel well," he whispered, blinking in a blur towards John as his arms were wrapped. "I...I think I m-might be...be sick," the color had drained from his face and his ears ringing in a shrill tone._ _

__How he hated being like this in front of John. He should be cradling the man, taking care of him and not the other way around. "So sorry, I'm so sorry."_ _

__"It's alright," John continued. "I understand. Cuts are bad. It's beyond the pain. It feels terrible. How much blood did you lose before?"_ _

__He stood and got the bin just in case Greg was sick, and took the man's shoulders in his hands. "Do you need me to call Miller?"_ _

__Greg looked up at John, head pounding, licking his lip as his vision slid in and out of focus. "I don't know," he whispered as a general answer. He pulled his wrapped arms back to him, "Can I just have something for pain? I'll sleep, I'm okay," he assured, reaching for the blanket, shivering where he lay._ _

__"You just had something for pain, love." John pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and knelt down in front of the couch. "These things hurt. I know. But it will be alright. There will be no more of them. No more cutting. You'll be allowed to heal. You'll be given medicine. Eventually these will go away." They were things that he would find incredibly comforting, but that most people would likely just take for granted._ _

__Greg closed his eyes, reaching out for John and trying to pull him onto the sofa. He recognized the language John was using, knowing how much those words had meant to him before. Greg gathered John in as close as he could and whispered against the side of John's head. "Thank you, thank you, John. Thank you," pushing as much gratitude into the words as possible. He needed John to know that he at least deeply appreciated the kindness and care._ _

__John nodded and his breath hitched._ _

__"Nobody is going to hurt you ever again. I'll protect you. You can heal and there will be no more cuts. These are the last. No more. You can heal and then it's over. You'll be safe."_ _

__John kept his eyes closed and his face tucked between Greg and the couch. "I'll be here to make sure nobody hurts you. You won't be alone."_ _

__Greg nodded, listening to John speak the words John had so obviously longed to hear in his time in captivity. He ran his thumb over the back of John's neck, trying to soothe him, quietly crying against the side of John's head. He was not even in the shadow of the level of pain John had felt, and even now the words were welcome._ _

__"I love you," he whispered, swallowing hard._ _

__John let out a sad breath and leaned heavily into Greg's touch. "I-I love you too." He realized then what he'd done. He'd left Greg alone, he'd abandoned him, and he'd been cut in the process. It didn't matter who had done it. The situation was all so familiar._ _

__"I-I won't abandon you," John insisted. "I-I'll always come for you."_ _

__Greg pulled gently at John. "Please come up here with me," he whispered, tugging at John's shirt. "I want to hold you, can I hold you?"_ _

__John nodded and crawled up into Greg's arms. "I shouldn't have left you," he whimpered. "I abandoned you and you were cut. I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."_ _

__Greg shook his head as he wrapped John in his arms. "No one hurt me, John. I did that to myself. You did not cause this, I...I was being an idiot. Please don't blame yourself. I love you. Please don't put this on yourself."_ _

__"I know it w-was you. I know. I-I know how b-bad it h-h-hurts t-to have to cut yourself open. It's b-b-bad. And there's a-always something worse if you don't and this t-time I-I was the one who pushed you t-to hurt yourself. I did that."_ _

__John kept his eyes closed and listened to Greg's heart until another sound filled his mind._ _

___Just like I said you would, pet.  
I said you would hurt people. Look at you now, making your friends carve their own flesh. I'm proud of you. You're doing so well._ _ _

__John shook his head and abruptly clutched Greg's shirt. He could handle this. He would handle this._ _

__"H-He said- M-Moriarty s-said that he's proud of m-me...p-pet...b-because I-I'm m-making m-my friends c-c-c-ca-carve themselves."_ _

__Greg shook his head and took John's face in his hands. "I wasn't carving myself. I wasn't punishing myself. I thought my work was done, that's all. You did not make me do anything. I simply thought my time was over, that's all." He shoved the sharp spike of guilt to the side, focusing all his attention on John._ _

__"It was not the same as when you were made to hurt yourself, John. There was no threat. I was just trying to send myself away. You are not responsible for this."_ _

__John kept his eyes on Greg and moved his hands to cover his ears. It did nothing to help when Moriarty's voice was persistent, but it was comforting nonetheless. "I-I l-love you," he whimpered pitifully. "I p-promise I'm t-trying not t-to hurt you. I promise."_ _

__Greg pulled John's hands from his ears and shifted so that John's head was pressed over Greg's chest, allowing him to cover John's other ear with his hand. He spoke low and deep, trying to override the voices in his head._ _

__"I love you, you didn't do anything wrong. I love you and you are safe. You are not hurting m-me. I'm just tired. Everything is okay."_ _

__He carried on with his assurances, doing what he could to calm John down._ _

__John slowly began to calm and thought to himself that it was now very important to show Greg that his comfort was effective, as he'd said so many times recently that it was not. John nuzzled down on Greg and gradually let the tension bleed from his muscles._ _

__"Okay," he whispered. "I-I'm o-okay. Thank you."_ _

__Greg kept rubbing John's back, struggling to keep from blacking out. He relaxed along with John as the tension bled away, glad to feel him settling._ _

__"Thank you for telling...me what...you were...hearing," he whispered. "I...I am sorry you are still struggling with...with that, it's...not fair." He was taking deep, exaggerated breaths to keep calm and conscious._ _

__"I hate 'pet'," John admitted quietly. "N-Never a g-good thing when h-he starts c-calling me p-pet."_ _

__Tension holds energy, and once it was released John lost both together. His eyes drooped closed and he wrapped his fingers in the neck of Greg's shirt for something to hold on to._ _

__Greg tightened his hold on John and shook his head. "You are no one's pet, John. Not ever. Not _ever_." _ _

__He carded his hands through John's hair, determined to carry on comforting him as he could. "I love you, just rest. You are safe and he is gone. You are still here."_ _

__

__John eventually allowed himself to let go of the topic and held more tightly to Greg. "C-Can we sleep? Please? I d-don't feel well."  
Greg nodded and carried on trailing his fingers through John's hair, doing what he could to soothe him. "Rest, everything is okay," he whispered in assurance._ _

__John dropped off to sleep after about ten minutes of quiet rest and his head rolled to the side. He looked peaceful in sleep, if one could ignore the damp lashes, the small scars around the sides of his face, and the salt tracks still trying down his cheeks._ _

__Greg waited until John was well and down for several minutes before he texted Mycroft again._ _

___Much as I think he would do better with you, I have to stay with him. I will likely move us to your home soon._ _ _

__Mycroft leaned over and grabbed his phone. He was stressed about this entire situation._ _

___Alright, I will speak with Sherlock about the matter. I don't wish to do anything without his input._ _ _

__Sherlock stirred, mumbling under his breath. "Is h-he alright?" He whispered, worried for John, "what's...what's happening?"_ _

__"He's fine," Mycroft reassured. "Absolutely fine. Greg was just wondering if the two of them would be able to stay here for a bit. They would like to be able to see you more often, if that is alright with you. It is up to you, though. You can say yes, and you can say no."_ _

__Sherlock stared at his brother, searching for any deception he might be missing. John was so eager to leave...only...insistent that Sherlock accept he was coming back. He studied Mycroft with open suspicion. "He...w-wants to come here. The t-two of th-them?"_ _

__He looked away and stared across the room. "He...h-he...was sc-scared. What's h-happened to Greg?"_ _

__"Greg is...Greg is weary. Absolutely weary. He's run down and tired. He can't support John on his own anymore, and it is time to start transitioning John partially to you."_ _

__Mycroft thought it sounded a bit blunt, but Sherlock might be able to process things better without having to strip off the sugar coating._ _

__Sherlock took a moment to consider that. "John d-doesn't want m-me," he said in as matter-of-fact tone as he could muster, trying to mirror his brother's deadpan delivery, leaving emotion out of it._ _

__"H-He wants G-Greg. He does not even care to have a causal relationship w-with me. I...I cannot support John, wh-what good could I possibly do?"_ _

__"You helped him before," Mycroft offered. "It won't be so bad. We'll go slow. He can have Greg and you. Humans generally tend to need more than one relationship in their lives to function properly."_ _

__Sherlock shook his head and looked away, "I d-didn't help him...I didn't help him at a-all. He...the relief when Greg came to take him a-away. He does not l-like it here. Tell Paul to do his job b-better."_ _

__"If you don't wish them to be in the house, I will tell Greg. But I think it is in their better health if you allowed it." Mycroft tried to be gentle, but he honestly could not see a happy long term future for Sherlock without John in it.  
Sherlock flinched and looked down at his mangled hands, worrying the inside of his lip. He now could not refuse, closing his eyes and nodding to his brother. If it was in John's best interest, then he'd endure. _ _

__"Okay," he whispered, drawing his limbs in closer. How was he going to adjust to this, knowing John was in the same house again?_ _

__"Will...how often will I be expected t-to...d-daily? M-more?"_ _

__"Only when you want to," Mycroft insisted. "He just needs my support for now. Greg, that is. John is doing much better. If you want to see him, and he wants to see you, then you can. If not, he'll stay away."_ _

__Sherlock dashed his hand across his face as the tears came, quiet and without his consent. He did his best to hide his trembling hands and glanced over at Jared before looking back at Mycroft. He kept his head down, curling up to make himself small._ _

__"He..." his throat began to swell up on him and he was having a very hard time keeping himself rational and present, "if...if h-he sees..." he shook his head and looked back to Jared, watching Jared's face before looking away._ _

__Perhaps the man had told Mycroft this was too much, too unpleasant of a job, and Mycroft was reacting to that situation. His voice was directed to the man who he had accepted would be his aid, small and very sad._ _

__"H-Have you already put in your notice?"_ _

__Jared shook his head. "I'd like to stay, if that is alright with you."_ _

__Mycroft leaned over and held Sherlock to his chest. "It's okay, 'Lock. We all want to help you. I promise. If there is anything I can do for you, just tell me. We all want to help."_ _

__Sherlock held himself quiet for several minutes, forcing himself to imagine John living in the same house right in that moment. He whimpered in distress, drawing his fingers up to his mouth and chewing on the tips of them. John had become extremely unpredictable, sometimes angry and demanding, sometimes frightened and childlike, always wanting more than Sherlock could ever hope to offer him. Every single time Sherlock was with John, since his return, John left him exhausted, confused, and grieving._ _

__"I d-don't know how to h-h-help him! He hates me, I don't know wh-what you w-want me to do!"_ _

__Panic was beginning to claw at the inside of his chest. He hadn't healed fast enough. He still wasn't eating, or walking, or...anything, really. He wasn't anything. And John would see and John would be disgusted with him. Tears shot down his face as he bit so hard at his hands that he split the raw skin on his fingertips, making them bleed._ _

__"Please stop that," Mycroft almost begged and took Sherlock's hands away from his mouth. "Please, no more pain. I'll tell John no. I'll tell them no, if that would be easier for you. I just don't know what you want, 'Lock. If I did, then I would give it to you."_ _

__Sherlock shook his head, tugging at his hands momentarily for want of some way to soothe himself._ _

__"I...I can't tell him no! I can't! He...th-this is all my fault and h-he n-needs...I c-can't s-say no! I-" a harsh sob choked off his words and his eyes darted swiftly around the room in his panic, "t-tell me what h-h-he n-needs me to do. I d-don't know h-h-how to help him. I...h-he'll b-be _disgusted_ w-with me when he s-sees...when he r-realizes..." he pinched his eyes closed, pressing closer to Mycroft as his breathing kicked up. _ _

__"He won't be disgusted," Mycroft reassured. "I swear it. He just saw you not two days ago, remember? He wasn't disgusted with you. He was sad, but he was sad before. He was glad to see you. He wanted to come back."_ _

__Mycroft started thinking of possible ways to reunite them, but he'd not accounted for Sherlock not wanting John._ _

__Sherlock shook his head, trying to speak over the panic churning in his gut._ _

__"H-H-He w-was distracted....he was frightened and missing G-Greg....he...I...I w-want..." he started to draw his throbbing fingers back to his mouth before remembering Mycroft's request, stopping before they reached his lips._ _

__"Okay. If you do not wish to see him, that is alright. But how about we simply make our own progress instead? We can do a bit more therapy with Miller, work on your motion, and see if we can't get you in a chair to go visit him more often."_ _

__Mycroft held Sherlock's hands to keep him from mutilating them._ _

__Sherlock shook his head, frustrated with Mycroft for not understanding. "I- s-stop s-saying that I don't want to see him! I- I w-want...he...that's _J-John_ and I killed him and he was m-my only-" he snapped his jaw shut and leaned back against his pillows, the strength draining out of him. _ _

__The idea of returning to life as it had been before being left at the hospital was horrific. John was going to start popping in, demanding things Sherlock could not give, and then leaving in screaming, panicked tears._ _

___'Don't be so morose, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you.'_ _ _

__Sherlock's head snapped up and his focus moved sharply across the room, staring with grinding panic at the corner where Moran stood, leaning casually on an iron bar. Sherlock shrank back, fixated on the man and nearly forgetting his brother. He did not speak, only watching the threat in the room._ _

__"Sherlock?" Mycroft reached out and turned Sherlock's head to face him. "What is it? What do you see?"_ _

__Stupid question._ _

__"It isn't real. I'm here. This is real. I am real. Could you tell me some other things that are real?"_ _

__Sherlock wrenched his head out of Mycroft's hands, immediately returning his focus to the threat in the room. He had to see him, had to be prepared._ _

__"John is g-g-going to start screaming again," he whispered, watching the details slowly form on Moran's face, "h-he...he is always screaming and...I m-make him cry. It's...he'll be back here and he's going to b-begme and I won't be able to do anything about it."_ _

__Moran grinned at him, wolfish and pleased, nodding to Sherlock as he spoke.  
"No, that won't be how it happens," Mycroft insisted again. _ _

__"I promise. I won't let that happen. I'll help you, and I'll help him. I swear. Moran isn't there. I'm real. I'm real and he is not. No screaming. John isn't coming today. No screaming."_ _

__His brother's voice sounded very far away. He kept his eyes on Moran, breathing slightly faster than before._ _

__"M-My," he whispered, reaching blindly to his side, clutching at Mycroft's shirt as his bloody fingers found the material. "M-M-My help...help I- I'm sorry, I won't b-be difficult...please I-" he blinked, and in the next moment Moran was directly next to him, lording over the side of the bed._ _

__Sherlock's heart seized up in his throat, stopping breathing all together before it slammed into hyper drive. In the next moment Sherlock was _screaming_ , scrambling back from the side of the bed in blind terror. _ _

__Like clockwork, Jared went to draw up a tranquilizer and Mycroft wrapped himself around Sherlock. "It's alright," he shouted, voice loud and calm. "I've got you. It isn't real. I'm My, your big brother, and I'm here to protect you. Everything is alright! I've got you!"_ _

__A body was suddenly around him, warm and restricting, making Sherlock's stomach roll. He froze for a split second before fighting against Mycroft with all he had, not understanding anything beyond the threat of Moran._ _

__"NO," he managed in a strangled scream, twisting and doing his best to get away, pacemaker constantly working to keep his heart beating properly as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He couldn't handle this again, not again, _please not again.__ _

__As he'd done in the last weeks of his captivity, he began to scream for his brother, sobbing Mycroft's name as he fought against the arms circling him._ _

__Mycroft hated this part. He hated it when he had to hold on even when Sherlock thought him a rapist. He hated the way he squirmed to defend himself and hid his most intimate places. Mycroft dropped his head down and held on though, because Sherlock would hurt himself, and he needed to get the sedative in him._ _

__"It's ME! I'm HERE! Mycroft! MY! MY! I'm here! I'm right here!"_ _

__Moran's voice churned up around Sherlock as he felt liquid fear dripping down his spine. He fought with all he had, giving struggle as sweat beaded up along his brow and slicked his curls to his forehead._ _

__When the swift pull of a sedative finally began to drain the strength out of his body, Sherlock slowly went limp, sobbing pathetically in anticipation. "Please," he whispered, his voice like a child's, catching on hitching breaths, "pl-lease."_ _

__Mycroft pulled away from Sherlock once he went limp and sat at the very edge of the bed. It always hurt the most when Sherlock thought he was going to sexually abuse him. Mycroft was sick to his stomach and sat, worried eyes on Sherlock and hands clasped together._ _

__"I'm here," he tried again. "Right here."_ _

__For several minutes, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused and dazed. He pulled into his mind, running along the path that was so overgrown that it was difficult to navigate. He stared at the rotting house, realizing with a shock that the front door was nowhere to be found. The sky churned as it always did, but the front of the structure had fallen in on itself._ _

__He could not hide._ _

__"I...I c-could..." he licked his trembling lip, tears falling fast and heavy. How he loathed this. "pl-l-lea-se...n-not...not l-like th-this," he whispered to Moran, reaching down and taking hold of the waist of his trousers, holding on with all he had left. He whimpered in defeat and made it clear he was not going to clench his teeth together, hoping to avoid the searing pain of what he found to be a much worse assault._ _

___Oh, hell_. Mycroft turned his face away abruptly and lost hold of a choked sob. _ _

__"Sherlock, no," he cried. "Not that at all! I promise! Never that ever again. I promise. I swear. Please stop. Please look at me. You don't...close your mouth, Sherlock, please, I won't-"_ _

__He took a step back and away from the bed, towards the dresser. He got a pair of headphones and plugged them into his phone before carefully putting them on Sherlock with classical music playing._ _

__Sherlock went very still as the music began to play. It was quiet and calm, nothing at all like the chaos he'd been expecting. His jaw slowly relaxed, allowing his teeth to come together naturally. Close to fifteen minutes slid by before he tentatively began to accept that Moran wasn't interested, which was fine by Sherlock. He would gladly take other pain to avoid this._ _

__"M-My," he breathed in quiet fear, longing for relief. He had no awareness that his brother was nearby, only aware of Moran and a cloying, shivering cold. He broke down quietly, listening to Moran mock him for his want of his brother._ _

___'Calling for big brother is only a shade less humiliating than screaming for your mother. Come now, Sherlock, I expected more from you.'_ _ _

__Sherlock tested his hands, finding them free. that reality was both relieving and deeply troubling. Moran liked a fight, and his hands were often unbound when he entertained himself. "My-y...My..."_ _

__Mycroft slowly reached out and touched Sherlock's shoulder with just the tips of his fingers. I'm here, he tapped: _Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft.__ _

__Sherlock's eyes focused as Mycroft's name became obvious, the urge to fight flaring back to life with the hope of backup._ _

__"MY!" He screamed again, tearing the headphones off and struggling to sit up, "MY! HELP!"_ _

__Mycroft wasn't sure if Sherlock recognized him yet, and he leaned over to look him in the eyes. "I'm here! It's me! I love you, little 'Lock. Please remember me."_ _

__Sherlock nearly bowled his brother over, crashing hard into him as he wrapped his arms around Mycroft's back, fingers pulling at Mycroft's shirt as he burrowed against Mycroft's chest._ _

__"M-MY! MY! H-HELP, PLEASE!" His heart was racing out of his chest, ears full of Moran's voice and his own hammering pulse._ _

__"Okay," Mycroft breathed as heavy relief that Sherlock _knew him_ attempted to steal his breath. _ _

__"I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." He picked Sherlock up completely and sat down on the bed so his knees would keep his baby brother in, making a protective shell around him._ _

__Sherlock covered his head as he screamed, curled in a ball against Mycroft's chest. His breathing was wild and panicked, fingers tearing at his hair as he tried to cover his ears, muscles locked up tight._ _

__Mycroft rocked him back and forth with gentle movements and kind words._ _

__"It's okay, little 'Lock. It's okay." There were tears in his own eyes and he wondered what sort of man would rape and torture someone so brutally that this was the outcome. How could someone be aroused by this?_ _

__"I'll protect you," Mycroft promised. "I will always protect you."_ _

___an't hide, poppet, can't hide. Can't hide from me. Come out, come play. I'm bored, entertain me._ _ _

__Sherlock screamed again, the sound cracking in his throat, back shaking as he gave voice to his fear. He became aware of a voice and a heartbeat so close he was touching the body of someone else, his scattered mind struggling to to function in any sort of linear fashion._ _

__"NO! _N-NO!"__ _

___He shouted in panicked rage, suddenly aware that he was in someone's _lap_. He grabbed at his trousers as his stomach kicked on him, making him gag before he could catch himself. _ _ _

___"S-STOP! HELP! MY! _MYYY_! No, god don't! D-Don't! STOP!" Phantom fingers clawed at him, pulling at his clothes as Moran laughed behind him. Sherlock caught hold of the tube connected to his nose, tearing at that as he pulled violently at the material of Mycroft's shirt, in a blind panic to get away, to escape, all higher functions ground down to nothing._ _ _

___Mycroft didn't know where he stood in Sherlock's mind, or who he was, or what Sherlock thought his intentions were. "I'm My! I'm My! I won't hurt you!" He let go anyhow and raised his hands, only to reach out again and pry Sherlock's fingers away from the tube in his nose. "Stop! Sherlock, I'm here! I'm My!"_ _ _

___Sherlock felt his hands being taken and he went very still. Typically he was grabbed at the wrists, scruffed at the back of the neck and shoved down into whatever position Moran felt like. This was different. The grip was firm but not bruising, and he'd yet feel fists driving into him. He forced himself to open his eyes as sweat ran down his face._ _ _

___Wide, panicked eyes scanned his surroundings until they landed on Mycroft. He stared at his brother for several seconds, waiting for him to dissolve or morph into Moran. Only, that never happened. He shuddered and then reached out, touching Mycroft's face._ _ _

___In the next moment, he dissolved into tears. He stared at his surroundings, the concrete and bloodied steel fading away, leaving only Mycroft's bedsit, Jared off in the background._ _ _

___"M-My," he whispered, whining in pain for a moment before resting his head down on Mycroft's shoulder, "I...I g-got lost."_ _ _

___"Oh, thank God," Mycroft exclaimed and wrapped his arms around Sherock. "It's alright. You're here. You're back. I've got you. It's alright. I've got you." He rocked back and forth and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, where he lingered with his eyes closed._ _ _

___"I've got you. It's alright. I'm so sorry."_ _ _

___Sherlock remained in frightened, pathetic tears long after he realized where he was and who had him, continuing to guard himself in reaction to memory that left him in physical pain._ _ _

___"H-He...s-so much p-pain, always pain...I am s-so tired..."_ _ _

___"I'm so sorry," Mycroft responded. "I love you so much. I will never let anyone hurt you ever, ever again. I love you. I've got you. You're wonderful. I've got you. Is there anything I can do to help you?"_ _ _

___Sherlock was wrapped up in phantom body pain, healed wounds breathed back to life and thrumming liquid pain through his veins. He grit his teeth, staring unblinking, tears streaming down his face as his breathing sharply increased, wild and panicked. He clutched at Mycroft in a blanched, terrified grip._ _ _

___"Pl-le-ease l-let m-m-me...m-medicine...pl-lease...h-hurts, it h-h-h-urts, M-My."_ _ _

___Mycroft nodded to Jared and gently held Sherlock's hand. "No pain. Just let me hold your hand still for a moment. You're doing so well. You recovered from that one much quicker than usual. I'm very proud."_ _ _

___Sherlock tipped his forehead to his brother's shoulder, his entire body wracked with intermittent shuddering. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, leaning into Mycroft as Jared pushed the morphine. He wept quietly as the pain faded, clutching at his brother's hand._ _ _

___He could hear John sobbing in the background, knowing that when he looked up he'd see the unreachable image of him crumpled on the table, bleeding and trembling as he cried out his pain. Sherlock pressed his face to the underside of Mycroft's chin, trying to hide himself._ _ _

___"I c-can-n't m-make him stop c-c-crying, I can n-n-never make him st-st-top. He needs h-help, My."_ _ _

___"John is doing well, Sherlock. Last time he was here, you held him and it comforted him. You've done very, very well. You made him stop crying."_ _ _

___Mycroft pulled the covers up to better hide Sherlock from whatever he was afraid of. "And Moran is dead. John is safe and Moran is dead."_ _ _

___Listening to John in pain was one of the single most distressing sounds on earth for Sherlock. It was the soundtrack to his torture, swiftly pulling unwanted memory directly to the front of his mind, enabling Moran to materialize physically in the room at times. He loved John, and missed him terribly, but John's dislike of him and following panic were always terrifying and crushing to bear. John had been with him a long time, unexpectedly and in acute distress. He'd managed to drudge to the surface things that days of chess and learning Jared had pushed to the background._ _ _

___"I...I d-d-did?"_ _ _

___Mycroft nodded and pet Sherlock's hair. "You calmed him right down. You've done so well. Remember how upset he was about it being his fault? You helped him."  
Sherlock kept as he was, though a bit of tension bled out of him. The morphine and sedative were finally working together to calm him down. He took a few slow breaths, the violent shivering slowing down, his breathing becoming somewhat less panicked. John was fading in the background. He sounded as he did when he cried himself to sleep; resistant and relieved in equal measure. Sherlock only heard the sound every few days, when John's body could no longer tolerate keeping awake, but Sherlock knew it well. _ _ _

___"H-he h-hates to sleep. We...we w-were not allowed sleep. He cried an-and s-sometimes...sometimes he w-would scream t-to try and keep awak-ke. S-So m-much screaming...m-my John...al-always made to scream."_ _ _

___Mycroft clutched Sherlock and took his hands. "I know. But he sleeps now. He gets to sleep whenever he wants. So do you. You can sleep whenever you want. Are you tired? I'm sorry you're hurting."_ _ _

___Sherlock nodded as he burrowed closer, keening for a moment in fear. He was having a difficult time grounding, partially aware of the safety of Mycroft's room and his brother's arms, partially back in the cell, caught between two different realities. He knew he could sleep without pain, and had done many times already, but still the prospect of doing so currently frightened him. John was nearly quiet and Moran was nowhere to be found, which gave Sherlock very little comfort. Sometimes it was easier with him in the room. Sherlock always could keep an eye on him, prepare for what would come. At least he had My._ _ _

___His mind kicked over to the image of his brother kissing him goodbye, promising to watch on a camera. In the next moment there was crushing fear and doctors he did not know, and oh god, what if My had to leave tonight?_ _ _

___"A-Are you...g-g-going to g-" fear spiked sharp enough to make him gag, choking off his words. His chest buzzed with the kick of his pacemaker as he tried again, "go to..to w-work now?"_ _ _

___ _

___Mycroft shook his head and took Sherlock's face in his hands. "No. No. Not at all. I'm staying. I will stay. I'm not going anywhere." He pulled the pillows around them to fortify his words with action._ _ _

___"I'm here, and I'm not leaving you. Would you like some telly? Music? A hot shower?"_ _ _

___Sherlock shook his head as his breathing caught and his expression crumpled._ _ _

___"I didn't l-like it when y-you l-left m-m-me," he sobbed, holding on to Mycroft's wrists in freezing hands, knuckles blanching with his effort to forcibly keep Mycroft there, "I d-d-didn't l-like that."_ _ _

___"I know. I know. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was hurting you so badly. I love you. I won't leave again. I won't leave you."_ _ _

___Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and hugged him in such a way that said he did not want to let go._ _ _

___Sherlock was swiftly becoming overwhelmed with the combination of medication. He held on tight to Mycroft, leaned hard against him until he no longer could manage his grip. His hands slowly fell away, curled limp on his lap, as sleep blanketed over the fear. Tension eased out of his muscles, and Sherlock was finally quiet._ _ _

___Mycroft laid Sherlock down on his side next to him and held on tight. "I'm sorry," he whispered and brushed his hair back again. "I love you. It's alright. It's okay."_ _ _

___Jared took a step forward then. "Sir?"_ _ _

___Mycroft didn't respond._ _ _

___"Sir, I think it would be best if you had something to eat and a bit of rest." Jared had already called something from the kitchen and it was on it's way._ _ _

___Mycroft slowly nodded, but did not let go of Sherlock._ _ _

___Miller ended up carrying Mycroft's food, concerned and wanting to check on Mycroft and Sherlock both. He entered quietly, walking over to Mycroft's side of the bed and setting everything down._ _ _

___"Mycroft," he said quietly, trying to get the elder brother's attention._ _ _

___Jared stepped back and let Miller through, but Mycroft did not respond other than a small nod. He was curled up with Sherlock, eyes closed, expression tired and broken. He held tight to his brother, even though Sherlock was asleep and no longer needed comfort._ _ _

___Miller was a bit surprised to find Jared so close, pleased with the progress they seemed to be making. However, Mycroft's distracted behavior was troubling._ _ _

___"Mycroft, could I have a very brief look at you?"_ _ _

___"I am physically and mentally sound save being very tired and very distressed. Let me be and I'll be right again."_ _ _

___Mycroft pressed his face into Sherlock's hair. "Let me be."_ _ _

___Miller nodded, leaving the food on the table. He took a moment to count Mycroft's respirations from afar, noting his skin color and an approximate pulse from the flutter of the arteries on his neck. He turned to Jared and spoke very quietly._ _ _

___"He's dehydrated. See if you can get him to drink something substantial, I don't want the fight of IV fluids if it comes to that. Was Sherlock ill, or did he seize during this episode?_ _ _

___Jared listened quietly and looked over to Sherlock. "I'll make sure he drinks. Appeal to his logic. Sherlock was violently confused, and he tried to pull out his tubes, but he didn't seize."_ _ _

___Miller nodded and looked back at the brothers. He paused there, watching Mycroft, his concern for the man growing rapidly, before looking back to Jared and patting him on the shoulder. Miller was quiet as he walked out of the room, gently shutting the door and leaving the men to themselves._ _ _

___Jared got a glass of water and walked over to Mycroft. "Drink. You need to keep yourself functioning in order to help him."_ _ _

___Mycroft opened his mouth in order to tell Jared just where his place was, but closed it again and his eyes closed briefly. "You're right. Alright. Alright."_ _ _

___Sherlock shifted with his brother as Mycroft moved, muttering and reaching out, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's hip as he curled back around him. He kept his back guarded, one knee partially raised, protecting himself as well as he could even in his sleep. The memories had left him feeling far too vulnerable, and he could not tolerate anything close to exposure, nor could he endure any amount of physical distance from My._ _ _

___Mycroft took the cup of water and drained it quickly before turning his attention back to Sherlock. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right here."_ _ _

___Sherlock remained in a fitful sleep for several hours, periodically crying out and reaching blindly for Mycroft. He would rest quietly for long stretches of time before jerking suddenly, often times dissolving into tears while still unconscious._ _ _

___Nearly three hours later, when he shouted John's name in a strangled cry, fear dripping from the sound, his eyes shot open and he sat up abruptly, tossing the blankets off of himself in a frantic scramble, backing himself against the headboard and wrapping trembling arms around his knees. His breathing was wild and erratic as he hid his face, mumbling to himself as he began to rock back and forth in swift, choppy movements._ _ _

___Mycroft took Sherlock back into his arms and slowed his rocking down to something more smooth and calm. "I'm sorry. I'm here. I love you. I've got you. You're doing so well."_ _ _

___Sherlock locked up his muscles and held his breath, tense in anticipation of pain. Then his brother's voice wrapped around him just as his brother's arms had, and he dared to open his eyes, catching sight of Mycroft's familiar room. A rough sound of relief and fear twisted out of his chest and he leaned hard against Mycroft, turning his face to hide against Mycroft's neck, his breathing a mess. He'd not been so chaotic since leaving the hospital. John's visit, and the promise of John's return complete with screaming and tears, had shoved him back viciously, forcing him to confront memories that he'd done his best to bury._ _ _

___"Is h-he s-s-safe," he breathed, fighting down panic, still extremely tired and heavy with the need of sleep._ _ _

___"Yes," Mycroft assured. "He's so safe. Completely safe. He's with Greg, I've got his home guarded. He isn't screaming. He's safe. You're safe too. Remember? My has you. Always has you."_ _ _

___Sherlock nodded as the tears came, clinging to his brother._ _ _

___"I- I'm s-so tired," he wept, his voice muffled against the side of Mycroft's neck. He carried on trying to rock himself, pulling his free hand to his lips and sucking on the tips of his fingers, thirsty and worn out. He tried to shift closer to Mycroft, but pain flared up the side of his leg, leaving him gasping, tearing his hand away from his lips as he clutched at a large patch of scar tissue just below his hip at the side of his thigh. He began to cry in earnest, feeling like a small, frightened child and loathing it._ _ _

___"Shh...Shh...It's alright. I've got you. You're alright. Everything's alright." Mycroft put his hand over the place where Sherlock was having pain and scooted him closer. "Tell me what you need."_ _ _

___For several minutes Sherlock could not find his voice, simply resting against Mycroft as he gave over to tears. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained and small._ _ _

___"I...I d-don't know," he sobbed, pulling his fingers back to his lips. All he knew was how terrible he felt, and nothing more. "I d-don't...is h-he going to...I'm...wh-what if-f I m-make a m-mistake? What if I...what if h-he starts...I don't want to hear...I'm...he's going to..." he shook his head, pulling at Mycroft's shirt._ _ _

___"That's the choice you're going to have to make, 'Lock. If you don't want to deal with those things, then you don't have to bring him in. If you want to try and push through them, and try and rekindle your friendship with him, then that is fine as well. It's your decision."_ _ _

___ _

___Sherlock's breath seized up in his lungs as Mycroft's words dumped the cruel choice right on his lap. He sank his hands into his hair, pulling until there was a satisfying, sharp pain at the snapping roots. Perhaps he deserved such impossible choices. Either endure John's anger and his upset, his hatred and fear, or lose him entirely._ _ _

____You can kill yourself. Don't forget that option. Tell John no, wait until My goes back to work, then kill yourself. Do everyone a favor._ _ _ _

___A rough sob pulled from his chest and he shook his head, trying to move away from Mycroft. His brother's disappointment blanketed over him, heavy and uncomfortable, making him turn his face away in shame._ _ _

___"You don't have to answer right now, and you don't have to commit to either one. You can choose to not see him for another month or so and then see him when you're ready. Or, you can see him again and decide that you want time off. It's fine either way."_ _ _

___Mycroft didn't give a damn how the flip flopping would effect John and Greg. They were not his priority._ _ _

___Sherlock looked down at his hands, wringing them in distress. "H-He already...doesn't want...to be with m-m-me and...I m-might lose...my ch-chance to e-earn him back," he sobbed, still seeing John's refusal to be near him as a prolonged punishment._ _ _

___"I m-m-miss him s-so much...b-but he...it f-f-feels l-l-like...like...I'm back when he cries or...g-god when he screams and..." he shook his head, grabbing at his hair again, scratching his nails viciously down the sides of his scalp, "I'm weak! I'm s-s-so damned weak!"_ _ _

___Mycroft did not want to bring John back anymore. "I'm sorry," Mycroft gasped. "You're doing beautifully. How about this? John lives here. He comes down when you are both feeling well, and you practice being calm with him. Then, when things get rough, he simply goes back down the hall. Not leaving. Just going to a different room for you to call back again."_ _ _

___Sherlock carried on tearing at his hair, thinking back to each visit he had with John where one moment they could be calm and peaceful, and the next John would be bitterly angry of terribly afraid._ _ _

___"What am-m I doing that still makes him _cry_? I...I tr-tried _so hard_ the l-last time! I...he h-hates me! I d-don't even know...what am I doing _wrong_? Should I n-not touch him? What if I hide m-my face? Should I be silent? I c-cannot remove myself from this...this..."_ _ _

___He opened his fingers, taking them from his head, several full strands of hair clinging to his freezing palms from where he'd torn them free. In the next moment he gestured to his body, openly disgusted with it, "I w-would, god I would. Surely he knows?"_ _ _

___He looked up at his brother then, eyes confused and bloodshot, "h-he knows, r-r-right?"_ _ _

___Mycroft brushed Sherlock's hair back and kissed his head. "It's alright. I know it's frightening. You're doing so well. What's wrong is that John is still in pain. He is worried about hurting you, from what I've seen. But look at the progress you've made! You've done so well!"_ _ _

___Sherlock stared at his brother for a moment, trying to puzzle together the reasons Mycroft would be hedging, and doing such a poor job of hiding it._ _ _

___"What _progress_? What have I managed to do o-other than lay here and..." he shook his head, drawing in on himself. _ _ _

___"I h-have made no progress. I h-have n-n-nothing to offer him. He doesn't w-want me. He would be relieved if I d-died, you all would."_ _ _

___His voice had gone hard, bitterly hating himself as he spat the words out with complete self-loathing. "T-Tell John to f-forget I- forget he e-ever had the misfortune to know m-me. I am _n-nothing_ and I h-h-have as much to offer." _ _ _

___"Nobody would be relieved if you died!"_ _ _

___Mycroft took Sherlock's face in his hands and stared at him._ _ _

___"No. That's not right at all. We would be devastated. I would be devastated. I wouldn't be able to work. Greg and John...They likely wouldn't survive it. Mother...She and father would have to know. What would I tell them? How would any of us survive?"_ _ _

___Sherlock refused to look at his brother._ _ _

___"You are already...unable t-t-to _work_. Greg and John...I am an unfortunate detail. They would be on with their lives if I- and _mother_? She's likely been expecting th-the call for years, disappointing Sherlock o-overdosed in s-s-some gutter. I...I am n-nothing but in the way, a b-burden and n-now I cannot g-g-give a damn thing in r-return! I h-have a chance to earn h-h-him back and I'm too b-b-bloody _afraid_ to- t-to f-face..." _ _ _

___John's warm, happy face pulled up in his chaotic memory, listening to Sherlock call him a mountain just before shuttering off, hate creasing the lines at his eyes. Despite his bitter self-hate, a rough sob tore up out of his throat and his lip trembled._ _ _

___"He forgets," he whispered, still refusing to look at Mycroft, "s-sometimes he forgets how m-m-much he despises me...but I always do s-something to remind him...always watch that b-bitter loathing return to his eye. He...he c-can walk and...feed himself...he c-c-can read and...m-move and...and I..." he gestured to himself in defeat. "I'm n-not g-g-good enough to be near him."_ _ _

___Mycroft was questioning if this was the proper path now. Perhaps life would be easier if Greg had died and John was forced to live here, and his question was gone. Perhaps it would be easier if Sherlock and John never saw each other again._ _ _

___"You're worthy to see him," Mycroft insisted. "When he was unable to walk, speak, move, or eat, you still went to him, even though it stressed him. Now he wants to come to you, even though it stresses you."_ _ _

___Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and slowly eased down to his side, shivering and staring off at nothing. Had he known what John had been subjected to at his hands...well, not _his_ hands but still, what John believed to be him, he'd never have gone to see him again. Or rather, he likely would have gone to John and put a round in his head right before John's eyes, just to sooth him and assure him that it would never happen again. He'd gone because he loved John. _ _ _

___The thought made his gut twist and he started speaking while staring across the room._ _ _

___"I...I w-went to him b-b-because I love him. Why would he want to come to m-me? He s-s-said days ago th-that he can't h-help me, mostly because he d-doesn't want to. Why would h-he bother coming here?"_ _ _

___"He cares about you," Mycroft insisted. "He cares so much. Remember how he didn't want you to be hurt, even when he was still completely convinced that it was you hurting him? He still cared about you even after all that."_ _ _

___Mycroft left out that that was likely do to his own crippling insecurity, but either way the fact held true._ _ _

___"You are loved, 'Lock."_ _ _

___Sherlock shook his head. "I d-don't know much about love...but w-what John feels...it's n-not love." He sank a hand back in his hair while tears slid down his face. It was just too much, the idea of repeating the horrific cycle of hope and crushing loss on a daily basis. Yet, he had no choice. That was going to be his life until he finally died._ _ _

___"When a-are they coming?"_ _ _

___"Whenever you decide you are ready." Honestly, Mycroft cared very little about when it would be continent for John and Greg._ _ _

___"T-Tell them...just l-let them come if...if they n-need..." he swallowed thickly and drew in a sharp breath, "if they...j-just let them come." His voice was a harsh, quiet whisper, fear getting the better of him for the moment. He was under an obligation to do what he could for John._ _ _

___"I'll let them know," Mycroft said softly and changed the subject. "Would you like a warm bath or shower? That could be nice."_ _ _

___ _

___Sherlock thought on it for a few minutes, chewing his lip until it began to hurt. "A...a shower would be...that would be...yeah, I th-think that w-would be n-nice."_ _ _

___"Okay," Mycroft breathed in relief and Jared got up to start the taps warming. "You'll have a nice shower then. Nice and warm. Just one moment." Mycroft waited until Jared exited the bathroom and bedroom to sit up. "Should I help you undress?"_ _ _

___Sherlock nodded, still having severe difficulty getting his arms up over his head. It was humiliating, but there was precious little he could do about it. His cheeks colored and he looked away, despite the fact that his brother had seen him nude many times since his return. Had bathed him, and cared for him, while Sherlock could not._ _ _

___It was a debt he knew he'd never be able to repay._ _ _

___Mycroft gently removed Sherlock's clothing and helped him into the bathroom. He was as careful as he could be to not injure his poor baby brother. "You're doing well, 'Lock," he said softly and stood in front of the shower with Sherlock in his arms._ _ _

___Sherlock tucked his face down and out of Mycroft's line of sight. He was oddly humiliated with his nakedness, covering his body as well as he could with one hand while clinging to Mycroft with the other. Exposure was currently difficult for him to bear, and he found his heart racing and his breathing kicking up._ _ _

___"My," he choked out, while waiting to be put in the tub, "M-My tell m-m-me I'm okay...tell me...tell me I'm...tell me what we a-a-are going to do, I n-n-need you to...t-to t-tell me what...what are w-we going t-to do?"_ _ _

___"We're just going to have a nice warm shower. Perfectly normal. You're very safe." Mycroft stood at the edge of the tub and stepped in himself. "I don't want to scare you," he said softly and lowered Sherlock down. "If you would rather I hold you, I can, if you want to be put down, I can do that too."_ _ _

___Sherlock kept his arms tight around himself, already shaking despite the heat. When Mycroft settled him on the ground, he shifted so that he was resting against the side of the tub, water beating down on him and shoulder to the tile wall. The brilliant fact of warm showers, was that it resembled nothing he'd experienced in captivity. He drew in on himself as much as he could, focusing on the heat and the sting of it on his scar tissue. It wasn't too hot, but any stimuli on the shiny pink skin was often overwhelming and painful._ _ _

___"M-My...w-will you talk to m-m-me?"_ _ _

___Mycroft crouched next to him, then sat beside him. "I'm here. You're nice and warm. You're safe and everyone here wants to make sure you are happy. You're my little brother, and I am fiercely protective of you. This water is nice and warm. Could I wash your hair? Would you mind?"_ _ _

___Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips, sucking the water off of them. He nodded to his brother, doing his best to forget that he was nude and soaked, unable to physically stand, utterly at the mercy of someone else. He sucked harder at his fingers and did his best to keep himself present, to feel the body of the clean shower around him, recognize the warmth available to him. Despite the heat, he was shivering terribly, inadvertently biting on his fingertips as his teeth chattered._ _ _

___Mycroft took just the smallest bit of soft shampoo and worked it into the hair at the back of Sherlock's head. He was hesitant to touch him, as even though he thought of Sherlock as his baby brother, his limbs were just as long as his own, and he was still a man. Still, in Mycroft's eyes he was a small child, and Sherlock gently swept his hair away from his face. "You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."_ _ _

___Sherlock listened to his brother without responding for a few minutes. The fingers in his hair were nice, but he could not help but brace for them to become violent and angry, wrenching his head back. The thought made gooseflesh bloom down his back as he whimpered around his bleeding fingers._ _ _

___He was speaking before he realized himself. "I'm scared. I...b-being...undressed is frightening m-me. Y-You won't...won't pull my h-hair...you won't get angry with me...I'm...I'm your brother I'm...you're not going to...I-I'm ok-kay...please t-tell me I'm...I'm okay, My I'm ssorry I'm..." he shuddered as pain began to bloom, whispering at first before slowly rising in volume, spreading from the core of him up and along his hips, his belly pitting, both stone heavy and echoing hollow at the same time. "My...My t-tell me..."_ _ _

___Mycroft removed his fingers from Sherlock's hair and decided that he was incredibly useless at comfort. "I would never get angry with you, Sherlock. I am your big brother. Remember how it was when we were children? How when the other kids would try to hurt you, you'd come to me? It's just like that now. You can come hide behind me. I've got you safe and sound. We're safe. Nobody can see. You're in a very, very safe place right now. If it would make you more comfortable, I can turn my back.”_ _ _

___Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and swiveled his head so fast his neck hurt. "N-NO! No pl-lease d-don't! Don't! I'll sh-shut up, I'll s-stop t-talking! PLEASE!" he shifted in the tub, reaching out like a child for Mycroft, "I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry! D-Don't...g-g-god please! Please d-don't!"_ _ _

___The act of begging brought tears to his eyes and he began to cry, reaching a trembling hand to Mycroft, water running off his elbow. "M-My," he wept pathetically, "I'm s-sorry I'm sorry!"_ _ _

___Mycroft reached out and gently wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. "I didn't mean to imply that I didn't want to help you," he whispered. "I only wanted to give you your privacy. I'm happy to be with you. I love you. You're alright. It's okay. I'm not angry, and you've done nothing wrong."_ _ _

___Sherlock clutched at his brother, arms trembling. "I c-can't do it...n-not w-without you...when...wh-when you are n-not here he..." Sherlock lost hold of a terrified whimper and pulled Mycroft closer to him, heedless of the water, "h-he...t-touches..touches m-me and I...it h-hurts and...d-don't leave, pl-lease don't leave m-me I'll do anyth-thing._ _ _

___"He'll never touch you again because I had him shot. He's dead. Now you have me, and I love you." Mycroft bent down and kissed the top of his brother's curly head._ _ _

___"You're doing wonderfully."_ _ _

___Sherlock kept hold of Mycroft, shivering though he was able to slowly calm himself back down. Mycroft was with him, the water was warm, the bathroom bright and clean. He was okay._ _ _

___"I...w-will y-you help m-me?" He asked, not daring to look at his brother's face when several minutes later he leaned back, taking his better arm and reaching it to the soap still in his hair. It hurt to bend his arm like that, but it was something he could tolerate for the moment, and he was going to have to learn this or allow Jared to help him, something he did not feel capable of doing._ _ _

___"H-How m-many d-d-days? Do...I h-have...h-ave time to l-learn to d-do this myself?"_ _ _

___"I'll always have time for this," Mycroft reassured. "Remember, I'll only be going in for what is needed. The Diogenes club can forget about my existence entirely. I'm here for you."_ _ _

___He started washing Sherlock's hair incredibly gently jn order to keep his fingers from catching in any potential snarls._ _ _

___Sherlock tried to follow along with his brother, his fingers working very slow and erratically. He would never have gotten anything done on his own, exclusively trying to strengthen the muscles. Perhaps his brother was right and he truly wouldn't be gone that much. He tried to imagine life different than it had been in hospital. Sherlock equated that literally heart-stopping terror with Mycroft's absence. Mycroft had left him before on his own with Jared, but he'd always been in the house, always where Sherlock could call him back. He leaned into Mycroft's hands, eventually dropping his own._ _ _

___"I w-would be l-lost without...without you."_ _ _

___Mycroft wondered if he should just quit his job entirely. He had enough money to get them by for most of their lives if they were careful, and he could always invent something if he needed to._ _ _

___"I'm not leaving you alone, then."_ _ _

___By the time Mycroft was done washing his hair, Sherlock was leaned hard against his hands, doing his best to relax. He'd been alright being nude many times before hand, but for whatever reason, today was much more difficult. He kept himself wrapped up in a tight ball, shivering in the heat, keeping as covered as he could._ _ _

___"I o-only meant....t-to thank..." he chanced a look at his brother's face and then away again..."to th-thank you."_ _ _

___"You're welcome," Mycroft said gently. "And in the traditional sense. You are welcome to what I am giving you. You can stay here forever, and I'll be with you."_ _ _

___Sherlock was holding his own shoulder, rocking slightly, thumb tracing into a pitted scar where Moran had liked to play when he was bored, slowly whittling out the muscle as he spoke to Sherlock over John's screaming. He was trying to keep himself calm._ _ _

___The idea of keeping Mycroft from his work was just as distressing as it had ever been, and he was starting to get the sense that they were going there again. "Please can...I d-don't want...you to l-lose your w-work...n-not for me I-" a quiet sob ripped from his throat and he shook his head, dropping his forehead to his knees, which roughly pulled at the scarring on his rounded back._ _ _

___"I am s-s-so tired...it a-all hurts."_ _ _

___Mycroft made predictable movements through Sherlock's hair and hoped that he would drop the subject. "I won't leave you until you are ready for it, and even then I won't be gone more than a few hours out of the day. You might not even notice. You could sleep right through it. I'll bring all the work I possibly can home with me. I'll conduct meetings over the internet. I promise."_ _ _

___Sherlock nodded, half his mind on what Mycroft was saying, doing what he could to focus on Mycroft's hands in his hair and not the imagery his mind was providing him. Quite suddenly he was speaking again. turning sharply to his brother, grabbing his wrist._ _ _

___"Has John f-f-figured out how to mak-ke it stop?" He asked in a rush, eyes wide and frightened._ _ _

___"I...Make what stop? The pain? Voice? I don't know. I could...we could ask him. I'm sure he'd want to help." Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hands._ _ _

___"It would be good progress if we could work on that."_ _ _

___Sherlock bit at his lips, feeling very much like a failure. He looked down and drew his hands back, pulling in on himself, taking Mycroft's words as criticism._ _ _

___"I...I'm...trying...I'm....I want it to s-stop....I don't w-want....I'm s-s-sorry you...you d-don't have to be here with me....I-" he hung his head as he began to cry, feeling incredibly insufficient.  
"No need to be sorry. Would you like to ask John about it? Or, we can figure out a way to do it on our own. Could you let me help you?" _ _ _

___Mycroft slowly reached out and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders in as non-threatening of a way as he could._ _ _

___Sherlock did not respond to Mycroft, pulled in on himself, berating himself for not having done enough. He should be better than he was. Mycroft needed him better and he wasn't. He wasn't making any progress, was still just as bad as he had been when they came home._ _ _

____You're wasting everyone's time, Sherlock. You are wasting everyone's time. Just kill yourself, just get it done. You're at least clever enough for at least getting that done. He's so disappointed. Look at him. Look at your brother._ _ _ _

___Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and a second later his lip was trembling, leaving him in open tears. He looked away again, holding onto himself with a blanching grip, balled up as small as he could get. "I...I'm-m s-sorry," he whispered, shoulders jerking as a rough sob tore out of him, "I'm s-sorry."_ _ _

___"I love you," Mycroft insisted. "You don't need to be sorry, and I forgive you either way. I want you to be happy. I am working for that. I promise you that I will make this life a good one for you."_ _ _

___Sherlock pulled as far away from Mycroft as he could, shivering violently as his mind flogged him for not improving more. He was so ashamed with himself he could not bear to be touched._ _ _

___"I- I haven't...I'm just as b-ad as- I've n-not improved at all! H-How can you stand to look at m-me?! Not good enough I- I am not good e-enough f-for..." another harsh sob tore from his chest and he began to rake his nails down the side of his face, furious with himself even as he felt hands sliding over his body, the heat of the water lost to him as his mind only registered wet, nude, and a slick, hard surface underneath him._ _ _

___Mycroft retracted his hands, only to reach back out again when Sherlock clawed at his face._ _ _

___"Please don't," Mycroft said loudly and took his hands. "I love you. You have made progress. You're lucid for longer. You can make jokes with John. You can talk to me about what happened. You've made so much progress, you just can't see it."_ _ _

___Mycroft's words were doing very little to calm him. Mycroft was always mentioning things that he should fix, should improve, and yet he never managed to do anything his brother wanted. Now John needed him again and he was sure he wouldn't be able to do anything worthwhile. He felt exposed and vulnerable, too small and much to large in the same measure._ _ _

___"I...I just...p-please...I'm s-sorry I'm sorry I- it's n-not...I'm...should be b-better....should be b-better I… _stupid Sherlock_ I'm s-s-so stupid I...c-can't....I sh-should be dead! I should be dead he w-was supposed to kill m-me! I should b-be dead!"_ _ _

___"And I am very glad you are not," Mycroft stated firmly and stayed still in his uncertainty. "I wish I could help you more, but this is the best I can do. Would you like to get dressed and go back to bed?"_ _ _

___Mycroft's words landed heavy and Sherlock hid his face, shaking his head. He didn't want to move, to be touched, or to be observed in any way at all. He just wanted to die, to fade into the walls and never be remembered. He was doing what he could to hide from Mycroft's disappointment, shivering and pulling in deeper on himself._ _ _

___"I'm s-sorry! I'm _s-sorry!_ " _ _ _

___He startled violently when there was a sudden crash of a door clattering on its hinges. He looked up sharply, watching with horror as Moran strolled in, already tugging at his belt. Sherlock's entire focus zeroed in on the man, color draining from his face, mouth running dry. "N-No! Pl-lease no, no! NO!" He was suddenly scrambling to move backwards, arms and legs refusing to work in unison, his feet dragging uselessly as he slipped in the tub, doing what he could to get away from the threat._ _ _

___Mycroft looked into the empty room and reached out to put one hand behind Sherlock's head, just in case he slipped and hurt himself. "Hey, hey, Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. I'm right here. Right here. You're safe. I'm right here. Do you hear me?"_ _ _

___For Sherlock's terrified mind, Mycroft was not there at all. The bathroom faded away into the background and his entire focus was on the very corporeal man approaching him. Sherlock's trembling hands reached blindly for anything he could use to defend himself, finding nothing, slipping fast into self defense. "I-It w-was me! Me! I- I d-d-d-did it-t-t! S-Stop! STOP! I- pl-lease I c-can't please d-don't t-touch me! Stop!"_ _ _

___The spout was digging into his back now, grinding into his skin and lighting up pain along his scars. Moran said nothing as he tore his belt free, doubling it in his hand and grinning wolfishly at Sherlock._ _ _

___Mycroft decided that he couldn't pull Sherlock out of it, and he might as well just get this over with. He lifted Sherlock up and held on tight as he moved into the bedroom again._ _ _

___"Mycroft is here," he said over and over in hopes it would reach. He put Sherlock down on his smaller bed in hopes that he could dry then be moved to the larger one. With swift movements he pulled the covers up over Sherlock and handed him a pillow, though he wasn't sure what he expected him to do with it._ _ _

___Sherlock had completely shut down in pure, crystalline terror. He was suddenly out of the water and in arms, and then down on a new surface. He grabbed at the blanket without noticing the pillow, clutching to the material as though it were the only thing in the world that could keep him safe. The area around him was growing with wet heat and Sherlock assumed he was bleeding again. He locked his eyes to the man moving in the room, his mind only registering _Moran_ , while really he was staring at his brother. _ _ _

___Mycroft let out a soft cry of despair and held Sherlock's eyes. He dropped to his knees on the floor and laid face down, hands behind his head as one would when being arrested. He just wanted to appear non-threatening. He just wanted to be seen as anything other than a rapist._ _ _

___"It's me," he stated. "I'm your brother."_ _ _

___When the closer image of Moran dropped from his line of sight, Sherlock's mind effortlessly moved him further away and Sherlock followed, watching Jared with horrified anticipation. Moran was behaving more erratically than Sherlock was accustomed to and he was struggling to keep up, pushing himself as far back and into a ball on the bed as he possibly could. He was in danger of toppling off the side, though completely unaware of that, his mind only to evading as much as he could._ _ _

___When Jared saw that Sherlock was watching him, he stepped out of the room and walked down the hall with clearly audible, but not stomping steps._ _ _

___Mycroft scooted to the back of the room where he would be in sight and faced the wall. "I am Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft."_ _ _

___Sherlock watched in absolute confusion as the dynamics of the room carried on shifting. There was a man on the floor in the corner, facing the wall, seemingly in distress but he was not John. Moran seemed to have left, but Sherlock could never trust that._ _ _

___He reached up and felt the tube dangling from his nose. He was receiving medical care, which explained the blanket. With horribly shaking hands he looked over himself, finding the blood he'd been expecting. There was a drip port in his hand which he instantly tore out, leaving himself bleeding but not paying any mind to it. He tugged at the blanket until he could wrap in it a bit more protectively, eyes darting through the room as he looked for something to end it with. The muttering man in the corner was repeating something, likely being tortured himself. Sherlock could not help him._ _ _

___"D-Do it q-quick....h-h-he's not h-h-here...hur-ry," he whispered, suggesting that the man do what he could to end himself while he had the chance. Sherlock was dragging up a bit of sheeting, starting to twist it into something akin to a rope._ _ _

___Mycroft shook his head and let out a choked sob. "I'm your brother," he whispered and ventured to turn his face towards Sherlock. When he saw the small patch of blood growing on the light colored blanket, he slowly got to his feet._ _ _

___"Can you...you're bleeding. Do you...My little 'Lock, do you know me?"_ _ _

___Sherlock looked back up from the effort he was making at a rope. "Y-You can _walk_? R-Run you idiot-t! _Run_!" _ _ _

___He looked back down, hands trembling so hard it was difficult to twist the sheet, still huddled under the blanket. Tears of sheer terror were sliding down his face, pouring off his jaw as he frantically worked on his method to free himself from this hell._ _ _

___Mycroft took stock of the situation. Sherlock was bleeding, likely from a torn port, and he did not recognize him. But he also didn't seem to think he was Moran._ _ _

___"I am here to save you," Mycroft asserted. "I can take you somewhere safe."_ _ _

___Sherlock gave him a brittle, pathetic laugh._ _ _

___"N-No you c-c-can't. Nowhere is-s s-s-safe. If you're a-armed, then sh-shoot me."_ _ _

___He did not look up from his effort with the sheet, loathing that he lacked the strength to tear it into strips. A panicked sob ripped up out of his throat as he struggled to break the sheet free, looking up at the door to ensure Moran was not back yet. He whimpered in fear and looked back down, resuming his efforts._ _ _

___Mycroft could tell he was trying to strip the sheet to shreds, and decided it would be more effective to watch and make sure he didn't hurt himself then try and take it away from him. "I can take you out of here. I am Mycroft. I am your brother. Can you hear me when I say that?"_ _ _

___Sherlock's hands were violently trembling and he was getting nowhere. He dropped the sheet with a defeated cry, starting to search the room for something else to use, still balanced precariously on the edge of the bed._ _ _

___"Th-There is n-n-nowhere t-to go. N-N-No one w-w-wants....I'm s-supposed t-to die. I'm supposed to d-die. I h-have to die."_ _ _

___He kept on searching, blood dripping between his fingers and slipping off his fingertips, through he paid no mind._ _ _

___"Supposed t-to die, sh-should die," he kept repeating, nearly falling off the bed as he looked for anything to use._ _ _

___Mycroft reached out then and pushed him a bit closer to the middle of the bed. "No, Sherlock, please. Don't die. I want you to live. I love you. Look at me. Look at me and tell me who you see."_ _ _

___Sherlock was choking on his fear. He threw all his focus at the man at his side, shying away from him._ _ _

___"Pl-l-lease...I- what...what do y-you..." he swept his eyes over Mycroft's face, not at all recognizing him._ _ _

___"I d-d-don't know what you w-want. I...g-god are you...please d-don't! Don't! I w-was trying to h-help you! Please don't!"_ _ _

___"No. No. I won't hurt you. Listen to my voice. Listen hard, Sherlock. I am your brother. I am your BROTHER."_ _ _

___Mycroft took Sherlock's hand, the one with the blood, and pressed a bit of the sheet over the hole in his skin._ _ _

___"Look at my face. I know you can hear me. Look at my face, listen to my voice, and hear my words. I am Mycroft."_ _ _

___Sherlock choked on a sob, trying to pull his hand away and free himself. He shied away from the man, breathing wildly as tears flowed down his cheeks. He was trying hard to focus. This man wanted something from him and he wanted to do what he could to appease him._ _ _

___"I- I'm-m lis-stening...pl-lease I'm....I'm t-t-trying please."_ _ _

___"Thank you, 'Lock. Can you try and remember what your brother looks like? Just that. Try and remember what your older brother looks like."_ _ _

___Mycroft kept his expression relaxed and honest._ _ _

___"Try and tell me what your brother looks like."_ _ _

___Sherlock's disposition swiftly shifted from terror to overpowering rage. He turned away, baring his teeth._ _ _

___"F-F-Fuck you," he hissed, physically braced for pain with his teeth clenched, "I'm n-n-not giving y-you my b-brother."_ _ _

___He went very still, breathing wild and audible through his nose as he waited for the blow. There was no way in hell he was going to tell anyone what Mycroft looked like._ _ _

___"Y-Y-You could n-n-never...n-never g-get hold of h-him. He's too clever. F-Fuck you."_ _ _

___"I don't want to hurt your brother, Sherlock." Mycroft now knew that Sherlock could at least hear and process his words. "I don't want you to tell me what he looks like, then. Don't tell me. Just think about it. Don't say a word of it. Just call to mind what he looks like, then look at me."_ _ _

___Sherlock did not at all like where this game was going. Had they done this to John? Made him visualize Sherlock before beating him mercilessly? Was the plot now to make Sherlock fear his brother? He looked over at the man, fear obvious just behind the protective rage._ _ _

___"W-Why? A-Are you g-g-going...going to t-try and f-frame him? What a-are we starting with today?"_ _ _

___He looked down at the man's hands for whatever weapons he might have, and then slid his eyes around the cold room that his mind was supplying, tears of intense fright constantly streaming down his face._ _ _

___"Sherlock, I am Mycroft. I am Mycroft Holmes. I am your brother. We used to play pirates. We used to dig holes on the beach and one summer we fixed up an old rowboat. Brother. I'm My."_ _ _

___He took Sherlock's hands and stared him in the eyes. "Please recognize me."_ _ _

___Sherlock was openly hyperventilating with his hands restrained. He did not try and pull away, believing that a pointless effort, looking everywhere but at his brother. His eyes pinched shut as he sat there trembling, defensive, angry, and terrified all in one. They were talking about his brother far too much. What if they went after him? What if they got him?_ _ _

___"Pl-" he stuttered, to breathless to say much, "-lease d....don't....n-not M-My....l-leave h-him....please...n-not My."_ _ _

___"I am MY! I am your brother!" Mycroft nearly shouted the words, but kept his tone soft, even if his volume was loud. "I'm here to save you. You're already at my house!"_ _ _

___Sherlock flinched at the raised voice and looked sharply to the door, tears streaking down his face. He still did not try to pull away, knowing better than that. He turned his face down and away as he listened to Moran laughing in the background._ _ _

____You wanted your brother. Why not allow me to get him for you?_ _ _ _

___Sherlock was gnawing on his lip, grinding at the soft tissues and holding back sobs as he breathed overly fast and shallow, ears ringing._ _ _

___Mycroft sat back on his heels at the edge of the bed and slowly removed the pressure from Sherlock's hand, where he'd ripped the port. It had stopped bleeding mostly, but Mycroft was still shaken._ _ _

___"Lock, please. I am Mycroft." He said the last sentence over and over, in several languages._ _ _

___Sherlock drew his hands in close, shuddering where he sat. He could not focus on anything but Moran and the fact that he was nude and in a strange bed. His fingers clutched at the blanket and he sat there in tears, his entire body locked up tight in anticipation of what was to come, otherwise unresponsive._ _ _

___Mycroft went to the dresser and brought back a pair of sweatpants with no drawstring and a soft grey t-shirt. "Hey, look," he whispered and handed them to Sherlock. "I can help you put them on if you want."_ _ _

___Sherlock looked at the clothes for a very long time, staring at them as though they may reveal themselves to be a pit of vipers and not soft cotton. His eyes cut to Moran as he reached out and grabbed the shirt and trousers, dragging them right back to his chest, rocking himself in an effort to calm down._ _ _

___His hands trembled as he kept his focus on Moran, trying to get his mangled fingers to work as he sought out the hem of the shirt. Several times he tried to lift it over his head, unable to get his arms up high enough to manage it. He pulled his arms into the sleeves, openly weeping as he realized what the game was. He was too injured to dress himself, so having possession of clothing did very little to do anything for him at all._ _ _

___Mycroft slowly reached out and pulled the shirt over Sherlock's head. Once he'd done so, he turned around and faced the wall again. "If you'd allow it, I'd like to help you dress. I don't want to hurt you."_ _ _

___Sherlock held the material of his shirt to him, so frightened that he was painfully retracted into himself. The blanket hid his lap, but he was still feeling massively exposed, and now the man again was facing the wall as though waiting for the whip, and Sherlock could not make sense of it._ _ _

___Moran sauntered in closer, predatory and cocky in his self-assurance. He leaned on the bed and ran his palm up Sherlock's leg. Sherlock immediately began to gag, horrified of the touch. "N-No, no no, no, no no," he began to whine, deeply frightened._ _ _

___Mycroft turned around and saw Sherlock's eyes locked on something that he could not see. Briefly he wondered what would happen if he tried to interact with one of Sherlock's visions, and he stepped forward. Mycroft waved his hands in the air where Sherlock was looking as if swatting at flies._ _ _

___"Nothing is there, Sherlock."_ _ _

___Sherlock blinked as the man slid through Moran. It took several long seconds, but soon Moran faded from view. Sherlock whimpered in open fear, looking wildly for him somewhere else in the room, not understanding the trick. He clutched at the trousers in his hand, sobbing in fear, leaning to look around the man at the side of his bed for the true threat._ _ _

___"I- I d-don't understand! Please! I- I d-don't understand! I- wh-what am-m I s-supposed to do? I..wh-what do y-you want I- please...g-god please..."_ _ _

___Mycroft noted that it had worked, and stood back another few feet. "He was not real. You are having a hallucination. I want you to check your surroundings and tell me what you see, then tell me if it makes sense."_ _ _

___Sherlock was close to passing out, breathing wild and fast. The man was speaking to him, asking him to do things, and he was working as best he could to listen. "I- I'm...I'm h-here in...in th-this room...I...h-he...is it a v-video? F-Film of s-some kind? I...please I'm..." he pinched his lips together, heart slamming against the side of his chest._ _ _

___"Nope. Not a video. You are in Mycroft Holmes's room." He wanted to see how that would settle, and if Sherlock would even hear it._ _ _

___Sherlock held to the trousers as though they were the only protective barrier that existed, his breathing seizing up in his lungs. He slowly looked around the room, shaking his head. "I d-don't like th-this game...pl-lease I...g-god just g-get on with-" he shuddered, not at all understanding this newest effort to terrify him._ _ _

___"This is not a game. I am very sad right now. Very, very sad. I love you, and you are hurting. Please, I am Mycroft Holmes, your brother. You seem to hear everything I say except that." Mycroft signed the words to him in an effort to say something he'd understand._ _ _

___Sherlock shook his head. "My b-brother c-c-can't be in h-here," he sobbed, holding the trousers in one hand and sinking the other into his hair, pulling tight, "h-he has to be safe, he's...he's g-got John and...he c-c-can't be here! He can't! He c-can't! Please, he...n-no he...please..." he tore at his hair, pale with the thought of Mycroft strapped down to some table in agony, "n-not him...don't h-hurt him...n-not him."_ _ _

___"That's not how it is at all, 'Lock. Who else calls you 'Lock? Who else other than _our_ parents even knows that's what I called you?" Mycroft turned around and took a few hesitant steps over. _ _ _

___"Ask me something only Mycroft would know."_ _ _

___Sherlock looked up sharply at the man. Who else did know that? Not John, even. He stared for a full minute, doing what he could to actually look at the man. Slowly Sherlock reached out, his fingers tracing the side of the man's face._ _ _

___It took several passes for him to be convinced. "M-My?" He whispered as though he could not believe it._ _ _

___Mycroft nodded with tears in his eyes and dropped to his knees beside Sherlock's bed. He buried his face in the sheets and let out a soft sob._ _ _

___"It's me," he whispered. "I-I'm here."_ _ _

___Sherlock cried out as Mycroft went down. He reached out for Mycroft, convinced that it was his brother, but not of where they were. Instantly he took Mycroft's fall to mean that Mycroft had been harmed._ _ _

___"My! N-No, _no_ , My!" He curled down and pressed his hands to the back of Mycroft's head, wanting to scream for help and terrified to do so. When Mycroft began to cry, he completely lost it. _ _ _

___"HELP! _HELP!_ " He screamed as loudly as he could manage, whispering to his brother, "It's o-okay, it's okay! S-Someone w-will help you, it's o-okay! M-My...My l-look at m-me, what d-did he do? What did he do!"_ _ _

___Mycroft lifted tearstained eyes to Sherlock and did everything in his power to calm. "I'm f-fine," he whispered. "Y-You're s-safe."_ _ _

___Mycroft decidedly wasn't fine, and Sherlock did not feel safe at all. He leaned back, whimpering for a moment as he started down at the trousers in his hand, looking back at his brother again moments later. Mycroft was in tears, and he looked quite frightened. Sherlock wanted to pull him up on the bed as much as he wanted to put on trousers._ _ _

___He shifted and with horribly shaking arms, moved to swiftly attempt dressing. He curled his legs up, rounding his back to reach out and try to put his feet in the material. He made the attempt several times, pathetically crying out each time he missed and pain flared across his body. Finally he gave up, tucking the blankets around his hips and reaching out._ _ _

___"M-My...pl-l-lease come sit w-with me while y-you can. M-My! Please, t-tell me what they d-did."_ _ _

___Mycroft wiped tears fr his eyes. "They didn't do anything to me. I promise. I'm sad because you didn't know who I was, and it was hurting you. Empathy, not torture." He sat on the edge of the bed and took the trousers. "Can I help you put these on?"_ _ _

___Sherlock sobbed in terrible confusion. He kept hold of the blanket, reaching for Mycroft. "H-He's g-g-going to come b-back, y-you have to r-run, My. You h-have to run."_ _ _

___He was shaking so violently the bed was rattling, leaving him in sweat and tears, crying pathetically, "M-My you have to g-get out!"_ _ _

___"No. I'd never leave you. Never. I promise. Listen, you are home with me. I brought you home. But you are hallucinating. You don't know where you are, but I do."_ _ _

___Mycroft took Sherlock's face gently in his hands. "You are in my room. You are safe."_ _ _

___Sherlock stared at Mycroft, shuddering as he sat frozen in place. A few minutes later he began to look around the room, brows knit in confusion. It was dark, and must, reeking of fear and pain and blood. How was Mycroft saying this was his room?_ _ _

___"H-How l-l-long has...h-has he h-h-had you?" He whispered, tears streaking down his face as he allowed himself a moment to consider that perhaps his brother was already in on it. If Moran had him for so long he had a _room_ , and had yet not tortured Mycroft... "M-My...h-how l-l-long has h-he had y-you?"_ _ _

___"No, no, he doesn't have me. I saved you. I took you out of the bad place and took you to the house I've had for nearly eight years. I bought it so Mummy would stop bothering me about a family. We had Christmas here a few years ago. We got in a religious debate about how it is an essentially pagan holiday. Do you remember that?"_ _ _

___Mycroft took Sherlock's hands and raised his tear-filled eyes to his brother's. "Do you remember any of it?"_ _ _

___Sherlock did not resist his brother's grip, again moving his eyes through the room. "Th-his isn't...y-your home...h-how are...w-why are y-you s-s-saying this...is..." he trailed off, struggling to understand what was going on._ _ _

___He looked back to Mycroft, finally taking his hands from his brother's, reaching up and again tracing his face with quaking fingers. He did not stop there, though. Over the next minute he trailed his fingers through Mycroft's hair, checking his hands for blood. He slid them down the back of Mycroft's neck, down along Mycroft's arms, looking closely at his forearms and wrists before grabbing the blanket and shuffling closer, running his hands down Mycroft's back. Eventually Sherlock leaned away again, staring at his palms._ _ _

___"Y-You're n-not injured...it's not Christmas...of course it's a sodding p-pegan holiday...y-you can be so stubborn..."_ _ _

___"I was on your side, sort of. But you know how our parents can be about Christmas. Don't even get them started on Easter."_ _ _

___Mycroft let Sherlock examine him and tried to keep as calm as possible.  
"And this is my home. You're hallucinating. Sorry to be so blunt about it."_ _ _

___Sherlock drew back and away, wrapping his arms tight around himself. He again directed his focus to the room around them, letting his eyes settle on chains mounted to the wall not far from them. He still had yet to dress from waist down, but he was not at all interested in letting go of the blanket now that he knew My wasn't hurting. While he was glad his brother was alright, it was honestly a bit troubling to find him in good health in Moran's...whatever the hell it was. Tears slid down his face as he carried on looking about._ _ _

___"Hallucinating," he whispered to himself, struggling to find evidence of that outside of Mycroft himself. Moran had convinced John that John had been seeing _him_ all that time, and he was highly suspect that the same situation was occurring now. _ _ _

___"I-If-f...if I'm...if that's t-true then I c-c-can l-leave?"_ _ _

___"Leave this room? Yes. This house? Yes. You can leave the damn country if you want. Maybe the planet."_ _ _

___As long as Sherlock wasn't asking to leave his life, he would be fine with it. "Would you like me to help you dress, then get you a chair out of here?"_ _ _

___Sherlock looked right at his brother, shocked that he'd be allowed to leave. "I w-w-w-ant t-to go _h-home_ ," he wept, rocking slightly with his arms tight around himself, "I j-just w-want to g-go home." _ _ _

___"Baker Street? Is that where you want to go?" Mycroft was willing to take him there, if that was what it took to calm him."_ _ _

___Sherlock was hardly breathing as the prospect of going home was put to him. "Y-Yes, g-god yes, I wan't t-to go _home_." He pulled at his blanket, glaringly aware of his nudity, "Pl-lease I w-want to g-go home. I d-don't w-want the ch-chains anymore I w-want to go h-home." _ _ _

___"Then we can go home." Of course, Mycroft's house would never be his home, no matter how hard he tried. Just like how Mycroft would never be John, no matter how hard he tried. The older brother sent a text to Mrs. Hudson and his staff._ _ _

___"Can I help you dress first?"_ _ _

___Sherlock dissolved down into tears of relief, choosing to blindly trust that this was not a trap. He nodded, shifting in an effort to try and manage his trousers himself again, frightened with the idea of needing help but more focused on going home than anything else._ _ _

___Mycroft gently and swiftly pulled Sherlock's trousers up, then put the blankets back down and took a step away. "Nobody is going to hurt you, 'Lock. I promise. Can I get a chair for you?"_ _ _

___Sherlock's heart sank as Mycroft behaved as though leaving. "Y-You....you'll c-come back f-f-for me though...y-you s-s-said I can go h-home. You'll c-come back...you'll...you'll c-come back."_ _ _

___He drew his fingers to his lips, frightened with the idea of Mycroft leaving him there._ _ _

___"I will come back," Mycroft assured and stepped into the hallway. He wasn't gone for more than ten seconds before he reappeared with the chair._ _ _

___Mycroft wheeled the chair in beside the bed and looked to Sherlock. "May I help you?"_ _ _

___Sherlock was already trying to get himself off the table, clutching at the blankets while he attempted to move himself, dropping his feet over the edge. His breathing was wild with exertion but he kept at it, his mind focused on home, if he could only get home, he'd surely be alright._ _ _

___He would heal, and John would help, and he'd be alright. He just had to get home._ _ _

___ _

___"I'm going to help you," Mycroft said gently before Sherlock could put any weight down on his leg. He was careful not to touch Sherlock anywhere personal and gently lowered him into the chair before withdrawing again._ _ _

___Sherlock reached out and grabbed the blanket from the bed. He still did not quite believe that he was safe, that this was not all a horrific trick. Burying his face in the blanket, he did his best to keep silent, shoulders trembling, thinking only of home._ _ _

___Mycroft wheeled Sherlock down the hall and to the steps. "I'm going to carry you, if that's alright. There is a nice aid here to help me get you home. Would it be okay if he drove, and carried the chair down?"_ _ _

___Sherlock was apparently attempting to chew his fingertips off. "I...I d-don't c-c-care," he whispered in French, eyes darting everywhere, flinching at the suggestion of movement from anyone. Outside was both blissful and terrifying. He pulled the blankets up high, frightened and cowering, though his mind was sharply focused on nothing more than home._ _ _

___Mycroft lifted his little brother into his arms and carried him down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he say on the last step and text Jared. The man appeared after a moment and quietly set the chair next to the brothers before hurrying for the car._ _ _

___"Sherlock, we're going to be outside for just a moment, but it's going to be safe. You're safe."_ _ _

___Sherlock clutched at his brother, shuddering with fear as he hid his face under Mycroft's jaw, breathing tight and chaotic. He could not make himself speak. He just wanted to go home. Just home. He'd be alright he just had to go home and it would be fine, he'd be safe._ _ _

___Mycroft wheeled Sherlock into the car park and gently lifted him into the car. "You're alright," he murmured. "Everything is alright."_ _ _

___Then, to Jared, "Baker Street."_ _ _


	16. Chapter 16

The car sped off and Mycroft cradled Sherlock in his lap. He had no idea why he was doing this, but at this point he was just desperate for Sherlock to feel safe. He'd been foolish to think his house could ever be Sherlock's home. 

Sherlock had pulled himself into a little ball, as much as was possible for him at least. He had no interest in looking out the windows, focusing on breathing into the space between his knees, tears streaming down his face. 

_Just get home. Just get home. Just get home. You'll be safe. John will be so glad to see you. John will help, John will fix it. Just get home and John will help. Just get home, just get home._

When they arrived outside of Baker Street, Mycroft pointed out the window. "Here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock unfolded from his brother's lap and turned slowly to look out the window. With a choked sob he reached for the window, his trembling palm shaking as he pressed it to the glass. "Pl-leas-se," he stammered, seeking out the handle with shuddering hands, trying to move out of the car. All he wanted was home.

Mycroft opened the door to the car and didn't bother with the chair. Jared opened the doors for him which Mrs. Hudson had left open, and the brothers went upstairs to the old flat. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply the scent of home, clinging to his brother as he looked around the flat, which was covered in a thin layer of dust. His heart sank and twisted as his voice cracked, screaming out into the darkness as he clung to Mycroft. 

"JOHN?!" 

He whimpered as he twisted in Mycroft's arms, taking in the details. It looked as though it had when he returned from his two years as a dead man, not at all lived in. A sob tore out of his throat and he screamed out in broken defeat for John once again. 

This was a mistake. Mycroft sat down on the couch and rocked Sherlock slowly. 

"I'm here. I'm here. You're alright. I'm here. John is safe, but he isn't here. I'm sorry."

" _JOHN_!" Sherlock screamed again, sobbing as the name echoed around the lifeless flat. He could not keep himself steady, panicked and crushed. John's chair was gone. John's throw from the sofa was gone. Sherlock wept as though he'd watched the man dying, crying out his fear and confusion. 

"John! _JOHN_!" he tore at his hair, staring at the place where John's chair had been, tears coating his lips and dripping down his chin, making the skin of his neck glisten. Soon enough the sound of his cries faded from desperation to overwhelming, crushing grief and despair. 

"H-He l-l-lef-ft m-me." he wept, his voice drenched in loss and grief, "H-He left m-m-me."

"No, he did not leave you. He was abducted. He never wanted to leave you forever." Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and rocked slowly. "He will come back. It's alright to grieve.”

Sherlock froze in place before sharply turning to his brother. "Abd-d-ducted?! J-John's m-missing?! Oh g-g-god take me b-back! Take me b-back! Take me b-back he has _John_?! He has JOHN! M-My! T-Take me b-back!" 

"Shit! Sorry, no, no, that was nearly two years ago! He's back now. Moriarty and Moran are dead! John is at Greg's!" 

Sherlock struggled with that information, trying to put it together. 

_Two years? Two....two years how...how could it be two years....I could not have survived two years._

Fear ripped through him, not understanding at all what was going on. He screamed for John again, damning himself for not being able to stand up and walk, "JOHN!" His voice cracked with the force of his screams, shouting loud enough to be heard on the street. 

"This will pass," Mycroft whispered. "You'll be alright soon. I love you. I'm here for you. Would it help if you called him? Or if you tried to sleep? Do you know what happened?"

Sherlock ignored his brother, carrying on screaming for John until his brow was slick with sweat and his voice had gone out, only cracking and squeaking as he tried to shape John's name. He was _home_ and John had to be as well. He needed help, needed a doctor, _his_ doctor. There was no one else that could help him, that he would let touch him. John would know how to fix it, he would know how to fix it. The extent of Sherlock's wounds frightened him severely, but John would come with steady hands and calm words and he would put Sherlock back together, he would. 

His head pounded as he sobbed between desperate efforts to scream for John, sure that if he could only keep up long enough, John would hear him and come, surely John would come. 

"Sherlock, please! Please calm down! I'll get John! I will!" Mycroft's voice cracked in desperation and he tears streaked down his face. "I'll get him for you! I'm so sorry. I just wanted to help you. I just...we'll call John, okay? Is that okay?"

Sherlock could not understand, not at all. "H-Hasn't he...I've b-b-been m-missing! H-as he f-forg-gotten m-me?" 

His voice was a scratchy mess, hardly audible from wearing himself hoarse, "I'm h-hurt I n-n-need a d-doctor...I'm bleeding I n-need J-John! I need J-John." 

He looked back to where John's chair was missing, crying out sharply at its absence, "h-he m-m-moved away! He's...I n-need… _he's gone!_ " 

He looked back to his brother in terrified anguish. "T-Tell your m-men...t-tell them t-t-to shoot m-me." 

"No! No, I shouldn't have done this. I'm bringing you home. My home. We're going to my home." Mycroft picked Sherlock up and headed back to the door. "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to, but we have to go home."

Sherlock thrashed in Mycroft's arms, gagging as he tried to scream again, nothing but a pathetic whisper tearing from his lips as he struggled against Mycroft. 

"N-NO! I w-want to st-tay h-home _please_ don't t-take m-me back!" 

He managed to grab hold of the door jamb, using every last bit of his strength as sheer, crystalline terror tore his mind apart. He thought they'd left Moran's, and now they were going back. He used his free hand to push against Mycroft, anguished cries of betrayal and horror ripping out of his chest as blind panic set him fighting for his life. 

"Okay!" Mycroft nearly lost hold of Sherlock and sat down in the doorway right where they were. 

"I'm sorry! Please stop crying! I'm so sorry!" 

Mycroft rocked faster now for his own sake and pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel himself tipping over the edge of a breakdown and he did not like it. If they stayed, Sherlock would be in pain. If they left, Sherlock would be in pain. 

"I-I'm trying," Mycroft sobbed.

Sherlock sat there, panting and dizzy with exhaustion now that the immediate threat had ended. A new idea sparked in his head, desperate for help. He could see the stairs over Mycroft's shoulder and suddenly cried out with all he had. 

"MRS. HUDSON," _please be here, please still live here, god please be here_ , "H-HUDSON!" 

Again he began fighting against the man claiming to be his brother, terrified that he was moments away from being dragged back to Moran. 

"No, Sherlock, she's not here right now. Besides, you know screaming scares her! Please be calm! Please!" 

Mycroft let out a hitched breath and held Sherlock's head to his chest. 

"P-Please, I-I-I'm t-trying!"

The fight died right out of Sherlock. What did it matter if he was taken back? They'd all left him, he was alone. Baker Street was a tomb, John's effects gone, Mrs. Hudson gone, all of it forgotten. 

He sagged down, going still and quiet, silently sobbing as he lamented remaining alive. He went as lax as if he'd blacked out, no longer caring. He would be dragged back and hopefully he would die sooner rather than later. 

"Sherlock?!" Mycroft held his head up and searched his face. 

"Please, are you alright? Sherlock?" Mycroft's heart hammered in his chest and he checked Sherlock's pulse before doubling over and letting out a sharp cry of distress. 

"I-I'm trying," he cried, "I-I'm trying! I p-promise!"

Sherlock's head rolled limply to the side and he stared into his old sitting room, eyes resting on his violin case. A thick layer of dust had settled over it, the side locks still open. He'd not closed the case lid. Perhaps John or Mrs. Hudson had absently done so before leaving it all behind. Tears dripped off the end of his nose, falling to the floor that wanted for a proper polish.   
Sluggishly he looked to the sofa, where he'd so often curled up, waiting for John or thinking on some problem. His book was still over the edge of the sofa, parted like a tent over the armrest. How he longed to simply curl up on the familiar cushions and lay there until he starved. 

He was oblivious to the man holding him, not trusting that it was Mycroft, that he was safe. He'd be taken back, and it would resume until he was finally too injured to survive. "I'm s-sorry, John," he breathed into the air of his only home, loathing the void where John's chair should be. 

Mycroft pressed his face against the crook of Sherlock's neck and cried. He wept with dejection and depression that had been building around him like a wall for the past months,and now he couldn't help but break. 

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," he stammered and let out another sob. "I-I am t-t-tr-trying! I p-pr-promise!"

Sherlock endured without much focus, staring out at the wreckage that was left of his life. He wanted to go to bed, to wrap up in his own blankets and lie on his mattress and pretend that John was still there. He wanted tea from Mrs. Hudson and to wrap his fingers around the neck of his violin and pluck out soft notes as he escaped into his mind. All the things he'd taken for granted, now wanted more than anything. 

He was completely lax, shivering and in silent tears, simply waiting for the pain to start again. 

Mycroft wept until he was exhausted and empty. When he was left with hitching breath and burning eyes, he lifted Sherlock again and carried him into his room. Sadly, Mycroft drew the black sheets back and laid his little brother down. 

"I'm trying," he whispered again. "I've got you. I'll stay right here."

Sherlock gripped at his sheets, turning his face into the familiar feel of his bed and sobbing quietly. He held fast, rolling to his stomach and trying to hide away. It did not matter if that man stayed with him or not. His goal, the best he could hope for, was to die where he was. Death at Baker Street was as good as it could get. He breathed in the dusty smell of the long neglected sheets, long since losing the scent of laundry soap, and closed his eyes. For a few blissful seconds, he could imagine John above him, silent because he was sleeping.

Mycroft sat down on the floor and text Greg. 

_I can't do this alone. I need help. I need you and John. Sherlock and I are at Baker Street. Sherlock won't leave. He's screamed for John for the past hour. Anything you can give would help._

Mycroft then knelt at Sherlock's side and put his face down on the sheets. "I'm sorry, 'Lock." 

Sherlock did not respond to Mycroft. He kept his face down, hiding, heart aching for John and Mrs. Hudson. He tucked his fingers to his lips and slowed his mind down, keeping silent as he ached to die. 

_You took him to Baker Street? Why on earth are you two at Baker Street! I will talk to John, let me talk to John. Hold tight._

Greg sat shaking with nerves next to John. "Are...could you talk to me?"

John shifted in Greg's arms and blinked up at him. He felt like a child who'd done something horribly wrong, but he was doing everything in his power to stay calm, keep the guilt at bay, and take care of his Greg. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm alright." In truth, it was incredibly taxing.

Greg took a slow breath and ran his hand through his hair. He had nothing left in him, no endurance to lie or to try and coat words. 

"John...Mycroft was having a hard time with Sherlock, and they are at Baker Street. Apparently Sherlock has been screaming for you for the last hour, and Mycroft can't calm him down." 

John nodded. He did not want to go back to Baker Street. Not at all. There would be triggers and fear and pain. He would be useless and feel even more guilty than before. 

"Okay. I'll go help him." 

Greg inhaled slowly and watched his John very closely. 

"John...don't do this if you can't. We can just call Sherlock. How about we just call? Then maybe we can go to Mycroft's in a few days, alright? Could you speak to him on the phone?"

John gave a curt nod. "I want to help him. I'll call and see. I'll see if he needs me." He reached out and wrapped Greg in his arms for comfort. 

"You'll tell me if I'm doing it wrong, right? You'll stop me if I'm hurting him?"

Greg nodded and texted Mycroft. 

_John can call him now, if you think that will help._

He looked back to John and swept his fingers through his hair. "Are you...I know you don't like me asking this John but I...if...I don't want you to do this if you can't. Please don't do this if you can't. It's very brave and admirable of you to do this, it is selfless and kind, but you don't need to sacrifice yourself for this okay? I...I just want you to know that you don't have to do this." 

John reached out and brushed his fingers through Greg's hair lovingly. That was his goal. He needed to make Greg feel important and loved. Aside from that, he needed to help Sherlock. 

"I can call, love. I can. As long as I am not hurting him, I can do this. Please tell me if I'm doing it right. Tell me what to say, even." John was so very clearly stressed. He looked about the room as if for guidance and made the little hole at the corner of his blanket bigger with his rubbing. 

"Let's call now."

Greg leaned in and pressed his lips softly to John's. He lingered there, trying to infuse as much peace and calm as he could. "I have you, and you're safe. He's a mess right now, but you are safe and far away from him." 

He dialed Mycroft's number, keeping hold of the phone and waiting for Mycroft to answer. 

John shoulders lost their tension at Greg's kindness. "Thanks, love," he murmured and held the phone. 

Mycroft picked up immediately and tried to get Sherlock's attention. "Hey, 'Lock, I've got John on the phone. Your John. Do you want to talk to him?"

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, silently weeping into his pillow. He did not react to Mycroft, no longer trusting that the man at his side to be who he said he was.

Mycroft put the phone on speaker phone and set it on the bed. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice was hesitant. "Hey, I heard you were...were upset."

Sherlock sank his fingers into his hair, pulling tight. We're they going to start hurting him there in his bed, at Baker Street?

"Wh-what g-game is this?" He whispered through his tears. Fear laced his words, small and feeling so very alone.

"Oh, God," John breathed in empathy, "it's not a game. No games. None. No. Not a game. This is real and true and honest. Nothing to figure out. No game. No game."

Sherlock was quiet as he tensed, heart racing so fast it was making him sick.

"J-John is g-gone...he's gone...he...this isn't..." another terrified sob cut him off as he covered the back of his head, "d-dust...only dust. E-Even she forgot m-me."

John put the phone closer to his mouth and spoke loudly. "Baskerville! Remember Baskerville? We were all confused. It's like that now. You're just confused. I...I can come to Baker Street if you want.”

Sherlock lay there in fearful tears, quiet as he tried to sort it out.

"Pl-l-lease I...I d-don't understand th-the g-game...I don't understand h-how t-to...what do y-you want...t-tell m-me what you want m-me to do."

"No games! Honest. Free. Safe." John used words that he had loved to hear in hopes it would be the same for Sherlock. 

"Free rest. Time off from the game. No more games. This is real. I am John. I want to help you."

Sherlock went very quiet, looking to the man claiming to be his brother with full expectation of knife or whip.

"Please," he sobbed, "I d-don't know what y-you want."

Mycroft let out a sad breath and reached for his brother before letting his arms fall. "I'm sorry, 'Lock. I'm doing everything I know how."

 

It was all so confusing and overwhelming. Sherlock pinched his eyes closed and some to the disembodied voice that was John, as he always did when list and terrified.

"I n-n-never...n-never h-hurt him-m. Y-you can m-make...m-me say...until I c-can't speak...b-but I n-never..."   
He stopped as a sob tore from his chest, dragging his face over his dusty pillow. 

"Y-you m-made him...h-hate m-me...made him l-leave...b-but you c-can't change....can't t-tell m-me that....that I h-harmed him."

"You never hurt John," Mycroft stated at the same time John exclaimed; "You never hurt me!"

Mycroft did not know who he was to his brother, and thus held back.

John, however, turned to Greg. "We need to go to him. He thinks we left him. We can't leave him." It was a point of stress for John to be left behind, and thus he was adamant against doing it to others. 

Greg shook his head, already knowing the idea to be terrible. Sherlock may be lost, but that did not mean John could find him.

Sherlock flinched terribly and wept into his sheets. He screamed, the sound muffled by his pillow. Soon he was tearing at his hair, drawing his legs in to shield himself.

John flinched at the scream and looked imploringly to Greg. "We need t-to do something! He's hurting!"

Greg reached out to pull John into his arms. "Mycroft, what is happening?"

When Mycroft spoke, he sounded nothing like his former self. "H-He was so scared of m-me and wanted h-home and so I brought him but it made it worse and I tried to leave but he started _thrashing_ and screaming and grabbed the door frame and now he wants John. Please bring us John." 

Greg ran a hand over his face, scratching at the back of his neck. Without warning he muted the line.

"John. This sounds like too much for you. We can send Paul, and when Sherlock is calmer we can call him again?"

"He won't be calmer! He won't! He asked for me! That is all he's asked for. He went to hell for me and I can at least visit!" 

John grabbed Greg's hands and squeezed. "Help me do this." 

Greg inhaled sharply and pointed to the phone. "John, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't seem to remember what happened to you. He was surprised to find no one living at Baker Street, this is different than the last time you visited him he's terrified. John, he doesn't know what's going on and listen to the state he has _Mycroft Holmes_ in. We should send Paul and have him sedate Sherlock, if he's physically fighting Mycroft he's...that's not a good situation for you to be in." 

John nodded and did his best to calm down. He desperately wanted to sound like an adult but was being pulled towards childish behavior. 

"I want to help," he whispered. "But we can send Paul instead. That's okay. We can do that."

Greg clicked the unmute and spoke swiftly to Mycroft, clearly hearing Sherlock sobbing in fear in the background, bits of French and other languages he could not identify speckled with John's name over and over.   
"I'm going to send Paul, you should just sedate him and take him home. We can talk when you've got the situation under better control, but I can't bring John into this, Mycroft, I' am sorry. I don't think it will help, Sherlock doesn't sound lucid at all." 

"Please," Mycroft breathed. He'd lost his logical control, and now only wanted to do what Sherlock asked, not what he needed. 

"Please just bring John. He needs John. Please bring John. Please." 

With a shattered sob he dropped the phone and reached out for Sherlock. "Please, 'Lock, I'm your brother."

Sherlock cried out in pure fear, absolutely choking on his own horrified tears, no longer able to form words. He screamed out for John again, his hoarse voice cracking. 

"J-" he gagged on the sound, breathing wild and audible, " _JOHN!_ " 

The scream ripped out of his chest and he shoved hard away from Mycroft. 

Greg swore and muted the line again, holding tight to John. "He's panicking, he's just lost...I...I can go there myself and you and Paul can stay here."

Mycroft clutched Sherlock regardless of the shoving. "Please! It's me! I'm here! I love you! I am your _brother_!" Mycroft pressed his face against Sherlock's chest to avoid the shoves and squeezed his eyes shut. 

John was doing well, all things considered, but he was falling. "Send P-Paul, I don't...If you go, I want to go to. I can't not have you."

Greg was already calling for Paul, shouting over the chaos on the phone. Mycroft had never begged him for help ever, not ever. This was intolerable. 

"Mycroft, help is coming," he called out through the line, "help is coming."

He again muted the call to speak with John as Paul came in. Greg took one look at the doctor and shouted, "Take a kit and go to Baker Street right now. Right now!" 

He sat up and sat John up with him. "I have to go help Mycroft. I have to. What if Miller stayed here with you? I can come back and get you when everything is calm, but I have to help Mycroft. He's never been like this before, John. He's helped me so many times I have to go to him." 

John snaked his arms around Greg's waist and locked his hands together behind his back. "I'm sorry, but I can't. I need to come with you. I'll be calm. I'll wait in my room. I'll stay away and not interfere, but I can't...I don't want to be left here."

Greg swallowed hard and nodded, "What about Baker Street, that's where I'm going right now, Baker Street. Do you want to wait in the car? I have to do this, I'm so sorry. I'm going to give you twice your normal anxiety medicine, maybe we can keep you calm. I- damn it, I'm so sorry." 

He heard Paul leave the flat, picking the phone back up and flinching at the chaos over the line. Sherlock sounded to be fighting with all he had. "I'm coming, Mycroft, I'm on my way."   
John reluctantly let go of Greg's waist when he was certain that he wasn't going to be left behind. "I-I was worried you wouldn't come back," he whispered, even though he was well aware in his logical mind that Greg wouldn't do that to him. 

"I'll just go up to my room and wait. I'll be alright. I don't want you to go without you." In truth, he didn't want to go to Baker Street either. He wanted to be able to remember it for what it was, not taint it with horrible sights of the present. 

But Greg was going, so he was too.

Greg kept the phone to his ear and tried to catch Mycroft's attention. "Myc, get on the line with me. Mycroft! Pick up the phone and speak to me," he called out, trying to get his attention, "come on Mycroft talk to me. I need you to talk to me." 

Mycroft picked up the phone and tried to speak clearly. "Please bring John," he stammered, "Sherlock needs him. He...he keeps screaming, and nothing I do helps. Please, get John. Please."

Greg took a deep breath as he held John's hand and called Gladstone. "Mycroft, I'm coming. I need you to calm down. Paul should be there any minute. Could we sedate him and get him back to your place? Keep calm, John has had days like this as well, remember? It will pass, keep calm." 

"O-Okay," Mycroft said softly. 

"I'll bring Sherlock home...I will, I...I'm sorry. I'm being irrational. I shouldn't have done this." 

He reached out for Sherlock again and pleaded with him softly. 

"Sherlock, please, look at me. Please. Please."

Greg shook his head, starting to tell Mycroft not to apologize when Sherlock screamed and there was a loud crash on the other end of the line. "Mycroft?" He shouted, holding John close to him as they made for the door. He stopped to tip twice as many of the anxiety pills into John's hand as he normally took, "Mycroft what happened?" 

Sherlock was on the floor now, having thrashed so far away that he went clean over, taking a table down to his side with him. He was dragging himself back across the floor, pale and bleeding now from the pins in his arm. 

"PLEASE!" he shouted, falling back into desperate sobbing, "d-d-don't! N-No more! Please!" 

Mycroft swore and dropped the phone. He went after Sherlock and picked him up again. "Brother! It's me! I'm My! My!" He placed Sherlock back into bed and bundled the covers up around him. "You're alright. You're okay. Sherlock, please, help is coming. Do you want to see Lestrade?"

Sherlock screamed as he fought hard against the hands holding him down, the restraints being applied. "NO PLEASE D-DON'T DON'T PLEASE!" 

He sounded very small, terror blinding him as he fought without understanding, absolutely sure that he was about to be strapped down and beat until he couldn't see. 

Greg kept the phone to his head and turned to kiss John. "Can you do this? It's bad, I have to go." 

Mycroft let go immediately and dug his fingers into his hair. "Jesus...I'm so sorry, I am...I'm just so sorry." He stood still and simply prayed Sherlock didn't throw himself off the bed again. 

John kissed Greg back and held on to his hand. "Yeah. I can. I just need to stay with you."

Greg hung up the call, unable to listen to it any longer. The effort to move from their flat to the cab was difficult, and Greg was doing his best to keep John as calm as he could. Paul's car was already parked outside of 221. Greg took a deep breath and turned to John, who had Gladstone on his lap. 

"Can you keep present with me? Remember that you are safe?" 

Inside, Paul was standing next to Mycroft, watching Sherlock huddled on the floor in the corner between the dresser and the wall where he'd managed to flee, dragging himself to what he interpenetrated as the safest place in his home. In his mind, they'd freed him only to take him to the one place in the world where he felt safe and take him apart there. Paul spoke very softly to Mycroft. 

"We are going to just have to hold him down and sedate him. He doesn't have a port, it's not going to be easy." 

John got out of the cab into ta place so familiar and so very alien. John stood plastered to Greg's side and took little steps towards his old home. "I'm okay," he whispered. "I'm alright. I'm okay." He opened the door and peeked inside. "Oh, God," he muttered and let out a soft sob. He was about to reach out and touch the wall as if to confirm it was real when he heard Sherlock scream. 

Mycroft was trying in vain to hold Sherlock's arm still without making him feel restrained.

Sherlock had fallen into choked, panicked begging, doing what he could to bargain with the men in the room. 

"PLEASE! I'll- N- ST- ST-OP! I'll- G-God not- JOHN! _JOHN PLEASE!_ " he was fighting with them to the best of his ability, twisting and thrashing, nose bleeding from pure stress. He knew John wouldn't come, but he could not help crying out for help. 

"JOHN! Pl-lease god n-not n-n-needles PLEASE I'll...n-no, wait! WAIT! L-Let m-m-me t-talk to Moran- let m-m-me talk to M-MORAN PLEASE STOP STOP!" 

He screamed again and tore at his hair, kicking out his useless legs and thrashing against Paul and Mycroft with all that he had. Paul put a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder to keep him still, shifting to try and catch his flailing legs. "Sherlock, you've got to be still, calm down Sherlock." 

Greg kept John to him, swearing at the sounds above them. He'd only heard Sherlock like that on the tapes, never in person. It was wildly disturbing. "Do you want to wait here," he asked John, keeping a grip on him as he steadied Gladstone who was growling at the base of the stairs. 

"I want to go to my room," John whispered and curled in on himself. He scampered up the steps and stared at his room. It was incredibly strange to see. He felt out of place in it and crossed his arms over his chest as he looked around. Slowly he reached out and touched his bed, which had a thin layer of dust on it and had been made, but not slept in. He looked around at his things and wondered how he had been able to leave them behind when he went to Africa. They were all so precious. He reached out and took a small flier, one that advertised a tour to see the vicious hound of Baskerville. It was faded and torn a bit from where John had folded it and tucked it into his pocket, and John shook the dust off it. It came crashing back on him, all at once, and John rushed to curl up on his bed. He could pretend it didn't happen in here. He could look across the room and pretend this never happened. Sherlock was downstairs shouting about how he had no case. There was something horrid in the microwave. He could imagine it. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock's and pinned them to his chest. "'Lock! You're okay!" 

Greg rushed to Mycroft's side, hitting his knees and moving so that he could get behind Sherlock, slinging his arm over Sherlock's chest. He held him tight while Paul struggled to find a vein. 

The man wrapped at Sherlock’s back was too much, far too much, and as he tasted blood on his lips, which was now smeared as though he'd been struck across the face, his eyes rolled back in his head and he went very still, seconds before starting to seize. Greg swore, turning Sherlock's head to the side as the man began to violently buck and thrash under his hands, waiting for Paul to push the drugs. 

Five minutes later, they were all sitting around a bloody, bile-soaked Sherlock who lay limp and unconscious against Greg's chest. "Christ," Greg whispered, sweeping Sherlock's curls off his forehead. 

Mycroft was left clutching Sherlock and sobbing. "I-I should bring him home," he whispered. "I should... I need to...god, nothing I do helps! Nothing! He hardly ever even knows it's me!" 

Greg let go of Sherlock, moving around him as he handed him off to Mycroft. He crouched at Mycroft's side while Paul took to taking care of Sherlock's vitals and making sure he was alright after the seizure. Greg put his hand on Mycroft's back, speaking softly to him. 

"John did this too, John...John threw me out, wouldn't see me, was terrified of me, remember? You always told me it would pass, and it always did. This," he pointed to the bloody man in Mycroft's arms, hissing as Sherlock again began to vomit even unconscious, sickly green bile trickling down from the corner of his lips, "this isn't normal, Myc." 

He got up and went to Sherlock's bathroom, bringing back towels to help, starring as Sherlock began to jerk in Mycroft's arms again. He swore under his breath as Sherlock tipped into a second seizure, not yet conscious from the first. Paul moved back, getting another sedative drawn up as he called Miller. Greg went to Mycroft's side, helping him keep hold of Sherlock as a much more minor wave of electrical chaos tore through his brain. 

Mycroft held Sherlock as he seized and stared off at the opposite wall. He couldn't find words as the other spoke, and instead rocked Sherlock as he jerked and seized. When Greg came back with towels, Mycroft pulled Sherlock away before blinking at him. "Sorry... Sorry..." 

He took one of the towels and started gently cleaning Sherlock's face as tears streamed down his own. His hands were shaking violently and he held Sherlock's seizing head to his chest despite the blood and bile. 

Greg ran his hand gently over Mycroft's back. "He's okay...just breathe, he's okay. Miller and Paul are going to help him, and he's going to be alright. He's okay. Just breathe Myc, just breathe." 

Paul easily got the secondary seizure under control. Sherlock was again very still, though his breathing was erratic. Greg helped Mycroft try and clear off Sherlock's face. "Easy, let...here let me help get this away from his airway. He's...let's just wait, Miller is on his way. It's alright." 

Mycroft slapped Greg's hand away from Sherlock's face. "Don't! Don't! He doesn't like cloths on his face! You can't cover his mouth or go near his nose!" Mycroft scooted Sherlock away and bent over him, rocking furiously.

"You m-must be careful!"

Greg pulled his hands back, startled at Mycroft's behavior. "His breathing is off, Myc," he said very gently. Paul was on the phone with Miller, getting instructions, but it was clear to anyone in earshot that Sherlock needed help with his airway. 

"Mycroft, I need you to focus, he needs help breathing properly. He won't see the cloth, we are not hurting him." 

Again he scooted close and tried to soothe the distraught brother down, "It's alright, it is alright." 

Mycroft nodded and slowly released Sherlock. He lead him back onto the bed and drew his own arms back to his chest. "Sorry...sorry...I am n-not feeling well..." He reached out and took the towel to keep cleaning Sherlock. "Over reacted. Over reacted. Calm. Calm. Need to be calm." 

Greg calmed down when he saw that Mycroft was not going to resist. He followed Mycroft as he carried Sherlock over to his bed, helping him settle Sherlock and watching as Mycroft worked to clean his brother off. 

Paul came back in, sitting down close to Mycroft. 

"Miller is not surprised at the seizures. Sherlock is likely to wake within the next few minutes, Miller wants us to see if we can transport him without knocking him down with harder sedation." 

He clipped the little portable monitor to Sherlock's finger and then turned to address Mycroft himself. 

"Can you slow down your breathing?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Attempting," he gasped and swore when his shaking hands dropped the towel. "I'm trying. Trying. I keep messing up. I'm...I'm not suited for this job. I need guidance."

Greg shook his head and slid an arm around Mycroft's shoulders, picking up the towel he'd dropped and tucking it under the side of Sherlock's face to catch the still-flowing blood. "They change from day to day, from hour to hour sometimes. That's not your fault. He loves you, you provide him great comfort. Slow breathing. In and out, just breathe right now. Paul and I can watch Sherlock, just breathe." 

Mycroft stayed calm for a few moments before letting out another sob. He doubled over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's stomach. He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside out, a grief that was so incredibly unfamiliar to his controlled mind that it removed all logic and drove instead the need to seek comfort. 

"H-He isn't m-making progress like John d-did with you!"

Greg gently rubbed at Mycroft's back, watching as Paul turned Sherlock's head far to the side to keep his airway as clear as possible. Sherlock's breathing was rattled and sickly sounding. 

"John...John didn't want someone he couldn't have, either. He...I can't imagine what this would be like for him if he wanted Sherlock and couldn't have Sherlock with him. That's not your fault. They were both treated very different. John...it's different with John. If he was...was homesick for Sherlock and wanted his friend...he wouldn't be better no matter what I did. You are doing an amazing job with him, Mycroft. Truly." 

Mycroft shook his head and let out a small cry of distress. "He hasn't gotten ANY BETTER! It's been so long! He won't eat or drink, or even try! I can get him to be lucid, but when he's lucid he's horribly depressed because he's privy to what is actually going on!"

Paul stepped out of the room, seeking out Jared to get some information from him. He wandered down to the ground level and found the man outside. "Mind if I ask you a few things about Sherlock?" 

Greg swallowed hard and carried on rubbing Mycroft's back. "He seemed very calm and put together with John when John fled to your house. He's gained a bit of weight. John only recently began to accept liquids and food and it's been a year for him. This all just takes an incredible amount of time, Mycroft." 

Mycroft rocked himself and Sherlock as he struggled for control. "I know! It takes so much time! But I need t-to work eventually! I don't want to have to start from the bottom again. And I-I need money! Not now, but...I am keeping three professionals employed full time, two are the best in their field, as well as a part time staff for my house, rent for my house, rent for your flat, food for all of us, John' s medication, Sherlock's treatment...I'm fine for now, but for years? Decades?"

Greg nodded, fully understanding that. "John and I can move out of my flat. Miller will not have to stay on as staff. Paul will not have to be live in. That aside, you can work. You've got that aid to help him. You're doing fine, Mycroft. This is....it's damned hard work and you are doing fine." 

"He doesn't like the aid!" Mycroft exclaimed in dismay. 

"H-He tries so hard for m-my sake but h-he doesn't get comfort from h-him. I-I won't be able to leave him! What sort of person would that make me?" 

Greg tentatively reached up and ran his palm over Mycroft's hair. It was an odd thing to do for a man so independent as Mycroft Holmes, but the poor man needed something to help calm him. 

"Give him time, just give him time. John is here, in this flat. They...who knows, they might find some common ground, and that will make it easier to have you leave for work. I can start drawing from my pension. Calm down, Mycroft. Focus. Take a few deep breaths. Let's see if we can't get his nose to stop bleeding? He's a mess, let's see if we can't help." 

He was trying to pull Mycroft's focus from his own personal hell back to helping his brother. 

"John is here?" Mycroft looked up once he'd processed it. "And he didn't come help? Why didn't he...Is he ever going to come for Sherlock? Is that ever going to happen? I need to know. What does John say? Be honest with me. I need to know."

Greg nodded, pointing up. "John is here. He wanted to help Sherlock from the moment you asked for it. He doesn't miss Sherlock, but that is likely due to what was done to him. He's scared, Mycroft. How could he possibly have helped here? They would have terrified each other. John doesn't want to be here, as in Baker Street, at _all_ , but he came anyhow. He's perfectly willing to help. I...I don't know if he wants to be Sherlock's friend again or not, I can't predict that, but he always wants to help when called."  
"That's good enough," Mycroft said and slowly felt the weight lift off him. As long as John was always there when he needed help, he'd be alright. "A few days ago you were ready to shoot yourself. I understand why."

Greg decided he wasn't going to talk about that. His arms still ached terribly, and he was still absolutely ready to put a round in his head. Mycroft had shown that he wasn't Greg's friend, had made it clear that Greg was just a detail to him, which was fine but still painful all the same. He tugged at his sleeves to hide the row of stitching. 

"I- right. Well. Whatever I can do to help. John will acclimate to your home and..the details will sort themselves." 

"Please don't kill yourself," Mycroft muttered with his face still pressed against Sherlock. "I would be sad. That sounds so childish. All of this feels so childish." 

Mycroft sat up and wiped tears from his eyes. 

"I wish Sherlock and John had been killed rather than this. When they were together and happy. We all...my family would not have been surprised had Sherlock died. Devastated for our little 'Lock, but not entirely surprised. You and I worked so hard to keep him alive, and now it seems like I kept him alive just to send him to this."

Greg shook his head. "No. No that's not true. It's not. There are rough patches, yes, and this is hell. But John is better off for having lived, and I believe Sherlock will be too. If they had died, they'd have done so in agony, feeling unloved. That's not acceptable. Here, they know someone loves them, right? Someone loves them." 

He decided to bypass Mycroft's shallow plea that he live. He took a deep breath and nodded, "I think John will be around if you need him." 

"I mean died before. In something normal, like a car crash. Let them have never experienced this." 

Mycroft rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and breathed slowly. "But they have, so I'm going to do everything I can to make there be a good life after it."

Sherlock's fingers began to twitch. Greg nudged Mycroft and pointed. "His nose is still going, it's going to scare him if he's anything like John. Let's help him, see if he can't be calm, and if he can't I don't want you holding him down, let me do it, okay?" 

Mycroft cleaned Sherlock's face again. And again. "Help him," he whispered. "I don't want to hold him down. Not ever. I hate it. Let's just bring him home now. Let's bring him home."

Greg sat down next to Sherlock and very lightly pinched the front of his nose. Sherlock began to shift and soon was whimpering under his breath. Greg looked to Mycroft, "I've got John upstairs. Maybe if you go get him, he can help keep Sherlock calm when he wakes. I can sit here with your brother, but I'm going to restrain him if he starts to panic." 

"Yes, yes, I'm getting John. Getting John." 

Mycroft was on his feet in a matter of seconds and tore up the stairs. He found John curled up in his bed, whimpering, clutching some paper. 

"John," he said very softly, "Sherlock needs help." 

The tortured man looked up with puffy, red eyes and his hands knotted up in the sheets. "I-I don't want to hurt him," he whispered in return. 

"You won't. Just be there for him. He's very, very sad. He loves you so much. Could you just go sit with him while he wakes up?"

John rubbed his eyes with his sheets that he had brushed the dust off of. "I'll help. I'll do that. Is Greg there? I want Greg. H-He didn't leave did he?!" 

Mycroft shook his head and took a step back. "No, he's with Sherlock. Let's go see Greg. Let's go to Greg." 

John was out of bed in the next moment and ran down the hall as best he could. He managed the stairs slowly, and soon he was beside Greg, arms around him. 

Greg kept one hand to Sherlock's nose, trying to stem the bleeding, while he wrapped an arm around John. He began to rock them, speaking softly to John. 

"He had a few seizures, likely from fright. Paul is downstairs talking to Jared, Sherlock's aid, and Sherlock is just starting to come back around. He was deeply confused when he went under. Please don't be surprised if that happens again. Are you alright? You are doing really, really well."

"I'm supposed to sit with him and help him," John insisted. "I'm going to do good, not bad. I'm going to help, not hurt." 

He gave Greg another squeeze and put one hip on the bed next to Sherlock. "Is it alright if I talk to him while he wakes up?"

Greg nodded as he watched Sherlock fight against unconsciousness, his expression slowly falling from lax and calm to painfully sad and frightened. He was still down, shifting on the bed as he groaned in pain. 

Greg whispered softly to John. "He might reach for you, John. He might try to reach for you. He won't hurt you, but if that's going to scare you then you should back up." 

"Thanks. I'll remember. As long as...As long as I'm not pinned or held still, I'll be alright." 

He looked to Sherlock then and gently touched his face. 

"Hey, Sherlock. I'll skip the pleasantries. You're sad because I'm not here. But I'm not that far away. You flinch when I say visit, so you want to live with me, but we...that isn't realistic right now. I'd say we could live at Mycroft's, but I have a home now, and I'd like to live there. Maybe after awhile you could come live with us. That could be nice, right?" 

He sighed and bowed his head. "I'm trying to do what is good, but it's hard."

Greg blinked in surprise, taken aback at John's abrupt and unexpected words. He refused to look at Mycroft, instantly regretting bringing John down. He'd not anticipated John rejecting outright the idea of staying in Mycroft's home. Sherlock was still trying to come up properly, but his eyes fluttered and tears began to slide down his face. Greg let go of Sherlock's nose, hoping it would suffice for slowing the bleeding. 

"John if you need to step out, then step out," he said quietly, shocked with John's behavior. 

"Sherlock, I know this is really, really scarry," John continued, absolutely undeterred by Greg's request. 

"But it gets a lot easier. I've been through it, sort of. Different, but the same things. I am so sorry. I wish I could have protected you from all this." 

He reached down and took Sherlock's hand, which had blood on the fingertips from all the chewing. "This will go away too. For me, it was digging my fingernails into my palms and scratching my thumb. But I've stopped mostly now. I'm okay. I'm getting better, and so will you. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, but I want you to know that I'm here, so I'll just say things until you wake up."

Greg watched closely as John spoke with kind distance. This was not John speaking to Sherlock, this was...it was just John fulfilling some odd sense of responsibility. There wasn't a warmth or familiarity at all in John's words. He could have been saying them to any other person on earth, the fact that it was Sherlock did not matter. John wasn't willing to go to Mycroft's with Greg. He wasn't willing to do much of anything, aside the occasional visit. Had it not been for Mycroft's loss of stability, Greg would have never come at all. 

Sherlock was slowly rousing, shifting as he quietly cried. He felt someone touching his hands and pulled them protectively to his chest, starting to whimper in terror. Greg kept a close eye on him, curious to see his reaction when he finally started to open his eyes. 

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said and drew his own hands away. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I promise you that. I never, ever meant to cause you harm." He reached out and tried something old and true; code. 

_I am John Hamish Watson. You are safe._

Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes, staring at John in open shock. His eyes darted over John's face, pulling his fingers to his lips before realizing he was bleeding. His focus shot to Greg, eyes going wide as he began to push himself back and away on the bed, already making choked sounds of fear before he found his strength.

John put his hands up, then decided perhaps Sherlock would feel safer if he was just on the floor. John sat down next to the bed and folded his arms over the sheets to rest his head on. 

"It's me," he said softly. "Just me and Greg. Mycroft is here too. Just outside. You're alright. Do you remember me?"

Sherlock nodded with his fingers in his mouth, frightened and looking between John and Greg before sweeping his eyes over his own room. He was home. He was home and John and… _Lestrade_...were there. He was in terrible pain and bleeding, he could taste it on his lips, but the Periodic Table was up and he was in his sheets. He felt the hazy fog over his mind, confused and afraid. 

"Y-You're John," he whispered, swiftly returning to biting on his fingers. 

John nodded and reached out his hand. Gently he took Sherlock's out of his mouth and held it between his own. "I don't want you to be in pain. Is there anything I can do to help you? I'm here to help. I heard you were calling for me, so here I am." 

He wanted Sherlock to know that it was as simple as that, and wished he believed it himself.   
Sherlock replaced the hand John had with his other, silent as he watched John for many long minutes. Finally he blurted out to him, "I...I th-thought M-My was h-h-here but....b-but he's...th-that m-m-man wasn't my b-brother. I...y-you don't l-live...l-live here an-nym-more," the statement made Sherlock immediately begin to cry like a child, quiet and heartbroken. 

"No, no I don't," John said quietly. "But I live in a nice flat with Greg, and I have offered to let you live there with us." 

John ran his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand in an affectionate way. 

"And that man was your brother, but I am very sorry your mind took that away from you. Maybe you have it back. Is it alright that I am here?" 

Sherlock nodded swiftly, keeping his eyes on John. It took him a moment to put together that Greg was Lestrade. He could see that John had been harmed, but that his wounds were old. He was deeply confused, struggling to understand what was going on. 

"Y-Your ch-chair...your th-things they...y-you're n-not...not g-going to c-come b-back, a-are you?" His hand was trembling terribly in John's as his heart twisted on itself. 

"I don't remember ever removing my things," John remarked. "Not the chair, anyway. Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson. Maybe...I don't know. Maybe I did move it? I don't see why though. I'm sorry. It's...it was good here, wasn't it? This was all good."

Sherlock's lip trembled as tears dripped down his face, closing his eyes as he nodded in agreement with John. It had been good, until John left, but it had been good. 

"I...I'm...I n-n-need h-help, John. He...he h-hurt m-me and...I thought if I c-came home....I th-thought I'd f-find y-you. But...b-but you...you're done with all th-this. You're...I'm n-not...you're done with..." he couldn't get the 'me' out, though the weight was so heavy he could hardly breathe. 

"I w-was...l-looking for you. Do...y-you want m-me to l-leave you alone?"

"No, Sherlock, I don't want you to leave me alone." John reached out and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. 

"I'm here because you called. You asked for me to be here, and now I am. I'm sorry this isn't our life anymore. I truly am. But we can be happy again. I've been happy since. You'll find something happy, and I'll stay with you just in case it's me."

Sherlock forced himself to keep his eyes on John. "H-Happy," he whispered, studying his former friend, the only man he'd ever loved. John and Greg were happy, while Sherlock was being..while he was trapped with Moran. It was all he needed to know.

"You...w-won't be....y-you aren't coming b-back." 

Heavy tears fell as he was slowly putting together that he'd missed something, that John hadn't been worrying or missing him. 

"I...w-will you...can you t-tell me when he's c-coming b-b-back? How long do I h-have?" His voice pitched like a child's and his expression crumpled, knowing it was all going to start again.

"I'll be coming back soon, Sherlock. I haven't even left yet." 

John's eyes were on his hands and he fought against the lump in his throat. 

"I-I will be here for you whenever you ask." 

He looked at Sherlock then and tried to put him together with the detective he used to care so much about. His face was stitched and bruised and bloodied and broken, his elegant hands gnarled, his brilliant mind reduced to that of a child. 

"Your eyes are the same," John remarked. "That hasn't changed. And you're still smarter than me. You're still pale and I'm still a war veteran. Not everything is different. We can be happy again, right? You and I? That was the best time of my life. It won't ever be the same, but I can try."

Sherlock focused on John, trying to understand what was being said. "Y-you are n-not going to...l-live...here again. You're...you've...G-Greg and...he's going to c-come take me b-back...I'm...he's going t-to....He won't let me die. N-not for a long...long t-time," panic slid over the child like tone of his voice, eyes clouding as he looked to his bedroom door.

"B-but you...you're s-safe...you'll f-forget m-me and you'll be....you'll be happy."

"Are you talking about Moran, or Mycroft?" John reached out and took Sherlock's hand again. "Because Moran is dead, and Mycroft loves you. You're safe." 

John opened his arms then in honest desire to be in Sherlock's arms, be it holding or being held. "Please?"

Sherlock wept openly as John offered his arms, nodding as tears poured down his bloodied face. He did not try and move, still very clearly expecting some trick. He was guarded despite his want of John's closeness, shuddering in anticipation of pain.

John crawled into the bed and slowly pulled Sherlock into his arms. He eased onto his side, where Sherlock could hopefully fall asleep, and ran his fingers through his hair. The smell of blood and bile and sweat and fear was all too familiar to John, and he took deep breathes through his mouth. 

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Sherlock. I am so sorry. You are a beautiful man, and a wonderful human being. You...You've saved my life more times and in more ways than I can count, and I only wish I could be more useful." John's voice cracked on the last word and he pressed his lips to the top of Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed and held his arms tight across his chest, wishing he could accept the comfort and safety at surface value. "I...I d-don't n-n-need you to...b-be useful. I...I o-only wish y-you still...that you..." he shook his head, unable to articulate it. 

He went very quiet, simply existing and waiting for the trick to expose itself, for Moran to walk in the room and laugh at Sherlock's belief that John was wasting any of his life on him. 

John reached out and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He held him as close as one would a lover or child, but it didn't appear to be enough. "I'm working on that, Sherlock. I've made so much progress. I know...I know it isn't enough, and...and I'm not there yet, but I'm trying to be what you need me to be. I love you. I promise I'll keep working on it."

Sherlock began to slowly, slowly drop his guard as John ran his fingers through his hair and refrained from screaming or begging to be taken away. No one was coming into the room, no sign of Moran, he was in incredible pain but it had not been made worse. He was okay, he was safe, surely. John was there, as he'd hoped, and while John wasn't trying to help him, he wasn't hurting him either and that was fantastic. 

"I...I'm g-going to m-miss...miss l-living w-with you. It was...w-was the best t-time of m-my life. I'm s-sorry I..." his hoarse voice cut off and he gave up trying, leaning into John as he tucked his fingers back into his lips and began to chew at the raw skin there. 

"It was the best time of my life too, Sherlock." John bent down and nestled his nose down in Sherlock's hair in a nuzzling, affectionate way. 

"You are a brilliant man. Brilliant. That was always the word I'd used. I think you're brilliant. Maybe..." John looked over to Greg for strength, then around Sherlock's room, to the periodic table the man surely didn't need but must have used as decoration. "...we could live here again."

Sherlock gripped John's hand, holding tight for a few moments before daring to speak. 

"You'd...you'd consider it? I'd...I'd do anything John, an-anything. I'd...y-you could l-live here w-with G-Greg and I would go down t-to C and n-never bother you. It...j-just knowing...I th-thought you'd b-be here, I n-need a d-doctor and...you n-never hurt m-me and...I'd m-move and you could....could be h-happy h-here w-with Greg and your chair, just as it sh-should have been. I...I wouldn't...n-not unless you i-invited m-m-me I'd st-tay d-down in C and y-you'd never know I was there." 

Tears kept on sliding down his face, dripping off his nose as a growing puddle of tears and blood bloomed on his old sheets. His nose had nearly stopped bleeding, but it was still giving him trouble. 

"M-Maybe...maybe if-f you and Greg were h-here...M-Moran wouldn't c-come back for m-me. He might forget I'm h-here." 

John looked at Sherlock with deep conflict in his eyes. That had been the first right thing he'd said this entire time. How the hell could he say no? 

"Then...then yes, Sherlock, not only will I consider it, but I'll plan on it. You'll be in C, but you can spend most of your time here with us. Or..." John realized that he wouldn't be in his room alone. He couldn't be away from Greg and sleep properly. 

"You could stay in here, and Greg and I will be upstairs. We can all live here. I'll be just up the stairs and I'll scare away Moran and I'll be your doctor again."

Sherlock opened his wet eyes and stared at John with wet, disbelieving eyes. For several minutes he said nothing, waiting for the shoe to drop, for the whip to crack or a blade to sink into his skin. Finally he whispered quietly, "I'll...a-ask if...if C c-can be m-made r-ready f-for m-me. I- oh g-god, John...I- th-thank you, oh god th-thank you I won't bother you, y-you won't s-s-see me I swear I'll...I'll stay down th-there and..." 

Just to hear John moving above him was more than he deserved. He could not help how his vision flooded and he squeezed John's hand, "I w-won't ever....e-ever bother y-you I'll...I'll st-tay...d-down there I j-just....knowing you're...h-here I-" he closed his eyes, squeezing on John's hand again, "I'll st-t-tay away...you u-used to like it here, yes? M-Maybe Mrs. Hudson w-will come back with you h-here, sh-she'll t-t-take c-care of you as well." 

"Okay, Sherlock, okay. It'll be okay. I'm glad I've done something right." 

John gave Greg a look that said _I am going to need help with this_ , then looked back to Sherlock. 

"But is it okay if we do that in just a little bit? Not too long, but, I mean...you need your doctor, and staff, and Mycroft might want to stay in his own home right now. How about you work out with Mycroft when you can come? I'll keep my bags packed so I can come live here at any time. I...I would like for you to know that I might have difficulties, and that if I get upset, I might cry and scream. I don't want to upset you. Noise canceling headphones? Music? I just want to help you, Sherlock."

Sherlock deflated as John spoke, the hope bleeding out of him. He let go of John, pulling his hands back to his chest and closing his eyes again. 

"O-oh...I- I h-have a d-doctor? I...y-you d-don't want...to be h-here. You don't w-want to be....h-here. I...stupid...stupid of m-m-me I...of c-course you...M-Moran is coming h-here and...you d-don't l-like m-m-me anymore and...." 

He sank his hands in his hair and pulled, shuddering as he let go of hope. "I am s-s-s-orry I...I th-thought...n-never m-mind I...y-yes I h-have d-d-doctors and th-they don't l-l-let m-m-me die." 

"No, Sherlock, no! That's not it at all! Jesus, I'm sorry! I want to help you. I care about you!" 

John's heart hammered in his chest and he drew Sherlock close. "Moran isn't coming. I'm here. We're going to live here. I'll be your doctor, if I can. I'll do everything I can to help you. You'll live in this room and I'll live upstairs in mine. We'll watch Telly together and-and be happy! We'll be happy! Please, please, I'm an idiot like you always said and I just messed it up! Let's live together. Let's live here."

Greg moved to sit behind John as Sherlock failed to respond, shuddering in fear as he wept quietly. Even Greg knew the words to be false, knowing John wished he could do those things for Sherlock, but for all the wrong reasons. He ran his fingers through John's hair, trying to soothe him. 

"We will work on it, John. We will work on it and eventually we can probably do that. Sherlock, you've got safe doctors at your brother's house. You should go home, and we'll keep working on all of this. Mycroft is outside and he needs you to calm down. Moran is dead. You are safe." 

Sherlock still did not react, shivering as though on ice, both leaning into the temporary shelter that was John and tearing at his hair with the knowledge that his safety was going to leave.

"He is home," John told Greg sadly. "This is his home. But it isn't home if I'm not here." 

John did not want to live at Baker Street. He wanted either the impossible, for Sherlock to be alright and for him to be alright and for there to be cases again, or to live with Greg in Greg's apartment. But he knew what Sherlock had gone through, and could not abandon him. 

"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me. Look at me, and listen."

A rough sob rattled out of Sherlock's chest, sure John was about to tell him he was leaving. He forced himself to open his eyes, fingers still in his hair, pulling mercilessly, as he looked up to John with tears streaming steady down his face.

John kissed Sherlock on the forehead and held his head in his hands. "Sherlock, we are going to live here together. Do you hear me? Don't listen to what anyone else says. I will make it happen. For you. I'll do anything to make you happy. To help. I promise you I can do this. If you will promise to work it out with Mycroft, logically and calmly, then we can get this done and live in 221B together."

Sherlock watched John for a moment before flicking his eyes up at Greg. He whispered to John, letting his focus slide to the door. "M-My...doesn't w-want...w-want...I....it's...I c-can't...h-he's n-not here I'm...I don't know where my brother is...I don't know where m-my brother..." his lip trembled and he reached out, holding on to John's shirt. 

"I d-don't know what's s-s-safe anymore. It's a-all...I w-was with M-Moran today and n-now I'm h-here and....and..." his voice cracked on a sob and he shuddered, trying to keep steady as possible. 

Mycroft stepped in then with his hands held tightly in front of him and his eyes red. "I'm here, Sherlock," he said and both despaired and rejoiced to see John holding him. 

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tears pressed against his eyes. How had he ruined it? What had he even done? "Sherlock, you were never with Moran. Never. That was only Mycroft, but your eyes couldn't see him."

Sherlock held tight to John's shirt, leaning forward and tipping his head to John's chest, breathing as deep as he could and shuddering slowly. 

"I...I'm sc-cared John. I- I'm scared." He had no other way to phrase it, no way to explain. He was unsure and frightened and that's all he knew, and he wanted John to stay and for them to be home and not to be torn away again. 

"I know. I know." John massaged gently at Sherlock's scalp and began to quietly hum one of the songs Sherlock used to play for him. "It will get better," he whispered after a while. "I've got you. John's got you. Mycroft and Lestrade are here to protect us. Everything is alright."

Sherlock shivered and clung to John. He breathed deep and did what he could to keep calm. John felt safe, and whole, and true and Sherlock's hand trembled with want to hold on to him and never let go.

"H-How did you s-stop getting l-lost?"

"Well, first you gotta find someone you trust. So Mycroft or me. Then you have to listen to them even when what they are saying doesn't seem real. You have to listen to the things they've told you and remember then for later. You sort of latch on. So what I'll tell you is that Moran is dead, so any time you think he has you, it is just your mind. That's the truth. Now you've got to keep reminding yourself all the time every day, even if your not scared. Eventually you'll get better and better at not being scared and you'll see things right." 

John dipped his head. "I still get lost. I have bad dreams and I forget that I'm not still there. Sometimes I can see Greg sometimes I can't."

Sherlock shuffled closer to John, clinging hard to him. "I...I've been trying," he whispered, shuddering as he dared to look over his shoulder. His expression crumpled as he started at Mycroft. He turned back to hide against John's chest. 

"They h-held me d-down....n-needles and...I w-was with Moran and..."He shook his head and tried to hide under John.

"I believe they held you down because you were having a seizure, Sherlock." John rubbed Sherlock's back, up to his shoulders, then down again the same way Greg did to comfort him. "I promise you that you were not with Moran. Now that's the hard part. Will you believe me?"

Sherlock slowly relaxed into John's hands, holding tight to his shirt and breathing right against John's chest. "S-So you...j-just blind f-faith? That's a-all? You j-just choose...b-but what if-f it's a tr-rick? It's always a g-game, _always_. I- h-he was g-going to h-hurt my brother b-b-because I w-was dumb e-enough to c-cry for him."

John squeezed Sherlock's hands and kissed the top of his head. "I know. Trust is incredibly difficult. But you have to decide that you want to trust someone, then you have to listen. When I thought you had hurt me, I had to trust Greg and let you in the room. It was very, very frightening, but it turns out he was right. It's not a game anymore, Sherlock. I don't like games."

Very, very quietly, so soft that only John would be able to hear him, Sherlock tearfully whispered to John, "I am t-terrified th-at man i-isn't my brother." 

"It's okay. I know. Will you listen to me for just a moment? You're very logical and smart. Would Greg and I be so calm if the man in the room with someone we love was dangerous?" 

John continued to keep in constant contact with Sherlock in order to keep his kind intentions established. 

John's words made far more sense than had any right to. He took a few moments to process that he'd not considered something so simple. 

"N-No,, you w-wouldn't. You wouldn't. You w-w-wouldn't b-be. You'd...n-no." He kept tucked down against John and shuddered for several more minutes before speaking again. 

"Th-ank y-you," he breathed, honestly meaning it. 

"I'm glad to help. Just remember that, Sherlock. You can always trust us. Greg and I can be your touchstones. You just ask us when you're not sure. Or, you can look to us. If someone bad was in the room, we would be reacting. If we're calm, then you can be too." 

John held his hand over Sherlock's head and hummed quietly. "I'm glad we're getting better at this."

Sherlock rest calmly as John held his hand over his head and spoke softly to him. He was in his own bed, in his own home, and for now at least, John was there. Not only was John there, but Mycroft as well. Truly Mycroft, not some imitation that would turn-

"M-My," he suddenly gasped, looking up from under John's hand, eyes wide as he let go of John with one hand and reached out for his brother, whom he'd physically fought with, "My! I- I'm-m s-sorry, M-My please, a-are you a-alright?"   
Mycroft rushed over and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He took Sherlock's hand and brought it to his face, which was still wet with tears. "I'm here," he whispered, "I'm here. It's me. John is right, I'm not a bad person. I'm your brother and I love you."

Sherlock stared at his brother, taking in how devastated he seemed to be, unable to recall a time when he'd seen his brother in open tears. 

"I- I didn't th-think _y-you_ were b-bad...I w-was confused. I th-thought I...thought y-you were s-someone e-else. I'm s-sorry, M-My, I'm s-sorry. A-Are you...d-did I h-hurt you?"

Mycroft shook his head and controlled his tears. "I've got you. I'm not hurt. I'm just sad. I'm just a bit sad. I love you. Do...You remember me now, right? You aren't scared of me? If I scare you, I can leave. I don't want to leave, but I'll go if you don't want me."

Sherlock tightened his grip on Mycroft's hand, though he did not at all pull away from John. His own hand was trembling, tears sliding down his face, "Y-You're m-my brother, you're M-My. H-How could I b-be scared of y-you? I s-s-see you, I'm sorry, I c-couldn't s-see you properly before." 

"Thank you," Mycroft breathed and tipped his forehead to rest on Sherlock's knuckles. "And thank you, John. Thank you so much." 

John nodded and brushed Sherlock's hair with his fingers. "It's alright. He's doing really well. Just needed another opinion."

Sherlock closed his eyes as exhaustion pulled at him, leaving him wrung out and hurting from the throws of seizure and fighting so hard from what he perceived as a threat. Gently he leaned more into John, intensely comforted by his presence. 

Meanwhile, Paul was in conversation with Jared. "How often has Sherlock been getting confused like this? It seems to me that such episodes are increasing in frequency, can you tell me what you've noticed?"

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and leaned his head back against the pillow. He'd never had the intention of sleeping in Sherlock's bed, with the detective in his arms, but after so much screaming, pain, and trauma, such things didn't bother him anymore. 

Jared nodded. "From the time I've been here, he's gotten worse and worse with the flashbacks. He is intensely obsessed with John, to the point where even when he is lucid, he is in so much grief he spirals down again."

Paul nodded, thinking to himself for a few moments. "Mycroft does not look well at all. That is not an acceptable outcome here. He needs rest and food, and ideally some distance from Sherlock. I don't think John is going to respond well to Sherlock's intensity. Have you made any progress in your relationship with him? Does he trust you yet?"

"He trusts me when Mycroft is in the room, mostly, or when he is very calm. But he sees me as Moran sometimes, so it's unpredictable." 

Jared hadn't ever been tangled up in something this complicated. "I could supervise him and John with Greg while Mycroft rests, or take him back to Mycroft's home. I'm not sure how he'd handle that." 

Paul nodded, "We need his relationship with you to become much more of a priority. Mycroft cannot fall as Greg has. It all comes apart if we lose Mycroft. I very much doubt that John will be able to endure this for very long, and Mycroft is obviously at the end of his rope. Do you believe yourself capable of this? He needs to trust you as a primary caregiver, even if that means forcing him to spend time with only you, assuming John doesn't move back here today, of all things." 

"I think I can manage that," Jared said and saw that if he did so, his personal life would fall to shreds. How many years would he be needed? What if he wanted a family? "I'll spend more time with him. Perhaps I should go in there now and introduce myself to John. If John likes me, it will help."

Pleased with Jared's answer, Paul nodded and began to walk back inside the flat with him. "John is lucid and calm for the most part, now is ideal. I am going to attempt to get Mycroft out of the room for a few more minutes, Sherlock may automatically respond to you in his brother's absence." 

"I am hoping he does, but eventually it will need to be just me, not me and the person he is fixated on." Jared walked up to Sherlock's room and listened outside the door to the calm conversation before knocking gently. "Sherlock, it's Jared. Can I come in?"

Sherlock was exactly as he had been before, tucked against John and breathing calm and deep, still holding his brother's hand. He shrugged, keeping his eyes closed, very tired from the physical trauma of seizing not long ago. "Okay," he murmured, nudging closer to John. 

Paul followed Jared in, leaning against the wall and simply observing for the moment. Greg looked over to him, still sitting at John's back, but having to do very little to keep him calm. It was wonderful. Sherlock was relaxing, and John seemed...as okay as he could be, and Mycroft was at least with his brother and not in the terrible limbo of hoping Sherlock would accept him again. 

John grew very still when Jared entered. He'd only seen the man before once, briefly, as he left the room, and he's been under a large amount of stress at the time. With a nervous glance he looked to Greg, who appeared calm, and then to Sherlock, who had let Jared in. "Jared is safe, right?"

Jared heard the question and nodded. "John, I'm here to help Mycroft and Sherlock. I promise you I am a safe person to be around."

John seemed to accept the answer, but he held on just a bit tighter to Sherlock. 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and nuzzled more to John, pulling him in closer. "H-He's rubbish at chess, w-worse than y-you are. But he's...getting better. Has a n-niece wh-who enjoys cl-lay and he is a climber and musician. J-Jared...is b-big, but h-he's n-not a threat." 

Sherlock nudged John with a gentle nuzzle again and hummed softly, "J-Jared...t-tell John about your f-family."

Jared was immensely pleased with the reaction, and decided that John being mildly nervous at first, and requiring Sherlock's confirmation, was the best possible outcome. "Sherlock is right, I do have a niece who likes clay. She's my sister's child, and they're my main family in absence of my own. I climb, as Sherlock said. And play cello. I think you two would like my niece, but then again, I think everyone would. She would make a brilliant queen, and has it in her mind that she will be."

Sherlock shifted in his effort to keep close to John and to alleviate the pain in his muscles. "H-He's terribly pedestrian...b-but he's a quick study a-and he t-tells interesting stories at times. He's...he's just...J-Jared. He's...I've a-always thought y-you'd l-like him." 

He squeezed Mycroft's hand, trying to soothe his brother as well.

"He seems nice," John said and tried to trust Sherlock. Greg seemed calm, as did Mycroft, so surely there was nothing wrong with the man. 

"I'm John," he said to Jared, "but I'm sure you knew that."

Jared smiled amiably at him. "I did. It's wonderful to meet you. I've heard so much about you."

John looked to Sherlock. "Only good things, I hope. The stories about how awful the jumpers I wore could go on for ages."

Sherlock rumbled in something that could be considered a laugh. "L-let's not e-even begin on the d-damned Christmas ones, h-hideous." 

Paul made his way over to the bedside and crouched next to Mycroft. He lowered his voice, speaking very softly, "Would you be willing to step out with me?"

Mycroft saw what was going on. It was perfectly reasonable for them to want to get Sherlock more comfortable with Jared, and logically he knew that he needed rest, but it felt as if they were trying to steal his little 'Lock away. 

"Okay," Mycroft mumbled and numbly got to his feet. "I'll be right back, Sherlock. I'll be just outside the door. Have a nice time with John and Jared."

John looked up and gave a small wave to Mycroft before looking back to Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson gave me that one! Not everyone can wear Dolce & Gabbana every day." 

John had been curious about Sherlock's clothing one night when searching for drugs, and found that many of Sherlock's usual, day to day shirts were quite expensive. "Besides, jumpers are comfortable."

Sherlock's attention had gone sharply to his brother, though. He'd untucked his head from under John's chin and looked over to him, still keeping hold of Mycroft's hand even as Mycroft stood. 

"My?" He whispered quietly, looking from Mycroft to the door and back. His grip tightened as he put together that Jared was in the room, that Paul was trying to remove Mycroft, and that John was with him. 

John was with him. 

That had to make this okay. He gently squeezed Mycroft's hand, whispering to his brother in French. "Y-You will come b-back?"

"Of course I will," Mycroft responded. "I will come back to you. In fact, I'll stay just outside so you can call me back if you need to." He took a step back to the door, then gestured to Jared. 

"Why don't the three of you get to know each other better? Greg is here to make sure you're safe."  
Sherlock dissolved into quiet tears as soon as the door shut behind Mycroft. He tucked back down against John, weeping even as he tried to keep the conversation going.

"Y-you are...t-terrible l-liar. You like the p-people Gabana a-and you know it."

John hugged Sherlock closer to help him feel safe and drew the covers up over them. "It's a nice color on you," John admitted. "And you wore it more when you were in a good mood."

Sherlock nodded, clinging to John's shirt and resisting the urge to wrap his arms around him. "I l-like...like...the white, corded jumper. Y-you...you look n-nice in it."

"Hold on, that's the one you make fun of the most!" John paused for a second. "Actually, I think I left that one here. It's probably still upstairs." 

Sherlock smiled against John's chest. "I hated th-that I l-liked you in it-t so m-much," he whispered. The idea of John back in his jumper was so incredible that he leaned back and looked John in the eye. "It's h-here?"

"It's here, probably," John said with a blush on his cheeks. "I...that's kind of you to say you liked it. I thought you hated it. Probably because you always teased me about it. If we're being honest, more than once I wore it just to start banter."

Sherlock smiled and nodded, "I know," he whispered, tucking back down against John. "I th-thought you m-moved all of y-your th-things..."

"Not all of them," John said quietly, and took out the little flier he had tucked in his waistband. "See? I left things. I don't know how I did. I could probably go get the jumper if you want."

Sherlock shook his head and kept hold of John, disheartened to hear that it had been accidental for John to leave the jumper behind.

"N-No, you don't h-have to do that...I'll...it w-will help later to know it's....it's h-here."

John ran his fingers through the curly hair at the base of Sherlock's skull. "I'll wear it next time. And we can play your violin music and play cluedo with Greg and Jared. We'll have to explain how your rules work, though."

Sherlock leaned into John's fingers, wondering how he was going to be able to watch John once again leave him behind.

"Th-at would b-be...g-good, yeah, it w-would be g-good. I...I can't p-play f-for anymore. I'm...I'm s-so s-sorry," his lip trembled and he pressed his face to John's chest. 

"I....I c-can find...s-some other....w-way to h-help...y-you...I'm...please j-just give m-me time to...to find some...some w-way to be useful...I'll...I'm s-sorry. I l-loved playing f-for you."

John pressed Sherlock's head against his gest briefly and shook his head. "I know how that feels, the need to be useful. But you don't need to be useful to me. I just care about you. It's not about anything you can do for me. But how about this?" 

John was well aware how good it could feel to be useful.   
"You can help me when I get lost or confused, and I can talk to you about my bad dreams and bad voices. Then you can talk to me about yours, and we'll both be useful."

Sherlock nodded against John, leading harder into him. "Okay...y-yes I c-can do that." He shifted closer to John, desperate to soak in as much of this as he could. 

He was finally, finally home but he couldn't keep it, couldn't have this.

John could see how Sherlock shifted closer to him in much the way he did with Greg. "Thank you very, very much, Sherlock. Thank you so much. I'm very glad to have you helping me."

Sherlock nodded, so glad to have John near him at all that it was difficult to articulate. He'd forgotten for a large portion of the day how much John disliked him, thinking he could just go home and everything would be alright. It had been too much, too terrifying, and he'd seized and been ill, and lost Mycroft. It had been so stressful, and now he just wanted to sleep without worry that John was going to leave.

Of course, that wasn't to be.

"When...wh-hen will y-you let m-me...see you again?" He whispered the crushing question against John's chest.

"How about tomorrow?" John leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head again. "Tomorrow we can meet back here, if that is what you want. Like practicing for when we move in together. Would that be alright? We can practice a bit first before we move."

Sherlock nodded, speaking softly to John, "That...that would b-be...I'm s-sorry you n-need to...p-ractice." 

It continued to be incredibly painful that John needed to practice being near him. Understandable, but painful.

"T-Tomorrow? You'll...y-you will come b-back?"

"Yes, I will be back tomorrow. Would you like to try and fall asleep? That could be nice. Or we can play a game." 

John wanted Sherlock to know that he was loved, wanted, and appreciated, but had no idea to show that he enjoyed his presence. 

"N-Now?" He whispered, still clutching John's shirt and holding on desperately. He was beginning to break into a cold sweat from pain, but it was not worth interrupting this rare peace.

"I d-don't know if I c-can play a g-game r-right n-now." He was exceedingly apologetic in his tone, pulling very lightly at John and breathing in deep against his shirt.

"Okay, then let's just relax. You're doing a really good job today. I'm so proud of you. We haven't screamed or sobbed." 

John slowly tangled his legs up with Sherlock's long, thin ones and crossed his feet behind Sherlock's calves. 

"I'm glad you're here with me today."

Sherlock relaxed into the secure way John was holding him, rubbing his face lightly against John's chest. He inhaled and exhaled very slowly, stress ebbing out of his posture. He shifted so that his legs were slightly more comfortable, quiet as he grew heavier and sleep began to whisper along the edges of his mind.

"W-will...they l-let me h-have...s-something f-for pain?"

"Yes, yes you can," John whispered and looked to Greg. "Would you get him something from Paul? I'm sure he's brought it. You said bring a kit. And-" John cut off when he saw Sherlock's hand, where he'd ripped the port out. 

"Oh, Sherlock, you were very scared, weren't you?" He took his hand and brought it to his lips as if the affection alone would fix it. 

"It's alright. Tablets, then."

Sherlock's lip trembled as John looked at his hand. "N-Needles...a-and...Moran and the d-doctor and...I thought...I c-came here..." 

He covered his face with John's shirt as Greg went to get medicine. "I w-was l-looking for y-you."

"Sherlock, do not get lost. Repeat to me where we are. We are at Baker Street, and you are safe in a home with Greg, Mycroft, Paul, Jared and John. All people who want to protect you. There will be no more needles. Only a few tablets for pain." 

John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips again and held it there. 

"You're strong, Sherlock. I know you are. You've done so very well." 

Sherlock was swift to respond, "I..earlier, I w-was scared e-earlier. I'm...I'm okay...I'm w-with y-you, I'm home." 

He kept hold of John's shirt and tipped his face up to the underside of John's chin, breathing slow and deep.

"Okay...okay, good. I'm worried for you. I'll always try and help you. If you need help, just ask. I'm here because you called for me." 

John nuzzled his face down on Sherlock's and risked a kiss to his cheek. 

Tears burned at the backs of Sherlock's eyes when John pressed a kiss to his cheek, hope welling deep inside his chest.

He nuzzled in closer and began to fall asleep despite himself. His head was heavy, fingers losing the grip in John's shirt.

John reached down and covered Sherlock's hands with his own to help him hold on until he fell asleep. "I'm here for you, Sherlock. I'm here for you. You're doing so well. I am so proud of you."

Greg looked over at Jared, giving the man a warm smile and extending his hand over John and Sherlock. "I've met you before," he whispered, "but not properly. Greg Lestrade. Seems we will be seeing more of one another soon." 

He trailed his fingers through John's hair as he spoke, keeping him calm.

Jared smiled and shook Greg's hand warmly. "Jared Hill. I think we will be as well. This seems to be going nicely, as far as I can see. I'm a bit worried about the separation, though." 

John hummed quietly to Sherlock and brushed his hair over and over while looking at his Greg for comfort. 

Greg nodded sadly, looking to Sherlock, who was clearly down hard asleep. He leaned over while still rubbing gently at John's back. "Now would be the best time, John. I can have Mycroft come back in here, or maybe they will just sedate him and take him home. You have done so, so well. This was a good visit, a really good visit." 

Outside of the room, Paul was still speaking with Mycroft. 

"I am making a formal recommendation to you, Mycroft, that you allow Jared to take a much more active role. He needs to get better adapted to Jared, and you are just worn thin. You're going to have a breakdown if something doesn't change." 

John shook his head adamantly. "I can't leave while he's asleep!" His tone made it clear how utterly horrific that would be. 

"I will not abandon him while he's vulnerable and trusting like that. That would be awful! It would be like if you left me while I was asleep. I will wait. And I'm doing good. He was sad, and I came here and then he was better. I helped! For once!" 

Greg looked to Jared and then back to John. "But it wouldn't be like that, John. You are going to leave, where as I never separate from you. He knows you are going," Greg whispered, keeping his voice soft and gentle, "he knows you are not going to stay. Wouldn't it be easier for him to be asleep while you leave? It always seems hardest for him when he watches you go. I've seen it every time, he can hold it together until you are actually walking away, and then he panics. What do you think, Jared? You've been with him much more than we have." 

John whimpered and looked back to Sherlock. "I want to hurt him the least. Will it be better if I leave while he doesn't have to watch me go, or will that hurt the trust if he wakes up and I'm just...gone?" 

John held onto Sherlock a bit tighter. 

Greg looked to Jared, honestly not sure how to answer that. "What do you think? I don't want to ask Mycroft, he's...not been very balanced recently." 

"How about I just stay until he wakes up, then tell him I'll be back tomorrow? Then...then sedate him." 

John reached out and took Greg's hand. "I can do this. I feel useful. I'm helping someone I love. This is something that helps me as well as him."

Greg gave Jared an odd look, frustrated that he was remaining silent on the matter. "I suppose we'll ask Mycroft, then," he said as he looked away from the man and back to John. 

"I am glad this is helping you, I really am, but I don't want to see this end in panic." He gently touched John's cheek and smiled at him, leaning down and brushing his lips to his forehead. "You are amazing." 

He again looked up to Jared before pulling out his mobile to text Mycroft. 

_Sherlock has fallen asleep. I think it would be best to leave with John now, but John is worried that it will be worse to go while Sherlock is down. Do you have any thoughts on that?_

Jared sat down on the floor next to John. "I'm glad you're helping Sherlock. He talks about you constantly. I think it is very kind of you. I agree with you that you should stay with him for a little while longer. It's very brave of you." 

Mycroft, however, had a different opinion. 

_We should sedate him now that he's asleep and then leave. It's too painful for him to watch._

Greg ran a hand through his hair and looked over to John and Sherlock. 

_Jared and John seem to believe otherwise. John wants to stay, Jared wants him to stay. I'm not sure what to do here to be honest._

Mycroft hesitantly entered the room and looked at Sherlock. "It's too risky. It could hurt him even more. He hates watching John leave."

Greg looked to Jared, then to Sherlock, who was down hard. Again he looked to Jared, hoping that as a caregiver like himself he would have some input to give. 

"John," Greg whispered, "you know I'm in agreement with Mycroft, but you know Sherlock well also. I hate to make a decision here." 

John whimpered and clung to Sherlock, and Mycroft looked on with nervous disapproval. "He's my brother. I decide. We're taking him home now."

"This is his home," John interjected. "I will not leave him while he's asleep. It will make things harder."

Greg moved closer to Mycroft, deeply concerned with his behavior. "Easy," he said quietly, "John's only trying to help. We all want to do what's best for him. Take it easy." 

John held Sherlock stubbornly. "I will not let go. I want to establish early on that I will not leave him while he sleeps. It will make falling asleep less stressful in the future." 

Mycroft considered him at that. "That's good thinking, John, but we need to leave."

Greg looked to Jared before moving to John's side, sitting beside him. 

"Do you think you can leave him without having him panic? We've never managed to do that before. I hear what you are saying, John. There is no good answer here." At least, not one with them leaving in the end.

Mycroft shook his head and walked over to stand by Sherlock in an almost possessive way. "I will not allow this. He is coming with me."

"No! You'll make it worse! I can say goodbye in a calm way. I can tell him we're coming back tomorrow and we can make a time. If he wakes up and I'm just gone, and he's not in his bed anymore...That feels really bad. I promise. It feels really, really bad...It..." 

John had tears in his eyes and he curled up around Sherlock. 

Greg stepped forward rapidly in response to Mycroft's aggression. "Easy," he snapped, trying to put himself between Mycroft and John, "calm down, Mycroft. John is not the threat here."

Sherlock shifted restless in John's arms, whimpering in distress at the tension building in the room.

John hushed Sherlock like he was his child and rocked slowly. "It's alright, Sherlock. It's alright. You're okay. I've got you. John's got you." He looked up at Mycroft imploringly. 

"I'm thinking long term. As you should be."

"I am thinking long term! If this entire experience is negative because of the ending, it will ruin the entire effort." Mycroft looked to Greg for backup, then turned to Paul. "Sedate him. We're going home."

"Mycroft," Greg said quietly, "John would know better than any of us, right? Surely we should give him a chance to- Paul, wait, wait. Let's...Mycroft we wanted them together and they are. John has a point, maybe we should listen to him. Sherlock might struggle later, but moving him while he's unconscious might be worse. We know how to handle panic from Sherlock, surely it won't be so bad for him to watch?"

John held on to Sherlock and nodded. "Yes, yes. I can help him. If he wakes up and I'm gone, _and_ he is in a new place, then it will hurt him and scare him. I know what I am talking about better than any of you because I've been through things he has and you haven't."

Paul was still moving to draw up the sedative. He looked to John and spoke very softly. 

"John, the point is that this, what is happening here with him in this bed and you here with him, it's going to go away today. He can't keep this. I have to agree with Mycroft. I know you can help him, look at him, he was so terrified he was seizing, his nose started bleeding before any of this, just that afraid, and here you are with him asleep in your arms. You can help him, but you're not going to stay, and he has to go home. He wants this to be home, but it isn't. This is not his home, he has nothing here when you are gone. This seems kinder." 

John shook his head again. "No. No. I'm sorry. You don't know what it feels like to wake up and the good things are gone. You don't...this is home, and if we take him from home, he will see Moran again and he will think he's just been moved. New locations were always very, very bad. It meant a new stage. If you try and take him I will be very upset."

Greg looked to Mycroft. "It's your call, I really don't know. I tend to listen to John, but Paul has a valid point. Just ease off on John, okay? He's trying." 

Mycroft clenched his jaw and looked at John, who stared defiantly back with Sherlock in his arms. "Fine. Fine. If John thinks he can leave without triggering a panic response, then let him try. But this will be his only chance to do so."

Greg leaned in and spoke softly to Mycroft, "Come out in the sitting room with me, let's have a talk. They can just rest, why don't you come chat with me for a little while. Paul and Jared can stay in here." 

He looked to John, trying to settle him back down with a glance. "It's alright, John. Everything is alright."

John did not feel like everything was alright, but he went with it anyway and turned his attention back to Sherlock.

Mycroft turned and walked from the room in a huff with his hands clenched by his sides. 

Greg fooled Mycroft in concern. "Hey," he said gently once they were past the kitchen, "let me help. Talk to me, what has you this worked up?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing. The usual. Just this. All of it. I have made absolutely no progress with him. John's already making him better, but the second John leaves, he's destroyed again. I'm clearly not good enough. I've given up my life and it's done nothing. I would like to keep him here with John, but I doubt that will actually work out."

Greg nodded, fully understanding. "Mycroft, you must see that it has nothing to do with you not being enough. Sherlock's trauma is directly related to John, and John's continued fear and dislike of him must be doing a number, psychologically. This is the first time Sherlock hasn't shied away from John, wanting you instead, in quite some time and it- I mean, Sherlock wasn't afraid of you, he was afraid of who he thought you were."

He itched at his burning forearm absently. "John can't hold up in this label with Sherlock, I don't think. He wants to, but it's incredibly hard. I did not mean to shut you down, I honestly don't know what the least damaging thing is for your brother. I wish John could just stay, but he can't."

"I know he can't," Mycroft said softly. 

"I wish he could, though. I wish John was alright, for Sherlock's sake. I know he wants to be." 

He leaned over and rested his elbows on the counter. "I'm falling apart," he whispered. "I'm falling apart too quickly to build myself back up. Years and years of tireless effort to get my mind the way I wanted it and now it's just... muddy. I have no right to complain. But I need more time to repair myself. I'll be giving Jared a more active role."

Greg nodded, glad to hear that. "Good. I hate to say it but if I had anyone else, I would do the same. It's incredibly difficult work. You are allowed to fall apart. This is so hard."

Mycroft's eyes darted to Greg's slit forearm again. "I already have fallen apart beyond what is acceptable. If this operation loses me, it will not be successful. I do not say that to boast. It is only true that I am directing this and need to be logical. I'm worried about this. I don't know how I'm going to survive if he falls apart again." 

Greg tucked his arms behind his back, ashamed. "Then you should leave. Right now. Let Jared handle this. If that's where you are, then you need to go. He's going to struggle no matter what we choose. I wish it wasn't so, but it is."

"No, no, if he wakes up in my house and thinks it's a prison...Jesus, I just don't know what to do." Mycroft put his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

 

Greg shook his head, "You owe me no apology, I know where I stand with you. I only want to help. If you are not going to be able to tolerate this, don't let him see you break. Let Jared help, we will go sedate him now, and that will be the end of it."

Mycroft let a few tears fall down his face before turning and going to the couch. He sat down and dropped his head into his hands before speaking again. 

"If he starts to panic, we'll sedate him and bring him home. I want this to be an overall pleasant experience for him. He needs it."

Greg followed Mycroft, sitting opposite him. He watched him for a few quiet minutes, putting his own thoughts away. It took a long while for him to put away his own pain.

"He's going to struggle, Mycroft. There is no way around it. You are doing very well, and you just have to drop this idea that you are not enough. Sherlock is in love with John. Like a spouse. He loves him. John doesn't love Sherlock in that way and I don't know that he ever will, and that's fucking horrible, but it is what it is. You are more than enough as his brother. He loves you, more than I think you are aware. You might have to leave him for a bit just so that he still has a brother to love."

Mycroft was in tears at how truthful the words were, and he reached out to hold a pillow to his chest. "I'll give Jared more hours, then. And I'll go for walks or something while Sherlock is asleep instead if staying with him. I just...I wish I could be enough for him. I understand he'll always want John, but I just wish that my love as a brother was enough for him." 

Mycroft looked up, suddenly realizing how vulnerable he was making himself to this man. "I...I am not in the habit of speaking so freely."

Greg cracked a partial smile. "I'm aware." He ran a hand over his face and spoke again. 

"It's not that it's not enough, you know. He thought he shot John in the head. He thought he caused John to be tortured. He listened to a recording of John screaming for Sherlock to stop, begging Sherlock for mercy. John Watson kept him off drugs, loved him despite how he is, was a friend where no one else was. And then he left, he left Sherlock and Sherlock spent that time blaming himself and getting high. It's not to do with you, Mycroft. This is the nature of his torture. This...John fearing him and forgetting him...this was part of the plan. And hell, Moran...I mean, I'm sorry to bring it up but he was raped, many times, while listening to John plead mercy. What does that do to a man?"

Mycroft looked very small for a tall man, and stared down at his hands. "I'm sure it's damaged him even more than I know. I'm sure there's damage we can't see yet. I'm sure. I just hope John remembers his friendship. He clearly- I mean he came to him even when he was afraid because he wanted to help. That has to mean something. I know he doesn't like him anymore, and it's some sense of duty, but it exists. I'll work with what I can get."

Greg nodded, "it's a sense of duty, but he feels bad that it's not more. John is a good man, better than most. He honestly cares. What you have to remember is that none of this is about you, as far as not being enough, this is Sherlock dealing with trauma relating to John. I don't think John can keep him calm, I don't, but that's not his fault. Please don't hold it against him."

"I'm sorry. I know. I am trying to help him. Let's just wait this out and see, alright? Let's just see if John can somehow pull this off. Who knows? He's done very well already." Mycroft stood up and wiped tears from his eyes. 

Sherlock began to genuinely stir in his sleep, grabbing weakly at John before settling back down. When Greg came back into the room, he moved to John's side, sitting next to him and dining his fingers in John's hair. "How are you," he whispered in concern.

"I feel scared," John whispered in return and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "But this feels good. It's good to be helping him finally. This is what I'm supposed to be doing. But still...I'm scared."

Greg nodded and did his best to respond in a helpful way. "Can you tell me what's scaring you?"

John reached out and took Greg's hand. "That I will fail, hurt him, and be exactly what Moriarty trained me to be."

Greg shook his head, taking John's face in his hands. "Listen to me, John. Even if Sherlock panics and has to be sedated, you've been wonderful to him. There have been times where I could not comfort you, but that didn't make me a monster. Just by being here, you are doing the opposite of what Moriarty wanted."

John hummed happily and leaned his face into Greg's hands. "But what if this is what he wanted? Prolonged suffering and all?"

Greg shook his head, "It took a very long time for you, but you love Gladstone, eat cake, and find joy in things even," he lowered his voice, "even if you never saw Sherlock again. Moriarty never worked Sherlock, and Moran was too stupid for the long game. This is not what Moriarty ever intended."

He leaned in and, forgetting their audience, brushed their lips together for a show, gentle kiss to soothe John.

John sighed softly and leaned into the kiss. He closed his eyes briefly and gave himself a few seconds to relax before pulling away and smiling at Greg. "Thank you, love. I'll just do my best, I suppose."

Sherlock watched them both, quiet as he observed the kiss. He'd opened his eyes at the sound of a new voice very close to him, taking a moment to realize what he was observing.

He swallowed as something sharp and freezing cold tore through his chest, swiftly closing his eyes again. His reality shifted once again and he was struggling with the burn of tears, pain and fear roaring up on him.

John sighed and tipped his head forward to Greg's before looking down to Sherlock. "Hey, hey, are you alright? Sherlock? It's me, it's John. I'm here."

Sherlock remained still, breathing shallow and slow, only nodding in response. The image of John being kissed was making him physically ill, crashing sharply to mind the only other time he'd seen a man do so with him. His mind was rapidly spiralling out of control, the heavy fog rolling in and robbing away the small peace he'd been given.

Sherlock's back tingled with terrified anticipation. "J-John," he cried out in quiet fear.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and rocked him slowly as panic blossomed in his chest. "It's alright. Hey, it's okay. I love you. I'm right here. Whatever you're seeing isn't real. I promise. Moran is dead and everything is safe. I promise." 

Sherlock wrapped his hand in John's shirt and held on tight, hands shaking. "A-Are you s-s-sa-sa-a-f-fe?" he managed, teeth audibly chattering as his mind supplied him with the memory of John screaming for mercy. 

"Yes, yes, I'm safe. I'm safe. What did you see?” It occured to him then that Greg had just leaned in and kissed him over Sherlock. 

“Oh, God, Sherlock, that's just...that's not me not being safe. That's Greg. He wouldn't hurt me. I'm very safe with him and you." John brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair and squeezed him lightly. 

Sherlock nodded as tears slipped down his face. He leaned into John's fingers, trying to sort that in his head. If anyone had dared to kiss him like that, he'd likely have killed someone. The thought of such intimacy was so frightening it made his stomach twist and his heart freeze in his chest. 

"H-He's n-n-not-t-t," he swallowed hard as the color drained from his face, "not-t h-hu-r-rting y-you?"

"No, no, Greg is good to me. Remember? Greg protects us. He always protects us." John smiled down at Sherlock and decided against kissing his head, which he normally would have done. 

"He was being kind to me. He was being sweet and comforting. Sometimes I get scared. He wasn't hurting me, he was just comforting me."

Sherlock let go of John's shirt with one hand to tuck his fingers to his lips, biting on the ends. John seemed as though he was calm and safe, though Sherlock decidedly did not. 

"P-P-r-rom-mis-se? Y-You...h-h-h-e was...he..." Sherlock shook his head, unable to even say it. He looked away from John, finding his brother in the room and staring at him with frightened eyes. 

"Yes, Sherlock," John said hesitantly. He knew Sherlock loved him, but surely he wouldn't be jealous of Greg. 

"He kissed me. And that's alright. He's not hurting me. I promise. Greg would never hurt me, ever. He's always very careful to make sure there are no games, and I'm always safe and dry." 

Sherlock could not speak. There was so much to take in he was having trouble processing it all. Silently he closed his wet eyes and began to softly hum in monotone, rocking himself slightly as he brutalized his fingertips. 

_Greg was kissing John._

_Greg kissed John publicly._

_John wasn't afraid._

_John is used to being kissed by Greg._

_John and Greg are in a relationship._

_John and Greg are in a relationship._

_John and Greg are in a relationship._

His skin was washed a nearly waxen white as he considered it all. He'd known he'd lost John to Greg, but it had not stuck him to what severity. Not only that, but John was in a seemingly physical relationship after all they'd been through. Or perhaps he wasn't? Or was he and Sherlock was lost? No one was reacting as though it were odd. 

_I'm home._

_John's with me._

_We are being observed by four other men._

_I'm home._

_But it's wrong. This is all wrong._

_I might not be home. Possibly drugged? Deprived of sleep for too long? Dying? I might not be home._

"Hey, Sherlock, look at me. Look at me." 

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and brushed his fingers through his hair. "I've got you. You're safe. Nobody is hurting me, and nobody is hurting you. You're safe." John was beginning to panic. His heart began to hammer and he looked to Greg for help. 

"I can explain. I promise. I just need you to stay calm."

Sherlock carried on as he was, not looking at John or responding to him. 

_John was screaming, he was screaming. He was- it was muffled when- he screamed and Moran- John was screaming- John begged, John begged, he- Moran- I can't, I can't understand, I can't understand._

"J-J-Jo-ohn-n-n," he sobbed around his fingertips. 

John began to cry as he rocked Sherlock. "I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I just...it helps me think. He helps...it just makes me feel loved, alright? I just like feeling like someone...like someone loves me. I need it. Greg is wonderful. He would never hurt me! I am so, so sorry you're hurt by it. Can I do anything to help you? Please? I-I just...I love you, and I-I'm sorry I'm hurting you."   
John looked down and shame burned his cheeks. If Sherlock was hurt by something that brought John so much joy...how could he continue? How could he stop? John dropped his head down and looked away. 

Sherlock could feel John's anxiety rolling off him in waves, driving his own up. He clung to John's shirt, chewing his fingers in fear, breathing much faster than he had been. 

Greg spoke softly then, reaching out over John as he did so, "It's alright, Sherlock. It's nothing more than that, nothing more, it helps John to-" as soon as Greg's fingers brushed over Sherlock's face, Sherlock jerked back violently with a shout of fear, still holding to John as he cried. 

"Don't touch him!" John pulled the covers up over Sherlock and bared his teeth at Greg. He covered Sherlock physically with his arms and whispered softly. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you. I'm here. You're alright, and I'm protecting you." 

John realized he'd snapped at Greg and he looked over his shoulder to mouth _sorry._

Sherlock burrowed down into the blankets, hands trembling as he clung to John. His face felt burned where he'd been touched and he was soon in childlike, frightened tears. "J-ohn-n," he sobbed, burrowing his face to John's chest and doing his best to hide as his mind began to spin out of control. 

John brushed his hands over Sherlock's face and rubbed his back. "Tell me what's scaring you, Sherlock. I've got you. Tell me what scares you." 

John wrapped his legs up with Sherlock's again and pulled the covers up over their heads. "We're safe in here. We're safe."

Sherlock was drawing in small, hitching breaths, his mind a complete mess of imagery and sound, making him nauseated with fear. 

"I- y-you were...I- he-" Sherlock cried out in sharp distress as phantom pain wrapped around his body, "I- I- could-dn't-t-t st-t-op h-him! I c-couldn-n-n't s-s-st-top h-him y-you w-w-w-er-r-re sc-r-r-eam-ming a-and-" he suddenly gagged, his entire core tensing as nausea overwhelmed him. He only narrowly avoided being sick. 

"Is this about when Moran...when Moran forced himself on me? And...on you? Did me kissing Greg make you think you were seeing something like that?" 

John's voice was small and worried. He hugged Sherlock with as much security as he could impart and whispered softly to him. 

"You did nothing wrong. You came and saved me. You did. You are wonderful. You came and got me out. You never hurt me. I have not been hurt since. I am not in danger and neither are you."

Sherlock looked to John, deeply confused as his eyes darted back and forth between the man's. 

"I...b-but I-" he stopped unsure of what he was trying to say, exactly. "I m-must h-have d-d-done someth-ing w-wrong! I h-had...h-had-d to have...s-something...there....w-was s-something...I- I-" he swallowed down the vicious lurch of his stomach, watching John in the low light under the blankets. 

He was quiet for another moment before very quietly asking, "Do...y-you l-lov-ve h-him?"

"I do love Greg, but...what you saw, that's the extent of it. I promise. He comforts me. He would never take advantage of me. We're safe from that here." John kissed the crown if Sherlock's head, right in the middle of his curls. "You’ll be okay, I know it." 

Sherlock's heart twisted as John confirmed that he loved Greg, a different sort of heartache taking hold. It was comforting to hear that they were safe from assault, and he physically relaxed his defensive posture. 

"Ok-kay," he breathed, still in heartbroken tears. 

_Greg and I will be here, and you can visit._

_We can all live here. Greg and I upstairs and you here._

_Greg and I will always come if you call._

_Greg and I. Greg and John. John and Greg._

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." John looked to Greg for help and felt panic swelling in him. "I'm here. I've got you. You're alright." 

Sherlock held tight to John's shirt, not wanting to be conscious any longer. Everything hurt, everything, and he wanted to fade away. Slowly he tipped his face forward, struggling to keep calm while all he wanted to do was scream until his heart stopped. 

"Sherlock? Please?" John pressed Sherlock's face to his chest and his heart hammered. "I won't do it again," he gasped, but he was not certain he could hold to that. He loved Greg. He loved his Greg. How on earth could he not kiss his love? 

"I-I won't d-do it again if y-y-you don't want me too. Please j-just talk to me. I'm not being h-hurt."

John's words tore at Sherlock's heart and he shook his head. "N-No...you l-love h-him...it's ok...I was only sc-c-cared." He drew back from John, pulling his fingers to his lips as tears tracked down his face. 

"D-don't be s-sorry, I...it's g-good...you f-found love."

"We don't...I mean, it ends there, Sherlock. I promise. Y-You...I'm so sorry. I still will live here with you and w-we can stay here and it will b-be nice. You seemed...you sounded h-happy when I said that before." 

John gently removed Sherlock's fingers from his mouth and held them to his own cheek. "I love you. I love you. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock watched as John held his hand to his cheek, calm for a full thirty seconds before he broke down quietly. John would never love him as he loved Greg. It was done, he'd never have John even as he had him before. The finality of it was crushing.

"I...I l-love y-you too."

"I told Mycroft I wouldn't hurt you," John said and tears poured down his face. "They wanted to take you back to Mycroft's while you were asleep and I didn't let them. I said you needed to stay here and have control. He said you would be sad. I am sorry. I am. I love you so much. Please let me help you. I don't know what more I can give you. I offer you my life, Sherlock." 

Sherlock started at John I'm confusion. "You...you d-don't h-hurt me! Why are you saying...you didn't hurt m-me."

He stopped then, going very still. "He w-wanted t-t-to move m-me?"

"He wanted you to go back to his home. He was really sad. He wanted to take you to his home so you didn't have to see me go back to mine." John continued to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

"But I didn't let him. I told him I would keep you safe and I wouldn't let you get hurt. But now..." Grief stabbed through him. "I feel like I am hurting you and it makes me feel very bad."

Sherlock knew that he personally was making John feel awful.

"I...I'm sorry," he wept not knowing how to stop doing whatever he was doing. "I'm s-sorry I...I didn't m-mean to make....make y-you feel...b-bad, I'm...m-maybe you sh-should let g-Greg take you to your h-home? I don't w-want you to feel bad."

"N-No, I feel bad because I'm being a bad person!" John took Sherlock's hands and held them to his lips. "I'm sorry. I love you. Don't send me away. Don't send me away because I can help you. I did before! I said I would live here and you were happy! I don't know...I don't know what else you want me to give you, but I offer you my life. Just tell me what you want."

Sherlock started at John in open confusion. "I'm n-not sending y-you away! I want y-you here! I...I don't th-think you a-are comfortable...I'm hurting y-you and I don't know h-how and I...I h-have hurt y-you so m-m-much al-r-ready." 

Tears slid down his cheeks as he tried to explain, to apologize. "Y-you're.....w-worried you're b-bad...but...is that...that why you want...to b-be here?"

"No, no, I want to be here so I can help you." 

John sank down into the covers and pulled them up over his and Sherlock's heads. He rolled slightly on his side so he could wrap Sherlock more completely in his arms and cradled him close. "Let's just stay here for as long as we can, okay? I'm here. I've got you. You don't hurt me."

Sherlock held on to John with trembling hands and simply nodded, wanting that very much. He chose not to think on what would happen later, pressing his ear over John's heart and holding silent. Slowly, over the next half hour, a settled peace set in and he was awake and breathing normally.

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head and wrapped him up in the blankets. "Remember the time you and I were on that boat? We were trying to catch a midget with a blowgun? Or the elephant? Remember all the insane things we did? I remember one time we were dressed as firemen to investigate, and we actually got called in! That was terrifying. I loved it."

Sherlock did not unfurl from his position. His voice was low and rumbling, vibrating against John's chest. "Y-you...you r-r-rem-memb-ber...h-how we...what our l-l-life was...before....y-you l-left?" 

He smiled to himself for a moment, relaxing further. 

"Y-you have...a g-good memory of...of m-me. Will...w-will you k-keep...keep it?"

"I have so many good memories of you. Greg helps me remember. Remember the times we used to go to pubs with Greg? We'd all go drink and laugh and be idiots. It was wonderful. You're wonderful. I've so many happy memories of you. Remember when you and I passed out drunk in some bar? That was ages ago. We woke up at home on the floor in the kitchen. I don't even know how we got there. You had your cellphone imprinted on your face and I had two girl's numbers, and one guy's number in my phone I don't even remember meeting." 

John tried to sound happy and light, which wasn't as hard when he was talking about light things. 

A tear slid down his cheek and he nodded, settling in the knowledge that John had memory of times when he'd at least enjoyed Sherlock's company. Anything other than the thought that John only remembered the pain and terror of Sherlock's cruelty.

He nodded, unable to find his voice, keeping in his head that John would at least have that. 

"K-keep...keep those. Please...f-for m-me...keep them."

"How about this?" John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. "I'll keep the happy memories of you forever, if you promise me you'll creature new happy memories with me." 

Sherlock leaned into John's fingers, lip trembling. "I...I c-can't," he whispered, realizing with a crushing blow that he wouldn't be able to do anything to create something good for John. 

"I w-want t-to, I do, b-but I...I can't."

"Then I'll do it," John said with finality. "All you have to do is show up, and I'll make all the good memories for you. Alright? I promise."

The relief was intense. Sherlock nodded, pulling closer to John as he thought of all the hope and promise in what John was saying, not at all sure he believed it. John had said such wonderfully hopeful things like this to him in the past, and then viciously shut him out. 

"I...I h-h-ope I s-see you again," he whispered, honestly meaning that, not trying to make John feel guilty or bad in any way.

"What is your day like tomorrow?" John gave a small smile and relished the fact that he could finally do something right. "Does tomorrow sound good?" 

Sherlock nodded, fully wanting to see John tomorrow. "Pl-lease, y-y-yes," he whispered, desperately wanting it to be true.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," John said simply and snuggled closer. He hummed in clear contentment and pressed his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head. "You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock tucked back in against John and closed his eyes as well, holding tight to John's shirt, breathing deep the scent of him. John and Greg...well, that was what it was. He'd never believed he'd ever earn John's love in such a way, and it was only confirmation of that truth. Nothing was different. 

Everything was different. 

He had no optimism that there would be anything John could do to create new memories that they wanted. If John came back at all, surely he'd tire of Sherlock's inability to do _anything_. He'd simply have to wait and see what came of it. 

John dozed off for a couple minutes at a time and awoke peacefully, if a bit blearily each time. He always nestled down against Sherlock, regardless of how close he already was. He was intentionally avoiding the clock, which surely was ticking over their heads to count down to the panic of leaving. 

Sherlock had fallen solidly back asleep, going so far as to shift his breathing,slow and deep. If left alone, he'd likely sleep through the night. His hands never left John's chest where he was tucked against him.

John looked proud of himself and smiled at Greg. "Look at what I did," he whispered. "I helped. I'm helping and he isn't crying."

Greg smiled at John, very proud of him and glad that John was proud of himself, though he looked to the dark window and the clock which told him they were past dinner and getting well into a later hour. He slid his fingers through John's hair and whispered to him, "When do you want to go home? It's getting late."

"I don't want to go home at all," John said honestly, though he both wanted to and feared it at once. "I'm scared. Sherlock, if I left now and came back in the morning, would you be alright with that?"

Sherlock opened his eyes as he startled awake, clutching at John for a moment in confusion at the sound of people talking around him. Blurrily he blinked up at John, running his question back through his mind. 

John wanted to leave. 

He'd known it was coming, but it was still hard. "K-kay," he whispered, biting the insides of his lip as he forced himself to stay quiet and let go of John's shirt, 

John shook his head and took Sherlock's hands. "I'm not leaving for long. But we need to get used to it. You need to understand that I will be coming back. I know it's hard, but I need you to trust me when I say I will come back. We have to keep working on this until we trust each other. If I leave, will you trust that I will come back in the morning?"

Sherlock looked down at their hands as his vision blurred. He nodded, though it wasn't a truth. John had made such promises before, and they never panned out. Perhaps John would come back tomorrow, or in a month, or never at all. 

"Y-You....you'll k-keep...ke-ep the m-m-mem-" his throat abruptly closed off as a tear shot down his cheek, "mem-mories, though. Y-You s-s-said....said y-you w-w-would."

"Okay. I'll keep the memories." John hugged Sherlock close for one last moment. "If you want, we can have Mycroft sedate you so this is easier. I will keep the memories and come back tomorrow. I promise you."

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft wanted to take him away, and the idea of being moved against his will was terrifying.

"N-No," he whispered, "no I...I..." His breathing caught as tears began to slide down his face, gripping the bed, very afraid to be torn away from his home.

"I'll ask Mycroft you could maybe stay here while I'm gone." 

John was starting to grow weary, and while he knew he was doing at least some bit of good, he still felt incompetent. He wanted to lie down with Greg and relax. This amount of tension was exhausting. 

"Maybe you can stay. It's alright."

Mycroft was sitting miserably in the corner and looked up. "Sherlock, I think it would be best if we just went home. I'll bring you back tomorrow, I promise."

Sherlock sank a hand in his hair, pulling tight. "Pl-l-lease...j-just one...one thing at a t-time...please just...I c-can't...I....please I...." He held so tight to the sheets that his knuckles blanched, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Mycroft walked over and took Sherlock's hand. "We are going to go back to my home, just for the night, where you will be safe and warm with me. Then, in the morning, we will come back to Baker Street and John will be here waiting for you."

John have Sherlock a little squeeze. "You go to Mycroft's, then come back. No games. No tricks. Just that."

Sherlock was gasping for breath, putting every ounce of energy into not giving in to panic. His knuckles tightened on his bed, forcibly keeping himself from reaching back out for John. These were all lies, all things they told him that never held true. He was losing John and he was going to be torn from his home. Fear and sharp grief hardened the lining of his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe.

"O-one th-th-thing...at-t a t-t-tim-me please! Please!"

"Okay," John said softly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. "Just go to Mycroft's for a few hours. Is that okay? Just one thing. Just that. Mycroft's home for a night. Is that okay? Can you do that?"

Sherlock turned his face to his pillow, desperately wanting to stay home. "I don't...I...I don't want t-to go. I'm..." He sobbed into his pillow, great clenching at the idea of being removed, of losing John and home.

"Sherlock...I have to go home." John tried to be gentle, but very much needed to let go of this tension and go back to his Greg. 

"I can come back later. I promise. But I have to go."

Sherlock nodded, gripping his pillow tightly and turning his face away. "Bye, J-John," he wept, keeping desperate hold of his bed. He was working as hard as he could not to fall apart.

John slowly slid out of bed and stood over Sherlock. "I'm going to come back. I'm sorry. I love you, Sherlock." He bent down and kissed the top of his head, then turned to leave. 

Sherlock did not respond, other than to tilt his head, watching the tension John was holding on to as he walked away. Sherlock had done that, he'd put that tension there, caused John that stress. His scalp still tinged for want of John's hands back in his hair, but that was over.

After a few seconds, he could not take it and looked away, clutching at his sheets.

John turned and abruptly left the room. Once outside, just in the living room, he wrapped his arms around Greg and pressed his face against his shoulder. 

Sherlock began begging the moment the door closed. "Please," he whispered to Mycroft, starting at him with wide, frightened eyes, "pl-l-lease, I...d-don't m-make me l-leave, he w-won't come b-back! I h-have to st-t-tay here!"

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed his forehead. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you. I'll...I just think we should go back to my home. Please?"

Sherlock broke broke down in horrible sobbing, clutching to his sheets. He was finally home and now he had to leave. John wouldn't come back. He was losing everything all over again. He relented, giving over to Mycroft.

"Ok-kay," he sobbed, tears flooding down his face as he looked to the door, finding John gone away. A strangled cry tore from his lips, tucking his fingers between his teeth.

"I'll bring you back," Mycroft said softly and lifted Sherlock up off the bed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll bring you somewhere safe until you can come back." 

Jared had the car ready and Mycroft paused in the living room. 

Sherlock bit at his fingers and pulled viciously on his hair as he was taken from his home, sobbing like a child being torn from his mother. It was hell to leave behind the safety of Baker Street, to know that he'd not see John, to feel the weight of loss. 

He was hysterical the entire trip, bloodying his hands and crying in loss until his voice went out, and even still tears poured down his cheeks. He was sure it was all a gone, going back to where Moran would taunt him and John would scream, where he was a burden and made his brother cry, where there was nothing but sitting and waiting, and waiting for what? For My to get fed up and leave, for his work to start again, all of it. 

Mycroft's expression was blank the entire car ride. He stared off ahead and clutched Sherlock tight to his chest. 

When finally he got into his own room, he put Sherlock under the covers and hung on to him silently. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know his to fix this."

Sherlock was no better in his brother's bed, if anything his spirits had somehow fallen further. He pushed the blankets away from his face, loathing the loss of the scent of Baker Street. He missed his Mrs. Hudson bitterly, wanted John's jumper and his violin. 

He wanted _home_. Only home was full of dust, neglected, unwanted by seemingly everyone else. John wouldn't come back here, he didn't like it at Mycroft's home. If he was going to come back at all, it would have been to Baker Street, but he likely wasn't going to return. Sherlock's chest physically hurt, sharp, corporeal pain lancing through his heart, making each breath painful and leaving him panicked and miserable.

"I'm sorry. I love you. I love you. I'm here for you. I'm here. I just want to help. I'm sorry I'm not John. I'm sorry my home isn't Baker Street. I am doing the best I can." 

Mycroft scooted away from Sherlock and sat up. "I...I can give you a warm bath, or some medicine, or...or a smoothie, or..." Mycroft let out a broken sob and covered his mouth with his hand.

Already his brother was in tears. Sherlock looked up at him, taking in the pain he was causing his sibling, adding it to the severe tension John had been in when he left. He looked away in shame, hating himself to such a degree that were he able to simply hold his breath until he died, he would have. He wanted to tell his brother it wasn't his fault, to take the agony off Mycroft's face, but he was frozen in place with guilt and loss. 

He couldn't have John, and he couldn't let him go. He couldn't have home, but he couldn't let it go. 

"H-He-e-e's in...r-r-rel-lationsh-ship w-w-with G-r-r-eg," he managed, touching his lips and turning a pronounced shade of green. 

Mycroft leaned over and grabbed a bin for Sherlock before shaking his head. He took a moment to calm himself before wiping his eyes and speaking calmly. 

"No, Sherlock, I don't think they are. They aren't a couple. They are very close, and they deeply love each other, but I think John is attached in a dependent way, and Greg needs John to fill a hole left by his wife. He feels as if he is doing something wrong and wants to help. But no, they aren't in a relationship."

Sherlock tore at his hair, ready to claw his own chest open. "I c-can't do this!" He screamed, breaking into panicked, hysterical sobs, "I can't do this! N-No place f-f-for me anymore, not anymore! I c-c-can't, I can't! He l-loves Greg and you are m-m-miserable, B-Baker St-r-reet forgotten, H-Huds-s-son gone, M-Molly g-gone...I can't do this! I can't! Wh-h-h-at is the p-point of m-me?! Why am I still h-here?!" 

"I'm not miserable! I'm just glad I have you! I'm glad I have you! You are here because I need you to be. I don't want to be alone. I want to be here with you. Or...or at Baker Street and with you. I'll move. I'll live in C, if you want. I-I'll do that for you. John still loves you. Greg still loves you. They aren't in a relationship." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hands and held them to his lips. "Do you want me to move to Baker Street with you?"

Sherlock was working hard to speak over wracking sobs, 

"Th-h-hey don't l-love me! I h-hurt him! He was w-worn thin just _being near m-me!_ " Sherlock screamed in loss, pain too overwhelming for him to accept robbing him of his ability to remain calm, "KISSING they w-w-wer-re...w-were k-kissing and-" he reached up, grabbing hold of the tube in his nose and viciously trying to unseat it, "NO M-MORE! NO MORE! I D-D-D-DON-N'T BELONG!" 

He clenched his teeth, bitterly sobbing as he tried to unsettle the tube, his interaction with John playing over again and again. 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's wrists and shook his head. "No, no, Sherlock, no. They weren't...I'm sure there's a reason! You belong! I swear you belong! You belong with me and John and Greg. All of us together. We need to stay together. You matter to me!" He let go with one hand and sent a text to Greg. 

_You two were fucking kissing in front of him? What the hell were you thinking?!_

Sherlock shook his head, struggling against Mycroft, wanting the tube out of his nose despite how much it hurt to pull on it. 

"I m-make you s-s-so sad! I m-make John st-r-re-ssed! Greg n-n-never e-e-even-n-n talks t-to me! E-Everyone is g-gone and th-they have...they've b-built-" he was suddenly ill, sicking up violently into the bin, toes curling as his nose ran and tears dripped off his face. Even as he was retching, he clawed at the tube, scratching his damp face in an effort to tear it free. 

Greg responded as all this was going on. 

_He was sleeping, and John was feeling insufficient. I was helping John, and never intended Sherlock to see._

Mycroft helped support Sherlock as he wretched and schooled his expression. "You don't make me sad. I promise. I'm just working through some things right now. I'll be better soon. Give me a week and I'll have this all sorted. Is there anything at all I can do to help?"

_He's devastated. Pulling his tubes out and throwing up. Well done._

Sherlock hung over the bin, still tugging weakly at his tubes. "I w-w-wan't t-to die," he sobbed, spitting bile and taking in wet, rattling breaths, "I wa-an-n't to d-d-d-ie, I h-have n-no p-purpose, h-he w-w-won't come-" he buckled again, curling tight as he was violently ill again, "c-come back," he wept, even as he spat, carrying on struggling with the tube, "e-even...even if h-he...he REMEMBERS!" 

Sherlock screamed, tearing at his hair, utterly soaking in despair, "He r-rememb-bers and h-he st-t-till...I thought if-f he could h-have a h-h-happy m-m-memory..." again his body curled down as he vomited, screaming into the basket in agony, "It's o-over! I've l-l-lost e-everyth-ing I-" he could not finish, so overcome with loss it was beyond his ability to process. 

_We explained! It wasn't...it wasn't anything! John was going to panic, I tried to help._

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands again. "Don't die! Please! Please! I love you! I can't let you die. If you die, I will too, and I don't want to die." Mycroft was crying onto Sherlock's shoulder now, as he had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest to keep him from hurting himself. 

_The man was brutalized while being forced to watch sexual acts being done to John, and you thought it would be alright to start fucking snogging the man he loves like a spouse??_

Sherlock fought against Mycroft for a few seconds before clutching to him, screaming against Mycroft's shoulder as he came apart. His hands found their way to Mycroft's shirt and he carried on choking on his grief, terribly stressed. 

_I did not do anything of the sort. I gave him a short, chaste kiss. John would never tolerate snogging, for god's sake._

Mycroft held on to Sherlock with as much desperation. "I've got you. Nothing bad happened today. We just visited John. It was nice. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you. Do you want to go to Baker Street again tomorrow?"

_Why would you think that is alright?? His trauma is largely centered around having to watch someone force sexual acts on John while being raped himself! Never again. Do not ever do that again in front of him. What you and John do at your flat is not my concern. But not in front of Sherlock._

Sherlock wept and wept against Mycroft's shoulder as his entire world fell in on him. "Th-e-er-e isn't a p-poin-nt anym-more," he sobbed brokenly. 

"H-He rem-memb-bers and st-i-ll...still...h-he l-left m-m-m-me for Af-f-frica...he...he d-didn't w-w-" he screamed again as the unavoidable truth settled heavy on him, "w-want me th-then, a-a-and n-not-t n-now and he- J-Joh-n-n and _G-re-eg_! I c-can't do anything e-else it's _over_!" 

The final dregs of his hope emptied, leaving him in the knowledge that he'd completely failed. 

_It calms John. I'll not simply allow John to panic when I can do something so simple to help him. Surely Sherlock can understand that, at least._

Mycroft did not hesitate with the responding threat. 

_No. If you do that in front of Sherlock again I will physically harm you._

"I'll...I'm going to try and get John back for you..." Mycroft was in physical pain his chest was so tight, and he rocked Sherlock back and forth. The confirmation that no matter what he did he would not be enough was crushing. Simply because he was not John, he would never be able to do enough. Giving up his job wasn't enough. Giving up his mind wasn't enough. Giving up every other thing he had to offer, his sanity, his health, none of it would ever be enough. 

And so Mycroft, who was willing to carve the heart out of his chest if it would help his baby brother, gave up as well. 

Sherlock shook his head, holding so tight to Mycroft it hurt his entire body. He tried to speak, but then he couldn't, instead clinging to the only person alive who loved him. 

"I l-l-lost h-him," Sherlock wept, his heart shattered to the floor of his chest, "H-He r-r-rem-m-members us and...I...m-my viol-lin and...my h-hands and m-my _mind_ and-" he cried out sharply as he felt loss viscerally. "N-Not enough! It's _m-me_ , I am- I- I am a s-s-scourge...I- I am a _disease_ and-" he buried his face against Mycroft's neck and screamed out his heartbreak. 

_You are severely overreacting to a non-situation, Mycroft._

Mycroft couldn't respond to Greg. He could hardly respond to Sherlock, who he wished to explain to, who he wished to give everything he had to. But then, he already had, hadn't he? And it simply was not enough. Mycroft broke down into fresh tears and wept onto Sherlock. 

"You aren't a d-disease," he whispered. "I promise. You're my baby brother and you're hurt and I'm not doing enough."

Sherlock was out of energy. He went lax against Mycroft, sobbing until he lost consciousness and sagging down, pale and silent. 

Mycroft sobbed over Sherlock even when Jared came in to check on him. He wept inconsolably in the bitter realization that even if he gave Sherlock everything, it would not be enough. 

Miller came in with Jared after hearing Sherlock scream so frequently. He closed the door and quietly approached the elder brother. 

"Mycroft," he whispered, offering him pills for himself, "can I do anything for you?"

Mycroft took the pills and went back to making sure Sherlock was comfortable. "I should eat. And drink. And get some sleep."

Miller looked over to Jared. "Paul has been in contact with me. Said that you should not be with your brother so often. Why don't you let Jared help while he's asleep, I need to examine him after today's seizures anyhow." 

"I need to keep myself mentally sound. I need distance." Mycroft spoke the words without conviction, but got up anyway. He rubbed his eyes and slowly went for the door. 

"I'm going to walk outside for a moment, then sleep in a guest room. I assume you'll call if I'm needed."

Miller nodded, looking to Jared. "I'm sure he'll call you if you're needed. I will have the staff send up a meal for you. Get some rest." He waited until Mycroft left to begin speaking rapidly to Jared. 

"Tell me what's happened, Mycroft would be too reserved with the details. What happened?"

Jared ran his fingers back through his hair. "He went to Baker Street, his of home, which Mycroft seemed to think would help him. But then John was not there, and he...he screamed for a solid half hour for him before the man finally got there. Then things were alright. John seemed willing to help, but...very taxed. It was clear he was not at ease with Sherlock. Still, John offered to live there, and Sherlock seemed happy. Then Sherlock slept, and Mycroft wanted to take him away. John objected, Sherlock stayed...apparently Greg and John were kissing..." 

He held back his opinion of that. It seemed as if Greg, who was clearly his caretaker, was acting out of turn. But Jared was trained to be professional, and perhaps that was why he looked down on such a practice. 

"It upset Sherlock. Eventually they left. Sherlock screamed the whole ride home."

Miller listened quietly and held his tongue for the whole of Sherlock's non-invasive exam. 

"John wasn't comfortable with him yet. That's an issue. Sherlock isn't improving and Mycroft is wasting. I'm starting to lose my optimism here for a good outcome, much as I hate to say it. I don't typically do such long-term work with trauma patients. What are your thoughts?"

"The man is obsessed with John. And I mean that in the kindest way possible. He is in love with him, infatuated even, and I just can not see him being happy without him. I will do everything I can to be his friend, but the calmest he's been since I've seen him is when he is with John." 

Jared looked sadly to Sherlock. 

"I'm going to start pushing Mycroft away a bit more."

Miller nodded, "Yes, I know he is calmest, and ironically, the most panicked, with John. However, if John is still unhappy around him a year later, and is in a relationship with Greg, I don't see how that situation is ever going to improve. Was he trying to pull his tube?" 

Miller asked as he took note of the claw marks near Sherlock's nose and mouth. He'd known he'd torn out the port, but the NG tube was new. "I honestly think Sherlock needs to be institutionalized." 

"He did. In panic. And I would agree to the institution, if only for Mycroft's sake, but I think I can be of help. He wants to go back to see John again tomorrow, and I don't think that is wise. People who have been through what John has usually avoid stressful situations and things that remind them of their torture. But John keeps going to Sherlock. Perhaps that's enough." 

Miller nodded slowly. "Yes it...seems we've hit the time where it is no longer possible to keep trying with this. I can't see this working. If John still feels that way...no, it's understandable, but very sad. Mycroft, I think, will be better off in the long run with his brother in a facility."

Jared looked nervously over to Sherlock. "Let's have this conversation elsewhere, alright? I don't want to put him in a facility. Let's give it time."

Miller nodded, looking back to Jared. "We need to get a new line in him. Sooner rather than later, he panics too frequently to not have a port that is at the ready." 

Jared walked over to Sherlock and took his hand. "I'll hold just in case he wakes. I do hope he doesn't need an institution." 

Miller began to set up for a fast insertion, nodding to Jared. "Me too, Jared, you've no idea. I just don't see how he's going to improve at this point. He can't mend with John, he can't read, or work, or walk, or eat. He's killing his brother, there's no way around it, and there hasn't been a visitor for him otherwise at all." 

He settled down beside Sherlock, waiting until Jared took hold of Sherlock's hand. "I'll be fast, but you never know with him." 

Sherlock first became aware of ice on his hand, which panned out to be alcohol but he was unaware of that. His face pinched and his fingers curled around Jared's, shifting on the bed. Miller popped the cap off the needle and swiftly inserted it before Sherlock properly woke, threading the tube in place and drawing the needle out, pressing down with his thumb to minimize the bleeding. He was working on taping it down when Sherlock's eyes flew open and he keened in fear, looking to Miller and then the thin line of blood trailing between his fingers. 

"M-My?" He hardly breathed, unable to look away from Miller. 

Jared text Mycroft to alert him, but decided he would try to calm Sherlock himself. "Hey, Sherlock, I'm here. Mycroft is on a short walk in the backyard. He'll be back soon. Are you alright? We just had to fix your port. You're alright."

_Mycroft's not here._

_Needles, and My isn't here._

He looked over to Jared and then down to his hand before closing his eyes as the tears began. He wept silently, shaking as the little color sleep had given him faded away. Otherwise he did not respond, going lax in their grip. 

"You know, it was great meeting John. He seems really nice. You'll see him tomorrow, which is good. Sherlock, do you think that the three of us could play cards next time? Or maybe just a game?" 

Jared sat at the edge of his bed and absently folded his hands. 

Miller capped off the port and cleaned up before moving out of the room, knowing he often upset Sherlock. 

Jared's words reached something in Sherlock and he looked over to the man with bloodshot, heavy eyes. 

"H-He's not c-coming back," he said quietly before looking away again. "J-John...John's n-not going to come back. He's not going....to....c-come b-back." 

"Oh," Jared said sadly. "I thought he said he was. I was looking forward to seeing him again. Why is it that you think he isn't coming back?"

Sherlock spoke to the ceiling, tears trailing down his face. "H-He said....s-said he was b-being 'good.' He w-wasn't there to s-see me...he....he is t-trying to fix...wh-whatever h-he thinks is w-r-r-ong with h-him. He-" 

Sherlock closed his eyes again, chin wavering, "He doesn't l-like me. I...I st-tress h-him by existing. He's...he w-was so r-r-ready to g-get away fr-rom m-me. And-" his voice broke as the imagery played out, "h-he is in love with m-my oldest, and only, f-friend." 

He was quiet with his grief, holding his hand to his chest as he had when first returning home, protective and frightened. 

"I w-want to go home." 

"I'm sorry about that, Sherlock. That's rough. But I think that since he is willing to see you, maybe you can try and make him your friend again. If not..." 

He trailed off and shrugged. "I could be your friend, if you wanted. I don't have much to offer, and I'm not ever going to be John or Greg, but I'll stay with you and we can have a nice time."

Sherlock looked back over to Jared. "Y-Yes, until the m-money dries up or you realize what a f-f-freak I am, or you f-find a wife, or get a better job offer. I w-want to go home. W-Will you t-t-take me back home?"

"How about this?" Jared leaned in and spoke very quietly, as if hiding a secret. "I'll take you back to Baker Street tomorrow no matter what anyone says. Mycroft will surely go with you, but I want you to know that I personally promise to get you there." 

Sherlock's expression crumpled and he looked back to the ceiling. 

"I w-want to go n-now," he whispered, picking at the tape around his port, wanting it out. Mycroft had left him, and he wanted to go back home more than anything in the world. He didn't want anyone with him, he just wanted to go and be left there in peace. 

"I...I h-have funds my b-brother...d-doesn't know about. I w-will pay y-you handsomely to t-take me home n-now and then l-leave." 

"I am worried that once you get there you will be sad because John is not," Jared whispered truthfully. "Is there any other way I can help?"

Sherlock looked away as tears slid down his face. "No," he whispered, crushed and shifted mentally. He closed his eyes as his chest hitched, "n-not unless y-you are...w-willing t-to over...overdose m-me."

"I will not overdose you, but I will give you something to help you relax. I will bring you to Baker Street, if that is what you want, but John will not be there right now, and that makes me worry about your reaction." Jared was pleased, at the very least, that Sherlock didn't fear him. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes despite his grief. "Baker St-treet is e-empty. I will p-pay you to y-take me th-h-here and then g-go away."

"I will not let you hurt yourself, Sherlock." He knelt down by the bed and put his head on the edge. 

"I'm trying to help. How can I amuse you? Make you happy? At the very least, occupy you until you find something better to do."

Sherlock covered his face with shaking hands, chin quivering, before rolling to his side away from Jared. 

He'd driven his brother away.

He'd been so content with John for a few blissful hours, and now that was hopelessly gone. He lay on his side, quietly crying, no longer interested in Jared either.

Jared reached out and very hesitantly put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Would you like me to get Mycroft for you?"

"No," Sherlock choked out. "I...w-want the g-guest r-room made ready f-f-for me. H-He...this is h-his room and-d he e needs it."

_He needs me gone._

He bit at his fingers, frightened from having been woken with needles and no brother. Jared would not do as he asked, but perhaps some house staff member would.

Jared decided that in the end, that would be better for Mycroft, but instead pointed to the smaller bed, the unused one, next to Mycroft's. "You could stay there, instead. Not a whole room. Like a baby step." 

Sherlock caught on a choked sob and thumped his fist on the bedding. "Will y-you do n-nothing I ask? I've r-run my brother from h-h-his own bed, am I going to have to f-f-fucking crawl?"

"Okay, I'll bring you. There's one set up already. I'll get a chair." 

Jared turned and left the room briefly. The room John had stayed in was already made and clean, and close enough that Mycroft could simply walk down the hall. 

Sherlock had the port out of his hand by the time Jared returned, though he hid it from view. He pressed his thumb over the small puncture to keep it from bleeding, and was casting his eyes around for a syringe without a needle so that he could remove the NG tube. He ran out of time for that, but managed to sit up and nod to Jared and the chair.

Jared did not notice the removal of the port, and helped Sherlock out of the bed and into the chair. "I think Mycroft might be sad about this, but you're doing the right thing. He's tired. It's not your fault, but he's tired." 

Sherlock kept his hand hidden, crawling into the bed and laying on his side. "It is m-my fault. He w-will be...r-relieved." 

He had no fight left in him, as far as Sherlock was concerned, it was all over for him. 

"I d-don't n-need anything else, y-you can go."

Jared shook his head and sat down in the chair next to the bed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't just leave you alone. I'm sorry."

Sherlock glared at Jared. "W-Why? Is it m-money that you n-need? How m-much?"

Jared shook his head. "Mycroft pays me more than enough. I just don't want you to die. Can't that be enough?"

Sherlock grit his teeth and turned away, laying back down in the blankets. He closed his eyes and for a moment, his chest tightened in want to reach out for his brother. But he was well and properly alone now. His mind wandered to John and his beautiful dog, to Greg and his flat. 

He found himself painfully jealous of them both.

"When y-you decide I'm w-worth your m-mercy, please t-tell me," he whispered, voice heavy with grief.

"Sherlock, I have mercy, I just can not let you die. I think I can make a good life for you with Mycroft. I'm supposed to do that. Could I bring my cello? Or some games?" 

Jared leaned forward and tried to catch Sherlock's eyes. 

"We can work on your walking and using your hands. Anything."

"What is the point!" Sherlock shouted with all he had, "what is the point! M-Mycroft is gone, J-John is gone, I c-can't work! What is the p-point of any of it, just l-let me die!"

Jared shook his head and ran his fingers back through his hair. "Because you are worth more than what you can do and the people you affect, Sherlock! You are worth more than your work." 

Sherlock laughed at him as tears slid down his face. 

"I am a hateful...t-terrible man. You will w-want r-rid...of m-me soon enough, too. There w-was n-nothing but the w-work and then..." 

His voice trailed off as he blinked rapidly, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "then n-nothing but J-John."

Jared closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't find you hateful. I think you're lost, and scared, and confused, and broken and you've given up, but I don't think you're hateful."

Sherlock shrugged, absolutely sure it was just a matter of time. 

"If-f...John...if I could l-lose...him, then you...you'll b-be gone s-soon too."

He dragged the blanket up over his shoulder and sank into the bed, just quiet in his grief, waiting for...hell if he knew.

"Sherlock, can I tell you something honestly?" Jared leaned forward and gave Sherlock an open expression. 

Sherlock was quiet for another moment, settling into the foreign bed. "I'm at y-your m-mercy," he responded heavily, soaking in heartache.

"I think that John is going to keep coming back," Jared said softly. "I think you'll do well in life. You don't believe me. That's okay. But maybe you'll trust me eventually."

"H-he doesn't c-c-come for m-me..." Sherlock said through his tears, "h-he comes to p-prove to h-himself that he's n-not bad as a p-person." 

Oh, how it hurt to know that. He looked at Jared with as honest and open expression as he could. "I j-just want t-to be...be allowed t-to die n-now. H-Haven't...haven't I d-done en-nough?"

"What if you could win him over as a friend again? I could help." Jared wanted to instill some some kind of hope in him. "I know you can."

Sherlock went very quiet for a long while. "He w-was raped...under the g-guise of m-me. Beaten f-for a year believing it w-was me. He is in l-love. He doesn't e-even m-miss me. No. I c-can't w-win him b-back."

"Maybe as a friend you can. That is still a possibility, just because he has a...an attachment to someone does not mean you are not a part of his life." 

Jared leaned back and folded his hands. 

"Let's be honest. The fact that he is as accepting of you as he is means he is willing to try."

Sherlock lay in defeat. "It has been...a y-year...a y-y-year and I still h-hurt him just as I l-lay breathing. I d-did not h-hurt him...He...I tried t-to help h-him. I- no, I h-have no place in this w-world any l-longer."

"I just don't believe that. Call me stupid. Or sentimental. That's fine. But I think you have purpose! I think he will be your friend again."

Sherlock shut his eyes and refused to speak for a long while. Eventually he opened his eyes, looking over at Jared. 

"I...I d-don't think y-y-you understand. I...he...my b-brother a-and John...I'm....I'm a d-detail that h-hurts. My loves h-his work and I've t-taken it. John loves-" his voice cut off and his breathing hitched in a sob, shaking his head, "I am n-no good anym-m-more. Why...w-why won't y-you just leave?"

Jared shook his head and crossed his arms. "I just don't believe you. I'm sorry. Mycroft loved you, and John truly did look glad to have you. There was a part of it you didn't see, when you were asleep. They tried to take you away from him, and he fought. He threatened Mycroft. He practically snarled."

Sherlock looked up sharply at Jared. "H-He did?" he whispered, taken aback, "b-but....but he..." he shook his head, suddenly sinking both his hands into his hair. 

"I h-h-hate the g-g-gam-mes! I _hate them_!" 

There wasn't another way to express it. He wanted to die, he wanted it to stop. Knowing that John had defended him was horrific, as it sparked a bit of hope he knew, he _knew_ to be a lie. 

"F-For his o-own....own n-needs," he whispered, shaking his head, "h-he- that w-wasn't about..." He tore at his locks, shouting suddenly in sharp agony, "no! H-He l-l-lies he _lies_ he j-just w-wanted to f-f-feel useful it w-w-wasn't about me!" 

Jared shook his head. "No, no, he said that he didn't want you to be hurting! He didn't want you to be scared. It had nothing to do with him. Nothing. He didn't have any personal reasons. He just wanted you to be safe and not scared. He tried to find the best way to do that. He genuinely cared." 

Sherlock could not find a place for that, not anywhere at all. "H-He didn't w-want to be _H-HOME_!" 

He shouted, clawing at the side of his face, "I'm not g-g-good e-enough f-f-for him! He- I've l-loved h-him f-for....s-so _l-long_ and I l-lost all.... _all_ of m-me and he w-wants n-nothing to do- nothing t-to do with m-m-me!" 

He was screaming so loud his voice was shaking, for a split second wanting Moran to come and distract him with physical pain to alleviate this hell. 

"J-John is j-just a g-" he gagged on the word, tears pouring down his face, unable to cope with this at all, "g-ood m-man and it c-could h-have been you and h-he'd have pr-r-rotected- HE H-HATES M-M-ME! He l-left me! Left m-me in h-h-hosp-p-pital alone, w-with n-no one b-but _doctors_ , kn-n-new I w-was g-g-going there and-" 

He was barely understandable as he tripped over his words, so crushed from the loss of John, Baker Street, and the safety of Mycroft's room that he could not stand to be in his own skin, completely hysterical. 

It was then that Mycroft came in, as he'd been hovering nearby. "I'm sorry," he gasped and rushed forward, arms open. He knelt by the bed and reached out to him. 

"John doesn't hate you. I swear. Please, let me help you."

Sherlock was nearly climbing Mycroft, wanting to keep his distance but utterly unable to.   
"PLEASE M-MY! L-LET M-ME _STOP!_ " he could not stop screaming, tears flowing down his face, entire body quaking, "PLEASE PLEASE I C-CAN'T ANYMORE PL-L-LEASE M-MY LET M-ME STOP!"

Mycroft picked Sherlock up and rocked him slowly. "No, no, I can't! I will not let you die! You're my little brother! I care about you!"

Sherlock broke down into shattered, helpless weeping, holding on to Mycroft in utter defeat. He could not do this for another moment, not another moment, there was no hope, no way to calm himself. "M-My," he sobbed like a little child, "My it h-h-hurts!" 

"Jared, get something for pain." Mycroft laid Sherlock down on the bed and cuddled up next to him.  
"I've got you. You're okay. It's night time now, 'Lock. Can we sleep? Please?"

Sherlock was clawing at Mycroft, screaming and pulling at Mycroft's clothes in a bid to do anything at all with his unfocused agony. He was in a true, proper hell, no escape or shelter, only the continuing loss and horror of his unending life and pain, pain, pain. 

"PLEASE," he screamed again, begging mercy, "I C-CAN'T PLEASE! PLEASE M-MY!" 

He'd never wanted to ask his brother for this, but now he could not stand breathing for another second. 

Mycroft handled it well for another thirty seconds before clutching Sherlock and wrapping him up in his arms. 

"I-I can't! I can't let you die! What the hell am I going to do without you? I know I'm not enough! I know! But please, please, don't leave me! I'll do better! We'll go back to Baker Street and stay there. I-I'll sell this house. I don't even care. Just tell me how to make you hurt less."

Sherlock was holding his breath, waiting until his body forced him to breathe to inhale again. 

All he wanted was darkness and nothing, since he could not have John or his life or his legs or his mind or his hands or his words. 

There was nothing, nothing at all that could stop this other than John forgiving him and _wanting him_ and that was never going to happen. He let go of Mycroft's shirt and in one swift, brutal motion tore the tube from his nose, hardly registering the incredible pain of it as the inflated anchor shredded the inside of his membranes, bringing with it a flood of bleeding. He tossed it aside, gagging and whimpering at the after effects of it, head spinning with vertigo. 

Maybe they'd let him starve. 

John was kissing Greg. 

God, _please_ let him starve. 

Mycroft let out a sharp cry of surprise and quickly restrained Sherlock before he could cause more damage to himself. "Call Miller," he gasped to Jared, but the man had already done so. 

"Sherlock, please stop this. It's alright. Jesus. I'm so sorry. I'm trying. I'm trying."

"It h-has t-t-t-to b-be GREG! He- h-h-how w-was...k-kissing they- he k-k-kissed J- he's n-not G-G-GAY HE D-DOESN"T L-LIKE-" his words broke down into panicked screaming again, clawing at Mycroft. 

"I C-CAN'T! M-MAKE IT _ST-STOP!_ " 

Miller was in the room in the next moment, swiftly going to assist Mycroft. The sight of Miller set Sherlock off another octave higher, causing him to literally scale Mycroft in terror, incoherent as he screamed in sheer terror at the man. Miller looked to Jared, "Help, we have to sedate him, we have to sedate him." 

Jared worked to subdue Sherlock as gently as he could while still being effective. Mycroft was doing much the same, and had turned Sherlock so Jared could catch his hand again.

"He ripped his port again," Jared observed and Mycroft swore. 

Sherlock locked wide, terrified eyes on Mycroft as he fought with all his strength against them, begging and screaming in terrible fright. 

"PLE-E-ASE N-NO!" He screamed so loud the sound seemed to be shredding his throat. He twisted his arms and wrenched his body in an effort to get away, doing what he could to kick his legs out and thrash, only he couldn't make them move properly.

"NO N-N-NEEDLES I- NO I DON'T-T W-W-WANT- PLEASE! _PL-LEAS-SE!!_ " 

He was in a cold sweat, teeth chattering, screaming out sharply as he felt a needle enter his vein. He knew then that it was too late, and yet still he weakly tried to fight until the medicine robbed him of his strength and he faded, going grey and limp against the bed, respirations slow and spaced wide apart. Sluggishly he looked over to his brother while several tracks of tears slipped down both his cheeks, parting his lips as though he was going to say something and groaning in pain instead. 

Mycroft appeared to be in some form of mild shock. He was bent over Sherlock with his arms around his chest and his face pressed straight down to his shoulder. He was shaking lightly in his arms and shoulders, and he hardly even breathed in his attempt to control himself. 

"Mycroft," Miller whispered in sharp concern. He grabbed a blanket and threw it over Mycroft's shoulders, pressing his fingers to Mycroft's neck, "Jared will you get him something for nerves, and bring some orange juice or something with sugar?" 

Miller placed a hand on Mycroft's back, gently rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. "Breathe...just breathe," he said nothing of Sherlock, no assurances that Sherlock was alright. The man's nose was still gushing, blood matting in his hair and all over his pillow and the sides of his neck. It needed looking at, but Mycroft was in more need of intervention. 

Mycroft held his breath for as long as he could, then let it out in a sharp gasp. He was trembling from the effort it took to keep calm, and after a few moments he finally got under control enough to look up. He startled hard at the sight of Sherlock and cried out. 

He looked so dead. The blood pouring from his nose and matting Sherlock's hair shook Mycroft to his core and he scooped Sherlock up.   
"Help," he cried to Miller and could feel blood coating the hand that held Sherlock's head up. "Help him!!" Mycroft screamed it and turned wildly to Miller. So much blood. How was Sherlock not drowning in it? "C-Can he breathe?"

"Not like that," Miller responded as he helped shift Sherlock in Mycroft's arms so that the blood flowed down his chest. He punched Sherlock's noise, guiding them to the washroom. 

"It looks much worse than it is."

Sherlock was meekly batting Miller's hand, trying to get him away. The sedative was trying to pull him under and force him to sleep, but he was fighting with all he had.

Mycroft tried to hush Sherlock, but his own mind was far too shaky to soothe his brother's. 

"It's a-alright," he stammered, and carried him into the bathroom. 

"No cloths," he told Miller, "just get a sponge."

Mycroft looked ready to collapse. Miller took hold of him and sat him down, grabbing his kit and starting to examine the damage. He packed Sherlock's noise as swift as he could with medicated gauze, setting off a sharp panic response in Sherlock.

"PL-L-LEASE!" Sherlock screamed, gagging and clawing feebly at Mycroft. He was not difficult to restrain, but he was fighting with all he could. Miller spoke softly to him, shining a light as he opened Sherlock's mouth to look at the back of his throat. Sherlock simply went limp, sobbing desperately.

"Don't do that," Mycroft pleaded. "Don't hold his mouth open! It scares him!" He got back up and hovered just behind Miller as he worked. "He was sexually abused for two straight months! You can't just pry his mouth open!!"

Miller nodded, "I know that and I'm sorry, but he's done damage to himself. You can see there where he tore the membranes and he's bleeding down the back of his throat." 

All the while, Sherlock sat there in childlike tears, shoulders hanging limp along with his head except where supported by Miller's hand. Miller let him go very gently, leaving a thin string of gauze dangling from the damaged nostril, while he went to draw up something to properly knock him down. As soon as he stepped away, Sherlock began to sick-up on himself without warning, the rest of his body completely still, behaving for all the world as though he were not tossing up blood and bile on his chest. 

Mycroft helped Sherlock lean forward a bit so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit and brushed his hair back from his face. With hands covered in blood, Mycroft supported him quietly. He kept his mouth shut as he had absolutely no faith in his ability to say anything of worth. 

Miller came back with a syringe drawn, crouching in front of Sherlock. "I'm going to put you to sleep, let you have a rest. I think a rest will help so much," he said warmly, reaching out to take Sherlock's arm. 

Sherlock did not look up, blood on his lips, trembling terribly. "M-My...is-s G-G-Greg...wh-hat if-f G-Greg is r-raping J-John? He...h-he was k-k-kissing-g him. What if th-that's what...what m-makes J-John...m-maybe he's h-hurting J-John. What if-f-f they w-want me t-to st-t-tay w-with them s-so he c-can h-hurt m-me, too?"

He tore his arm away from Miller, cradling it defensively to his chest. 

"No, he isn't. I have a video feed of the flat. I can prove that Greg has never hurt John. Not ever. That is absolutely not a problem. He will never hurt you. If he did, I would kill him." 

Mycroft could practically see the hectic mess of damaged roads Sherlock's mind was, and the confusion and fear that would lead him to such a statement. "Greg isn't raping John. I promise."

Sherlock ran a trembling hand over his face, shying away from Miller and his needle. 

"S-S-So....it-t...w-ww-was m-me that...J-John is g-g-gay...it w-w-was m-me..." he nodded and kept very quiet and still. "k...o-okay....he...he-" 

Sherlock whimpered and touched the inside of his bloody mouth, sobbing as he felt the blood and looking sharply to Miller. His heart tripped over itself and he looked to Mycroft with wide eyes, ashen gray as he swallowed around the horrifically familiar taste in his mouth. 

"N-no," he whined, struggling to back away from Miller, heedless to how filthy he was, " _no_ I-" fingers still in his mouth he began to break down hard, sobbing as panic recharged itself, "j-just k-k-kill m-me already! N-No more!"

Mycroft took Sherlock's hands. 

"Nobody is hurting you. You're bleeding because you ripped out your tube. We are only trying to help." 

He wrapped his arms slowly around Sherlock and was quiet for a moment before addressing the first problem. 

"And...I don't think that Greg and John have a physical relationship beyond the occasional kiss. That alone is not physical attraction, but a need for assurance of safety. I don't think John is gay. And I am positive him and Greg do not...that it ends with what you saw."

Sherlock kept his fingers in his mouth and lay there sobbing against his brother for quite some time, not even aware of how horrible he smelled, quite adapted to it. He cried himself raw, already so weak with the sedative, keeping an eye on the second dose Miller wanted to give. 

"Y-You're n-not supposed t-t-to b-be here," he groaned at last, unsettled and hazily recalling that he wasn't supposed to be with Mycroft. 

Mycroft got into bed right over the blood and sick to the other side, which was clean, and curled up next to Sherlock. 

"Just please, let me give you something to help you sleep. Please?" 

Sherlock misread it. 

_I'm leaving, I don't want you to watch._

Sherlock didn't want to watch, either. He outstretched his arm in offering and went quiet, turning away so that they could do what they were going to do. He focused on the throbbing pain racing down his airways and otherwise did not move.   
Mycroft held Sherlock's arm still for Miller even though his hands were dirty with blood and bile. "I'll be here when you wake up," he told Sherlock calmingly. 

Sherlock slumped over before Mycroft finished speaking, fainting dead away with the heavy handed sedative. Miller helped to catch him from falling off the bed, and then stepped back. "Okay, he needs a proper bath and I need to put a stitch in the back of his throat. You should go and get some rest."

"I need...I-I need a sedative," Mycroft whispered and took a step back. He put his hand over his face for a moment, then felt the blood and stopped. "I need something or I won't be calm." 

Miller looked over to the back of the room, scanning for Jared whom he sent to do just that. he found the man there with the pills and juice, and asked him softly, "Will you help him take those and then get Mycroft to bed?"

Jared took the pills in hand and went to Mycroft. "Come on," he said gently, "let's get you cleaned up. I've got your sedative. Let's go." 

Mycroft followed Jared's instruction in a daze. He was led slowly into the other room, where he washed his face silently, scrubbed his hand clean, changed into clean clothes, then got into bed. He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes before taking the sedatives and waiting for sleep to drag him down. 

Mycroft woke up blearily a few hours later and pulled a pillow to his chest. He was overtired still, but a bit improved for having slept. It suddenly occurred to him, like a sharp jab to his heart, that he'd left Sherlock alone. Mycroft abruptly charged out of bed and into the hall.


	17. Chapter 17

Miller was walking out of Sherlock's new room when he encountered Mycroft in the hall. He stopped him, speaking professionally under the gentleness.

"He deteriorated, Mycroft. We've been forced to restrain him."

"You did WHAT?" Mycroft clenched his fists and stepped forward as if he would attack. He stopped after just a second to check himself, then simply shoved by. 

"Sherlock?" He ran into the room and swore to himself. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, having tested the restraints to the point of chafing despite Jared's efforts to get him to stop. He did not respond in any way to Mycroft, honestly not hearing him over the chaos in his head.

Mycroft rushed over and frantically untied Sherlock's restraints. "I've got you. It's okay. I'm here. Can you talk to me? Are you okay?"

Sherlock shielded his head as soon as his arms were free, in tears with fear of anticipation. He held his breath as Moran made horrific promises in his head, biting back a scream.

"No, no, Sherlock, it's My. My." Mycroft knelt down by the bed and cupped Sherlock's face very gently in his hands. "Your brother."

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he reached forward, having hold of Mycroft and clinging to him with all he had. 

"D-Don't leave me h-here!" He begged, sounding more frightened and afraid than he had in months. His voice shook along with his arms. His face bore fresh scratches where he’d gone after the new line

Mycroft grabbed hold of Sherlock and rocked slowly. "I-I fell asleep. I didn't mean to. I mean, I meant to, but not for so long. I didn't know they had tied you down. I am so sorry. I love you. I won't leave again."

Sherlock tried to hold on to his want to scream. "I a-asked to d-d-die and y-you sent m-me b-b-back! Why! Why! Wh-at did I d-do?!"

"Sherlock, I did NOT send you back. Look at me. I did not. You are in my home. The doctors restrained you because you were hurting yourself. Do you understand?" Mycroft wasn't angry, nor was his tone harsh. He spoke slowly, but there was no wavering, no question in his voice.

"I w-w-want t-to go h-h-home," he sobbed, still desperately afraid, "I d-don't w-want this t-tube I w-want to go home!"

"Home, its-" he stopped and looked around. "It's morning. I'll...I can bring you back now."

Sherlock was already pulling at the tube in his opposite nostril, genuinely trying to rid himself of it. Tears made a mess of his face and he was in hysterics already. "Home," he whispered, over and over again, clawing at the tape.

Mycroft reached out and held his hands still. "Stop. Don't pull it out. I can bring you home, but you need to not pull the tubes out." He then sent a quick text to Greg. 

_Is John coming today? I need him too.  
Also, Sherlock asked if you are actively raping John and plan on raping him. So please, no kissing._

Sherlock wept as Mycroft pulled his hands from his face. "I d-don't want it!" He sobbed, still pulling at his hands. He was only partially coherent, not fully understanding his situation. 

"I j-just want h-home! Pl-l-lease home!"

"I know. I know. I can bring you home. I'll bring you to Baker Street. But we have to wait just a bit, alright? Just a little bit for you to calm down." Mycroft just wanted to buy time. 

_Is John coming or not?_

Greg looked over to John, who'd had quite a rough night, running his fingers through John's hair. "What do you think, love? It's been a hard night. Mycroft is asking if you can do Baker Street."

John had been silent the entire car ride home. He'd hardly said a word or even acknowledged Greg until they were safely tucked in bed, and even then he seemed to shy away from Greg's attempts at affection. He'd stared across the room, hoping for sleep for about an hour before he finally broke down.  
It was a mess of guilt, fear, grief and confusion that left him screaming and sobbing into a pillow, then onto Greg when he decided that he couldn't possibly hurt Sherlock by loving Greg when he couldn't see. 

By morning, he was quiet again, but not a shocked silence. 

"I need to go back because I said I would." To John, there was no option.

Greg drew in a show breath and shook his head, "It won't do either of you any good like this. John...was yesterday helpful to you at all?"

John shrugged and looked down. "It was good until I started making things bad and then it was worse. I want to help and I don't want to hurt. It was nice for a bit when we were just talking. It was like...like friends."

Greg nodded, "I hear you, I really do, but he's...he's having a hard time and I don't know if it's going to help him or just hurt you. I...god, don't know if you should go."

"I am going," John said in a voice as cold as ice. "Unless you think I will hurt him, I am going to go. I promised. I want my word to mean something. I need to not play games with him."

Greg sighed and shook his head, "You've had to change plans before, he's not doing well John, he's...god, John, he thinks I'm raping you and that I might come for him. I don't think this is going to help anyone."

"He thinks what?" John stared up at Greg with horror. "Is it because I kissed you? Is it because of that? Does he think...I need to tell him that's not what is happening. I need to go now."

Greg nodded in affirmation to the question. "What if you called him? John this...I love you, I think this is hurting you and not helping."

John paused for a moment and took Greg's face in his hands. Love and admiration shone in his eyes and he brushed a soft kiss to his lips. 

"I love you, alright? It's going to be okay. I'll make sure it is okay. I'm going to go visit him because I promised I would, and he needs certainty in his life. I won't make any more promises, alright?"

Greg drew in a slow, deep breath. "Alright," he said in heavy resignation. "Please no more promises. He's....He's not well and I think he's bad for you, much as I hate that, love."

"You think he's bad for me?" John furrowed his brow and reached out to touch Greg's face again. "I'm sorry, love, I didn't know. I'm sorry. I still want to help him. Please?"

Greg drew in another show breath and spoke softly. "He...He's not bad for you all on his own, his...his damage is bad for you. He...He wants things back to the way they were and that's never going to happen. He wants you to love him. It upsets you that it upsets him to see us together. I don't see that improving. You've been so down...He didn't help you, he hurt you."

"Remember what I said months ago? About me not mattering? Do you remember why I decided I would live? Because Sherlock was missing, and you told me not to toss him out by dying. Ignoring him is even worse. I'm not going to leave him. He is less damaging now than before! He'd getting better!" 

John took Greg's hands and gave him an earnest look. "Let's go early and clean things so it doesn't look like a ghost town. That could help him."

Greg nodded, having no response for his own naive words. He'd not known what he'd been talking about then. "Alright, John," he said quietly, finally texting Mycroft,  
_John will be there._

John leaned forward and kissed Greg's forehead. "Love, I know this hurts me, but it's what I am meant to do, and I think I'm helping him. Please, let me continue until I'm done being useful."

Greg took hold of John's shoulders perhaps a bit too forcefully. "What does that mean, until you're done being useful? You aren't supposed to do anything. What does that mean, John?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" John brought his hands up out of reflex to being grabbed and they hovered open near his face. 

"I just want to help and be useful until I can't! I just wanted to say that I need to help. Nothing else. I promise." And truly, he didn't care if he burned out in the process. As long as he helped Sherlock as much as he could before he became useless again. And if this was making him go backwards as Greg had said, he might soon be.

Greg pulled him close to his chest. "I'm sorry," he breathed, rubbing John's back, "I'm sorry. Don't be scared, it's just me. I...I don't like you thinking this way. It scares me. I don't think we should go, your purpose is not to fix him. I'm worried about this. Let's...John I don't think we should go."

John breathed a sigh of relief when he was held to Greg's chest. He brought his hands up to hold small fistfuls of Greg's shirt, as was his habit, and tried to consider what it would do to Sherlock if he didn't show up after promising. 

"I have to," he whispered. "I can't just leave him. I'm sorry I scared you. I never wanted to scare you. I love you a lot. I promise. I understand why you're worried. If this doesn't go well, I'll take a break for a while." 

John looked up for just long enough to catch Greg's warm eyes. "I love you so much. I'm sorry I'm stressing you." 

Greg was quiet for a few minutes. "You didn't talk to me all night. You were in pain all night. He's so confused I doubt he'll...I don't know if he can be helped by anyone at this point, John."

"If you give up on him, then I'll give up too." John spoke the words into Greg's chest, then shook his head. 

"No, no, sorry...I'm sorry...I didn't mean to say it like that. I'm just nervous. That's all. Just nervous. Sad. I'm just being sad. Don't listen to me." 

There was a nervous edge to his voice and he abruptly looked up to see if he'd caused Greg any damage with his mistake. 

The language was perhaps a bit harsh, but that's what it amounted to. It was also what Greg needed to know. John wasn't doing this for Sherlock, he was doing it for some need of purpose.

"Alright," he whispered sadly, nodding, "then...then we just move forward, you and I, and figure out life from here out. I love you, I can't stand to see you think so little of yourself."

"I'm trying not to hate myself," John said quietly. "But it's hard. I feel...dirty. And hateful. And...and stupid. But mostly dirty. And just...bad. It's better now though. I don't hurt myself. I don't do the count down things like I used to. I don't make myself think about things that hurt as punishment. I...I suppose it doesn't matter. Greg, I might dislike myself, but I don't dislike my life. I love my life with you. It's everything I could ever hope for wanting." 

John curled up into another small ball and leaned against Greg. "Let's go and try and clean a little."

Greg held on right to John, knowing how swift and effective this mod could bottom out. "Mycroft can send someone to clean. Let him care for his brother, you and I can focus on you. It was kind to try yesterday, but you didn't like it."

"To hell with what I want," John said softly. 

"Has it ever mattered? I wanted not to be tortured, then I wanted to die. Didn't get either. Now I just want to live with you, but I've got responsibilities and guilt. It does make me feel good to help him. Lying down with him is nice. Joking with him is nice. Those are honestly enjoyable." 

John nuzzled his face down on Greg's chest. 

"I love you. I can try and steer the visit into something I'm comfortable with, okay? And no new promises. Let's go now. Let's go and I'll change into my old clothes and clean a bit."

Greg frowned again and shook his head, "but life is different now. You have choices, you don't have to do this. What you want matters. You don't want this, then we don't do it. I love you, I want you comfortable and happy. I'm...if he makes you happy then fine, but otherwise, John, it's pointless."

"I'm more unhappy when I'm not doing anything to help him," John spoke into Greg's shirt. "I'll help him. And then I'll come home and you and I can watch a stupid movie and have breakfast and then stay safe and warm and happy."

Greg frowned and took a deep breath. "Alright, John. Alright. Please no more promises. Maybe we just...get him comfortable and we leave. You...you are useful to me, for what that's worth."

John nuzzled under Greg's chin affectionately and kissed just under his jaw. "I know. Everything is really hard for me now. I'm trying to be good. Will...will you make me a promise?" John's heart have a nervous flutter and already he was having difficulty keeping tears at bay. 

Greg nodded as hee ran his fingers through John's hair. "What do you need?"

"Will...will you promise me that even if I mess up, you'll still want me? And...and that if I do try and live in Baker Street, you'll come with me? Please? I mean, I know I-I'm not useful and I-I don't want to take you from your home but I don't want to live alone with Sherlock. I just want to live with you. 

“But he deserves someone to stay and love him and I can do that but n-not alone and I-I'm sorry I ruined you and made your life difficult b-but please stay with me. I-I'm worried I'll become a bother if I keep trying to h-help Sherlock because I know you don't like it when I do it and I-I don't want to displease you but I-I need to keep h-helping him!" 

John let out a choked sob then and wrapped his arms around Greg. He was horribly worried that by going against Greg and helping Sherlock, he was losing the man he loved above all things. "P-Please don't leave me."

Greg tightened his arms around John and rocked him slowly. 

"I'm not ever leaving you," he whispered, the recently changed bandages crinkling as he held John, ignoring the pain in his arms, "the reason it worries me to see you with Sherlock is that you don't want to be near him, and yet you feel obligation. You're not obligated. You deserve peace and happiness. I don't know that you can have that when you think it's your job to fix him. You didn't like Baker Street. You didn't like being with him, you were scared and so sad, and it made you feel...I don't know, wrong or...small or...you just seem so...frightened around him. He's so confused, I'm scared it's going to set you off.”

"Baker Street makes me sad because it isn't what it was," John said softly. 

"I miss it. I miss it all do much. I miss Sherlock and the cases and the life. Being there just shows me so clearly how much has changed while I was out of control."

Greg leaned back and looked at John then, studying him for a moment. 

"You miss it? That's...different. He isn't ever going to be able to work again. Do you still want to try to be around him, even as he is? He doesn't even eat anymore. He's far behind you, and in the end...I don't know what he'll be."

John nodded slowly. "I miss what I had. I've lost so much. I feel...who cares? Hardly matters. I want to try and be near him because he needs it and because I feel that he is like eating; painful at first and then good. Maybe I'll end up thrilled he's my friend. I don't know."

Greg got up then, stretching and getting John his medicine. "Alright, that's what we will do then. Let's try. He's in a bad way. I have to be careful how I touch you sound him, please remember that. I love you."

"He was worried you were...that you were forcing that. I won't kiss you while I'm there. I know." John got up slowly and shuffled to the kitchen. "Oh...Greg? Can I try and shave some time? Also, can we have breakfast?"

Greg nodded to both, "You can shave whenever you want to, John. Any time. I'll go make you breakfast now, please don't try and shave without me, okay? I want to help you stay grounded." To Mycroft, he sent another text. 

_Give us an hour._

"Okay, Greg. I will." John wanted to look like himself. He went hesitantly into the bathroom and looked in the mirror for a couple of seconds before leaving. His face hadn't changed terribly, besides looking leaner and rougher. His wheat colored hair was streaked with grey around his temples, and he noted that while he had a few thin scars on his face, Moriarty had left most of the mutilation to other areas.

_I want him to be able to recognise the fear on your face._

John swallowed and shuffled back into the living room. "Could we maybe bring your drawing stuff? Could you draw Sherlock? It helped me a lot to see myself that way."

The suggestion surprised Greg, who looked over at John before setting plates of eggs down for the pair of them. "Yeah...yeah I could draw him, John, but he doesn't ah...look strong like you. I'll...I'll do my best to draw something for him that will help, that's a good idea. You took your pills, yeah?" 

John nodded and leaned over to Greg. "Well, can you just draw him with strength? Draw him useful. Something like that. Just...do the thing you did with me." 

Greg reached out and very gently touched John's face, trailing fingertips along the side of John's neck. "I just looked at you," he whispered, "and drew what I saw." 

There was no fabrication in the art, just what Greg saw when he looked at John, which was quite different than when he looked at Sherlock. "But I'll do my best to draw something useful for him." 

John's heart warmed then melted at the kind touch and he gave a small, happy hum in response. "You love me, so you drew someone worth loving. Maybe you could draw someone worth loving for Sherlock too."

Greg nodded. He did still feel very, very deeply for Sherlock "He's still Sherlock. I still...I've saved him again and again over the years and I- it kills me that I can't help him. I tried so hard in the beginning, but I couldn't save you both and he- he made me promise a long time ago to make you the priority. When I couldn't save him, I could at least honor those wishes. And now...now I get protective of you but god, John, I still love him. He's still Sherlock. I always said if we were very lucky, he'd be a good man, and Christ, did he exceed that. I just don't know how to respond to him or- I mean he-" Greg shook his head, very upset with the entire situation. 

"I wish I could help him. I don't know what to do, so I just...want to keep you safe and happy."

John affectionately trailed his fingers through Greg's hair, down his back, then up again into his hair. "You've done so well, Greg. So very well. I'm very proud of you and lucky to have you. I think you drawing will help him, and if anything it will give us all something to do."

Greg leaned into John's fingers and nodded. "I wish I hadn't scared him so badly. I suppose that was a shock for him. Mycroft is furious with me." With a sigh he parted back from John and nodded to the table. 

"Let's eat, and then we will go if we're going." 

John started eating then and occasionally leaned over to nuzzle against Greg. He was nervous and on edge about what was about to happen, but he was so terribly used to being stressed and in discomfort that he hardly registered it. Of course, he was driven by the strong desire to flee, to run from things that would stress him, but that simply wasn't an option for him. 

"Maybe we can make him smile today."

Greg cleared the dishes as he smiled gently to John, his own stomach in knots about this. His John was devastated when they got home yesterday, had reverted back months, silent or screaming, lost to him all night and now Sherlock sounded worse and they were going to do it again. 

"You made him smile yesterday, too. He was alright until I scared him. You were doing such a wonderful job. Is...do you think Baker Street will ever be comfortable for you? It was home for many years, I wish I knew how to make it better for you." 

"I'll hug Sherlock and try and make him feel loved, but feeling useful is sometimes better, and I can't think of any ways for him to be useful. Let's be kind to him and try to think of something." John was already wracking his brain for something of use, but found nothing.  
Greg nodded and went to fetch his drawing things, and to pocket John's medication. The issue was that, unlike John, Sherlock served no purpose. Mycroft was falling apart. Sherlock frightened John. There was seemingly no point to him any longer. 

A few minutes later, Greg came back out. "Are you ready to go? You can still change your mind." 

John followed Greg around until they were ready to leave. "Maybe he can tell stories? Or just...I don't know. We need to find something he can do that helps."

The ride was quiet as Greg held John to his side, finding nothing at all that would make Sherlock useful. He would need to heal before that could happen. Baker Street still felt comfortable to Greg from the outside, but as soon as they were back in, it felt like a tomb. Two men had lost their lives. It did not matter that they were still breathing. He pulled John close to him, wishing Mrs. Hudson were there to help brighten the mood a bit. 

"Okay...what do you want to do?"

John looked around for another few minutes. He was still, and quiet, and appeared to be calm, but intense grief swelled in him as he looked at all the memories he'd made. 

"I miss it," John whispered and slowly walked over to his chair. He looked down at it and reached out to touch the back with his fingertips. It was dusty and dull, but the fabric was still familiar. Suddenly he was brushing the dust off it furiously and coughing as it rose into the air.

Greg was glad to see that Mycroft had sent the thing back, it had been missing the day before and Sherlock had been very upset over it. He began to help John get the dust off, easing John back a bit. "Careful, don't make yourself sick. Why don't you go open the windows and I'll get the hoover? Let me help, it's alright." 

He dug around until he found the vacuum and then started in cleaning off the fabric. The sofa and Sherlock's old chair were much easier to clean. 

John had his back to Greg when the power tool went on and he jumped nearly out of his skin. He dropped to the ground in a tight ball and pressed his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to not hear whatever was happening behind him. He'd seen the vacuum, hadn't he? That would make more sense. It was Greg, not Moriarty. But still, the sound was grating. It wasn't the same as the drills, but it was...it was loud and John was afraid of the suddenness of it. 

" _Turn it off!_ " John shrieked, his hands still over his ears.

Greg nearly fainted. He tore the cord from the wall in his fumbling, so flustered he couldn't manage the power button. He dropped the vacuum and fell over his own feet getting to John, gathering him into his arms and rocking him swiftly. 

"Oh---oh god, I'm- John I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeated, carding his fingers through John's hair as he desperately rocked him. He clutched him to his chest, seeing his mistake in sharp light. John wasn't ready for this. If Sherlock was scared, he was going to terrify John. This wasn't going to work. 

John's face was twisted in a permanent wince and he had his eyes squeezed shut. His chest heaved and he was oblivious to Greg's effort until he became aware that the drill had stopped. 

After a moment he noticed that he was being held, as he'd previously been numb with the expectation of pain. He jumped before realizing that it was Greg. 

Letting out an inarticulate cry of relief, John wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and pressed his face just under his chin. "I-I h-heard a-a-a d-drill," he whimpered in clear distress. 

Greg stood up with him, horrified at his own stupidity. 

"I've got you, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. We're going home, I'm sorry. There was no drill, just the hoover. I- oh god, love, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

He grabbed a throw from the sofa and wrapped John in it, intent to take him out of Baker Street, aggressively hating himself. 

"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, you're safe, no drill, you're safe." 

The fact that drills scared him at all was stomach-turning and Greg wanted to scream, clutching John closer to him. 

"D-Drils a-are really b-bad," John whimpered and clung to Greg for dear life. 

"Vacuum b-but sounded l-like a drill a-and little holes don't l-look bad don't ever l-look bad but h-hurt and..." 

John let out a sob and slowly remembered where he was. "I-I need t-to m-make things n-nice for him. N-No drill...vacuum. N-Nothing scary. N-Need things t-to be nice."

Greg was having none of it. He moved gently and slowly toward the stairs, taking them slowly. 

"Another day, we will try another day. He'll see that your chair is back at least. Home, it's time to go home now." 

He kept John clutched as tight to his chest as he could, covered as much as possible with the blanket. 

"No! No!" John squirmed so he could drop his legs down. "No, Greg, stop! Let me stay! I told him I would be here!" John kept his arms around Greg's neck but kept his feet planted on the ground. 

"Lets just go to my room. Please. We can wait there."

Greg hated this. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, unshed tears in his eyes, keeping hold of John without moving. "I've already messed up," he breathed, wanting nothing more than to take John back home, "you're shaking. I've terrified you. Please, we can try another day? I messed this up for you already. Please, I'm so sorry." 

"Not your fault," John whimpered. "You're g-good to me. I-I love you. I-I l-love y-you so much b-but I-I need to stay h-here." 

John kissed Greg slowly, with great love and comfort despite his shaking shoulders. "I love you."

Greg tipped his forehead to John's, despising himself.  
"Doesn't matter, I- how are you going to endure- look what I've done to you," he'd just wanted to spare John's lungs from the dust, it had never occurred to him in all that time that a vacuum would hurt. He'd doomed John's efforts before Sherlock even got there. 

"Please...another day, we can do this another day? You're so frightened, I'm sorry I did this to you, god I'm sorry." he gently nudged John towards the door, "please?"

"You didn't do this," John said softly. "You just wanted to help me clean up. It was my idea. You didn't know the sound would hurt. I d-didn't know. It just...I didn't expect it a-and it hurt m-my head." John looked down to his arms where there were small, circular scars that had been bone deep injuries. 

"Drills are bad, Greg. I f-forgot to tell you that. 'M sorry. Stay?"

Greg was battling panic as hard as he could. John had reverted down in that childlike voice and there was no way he was going to endure Sherlock, and all of it Greg's own doing. He kept John tight to his chest and looked around in wild anxiety. 

What could he do? What else besides forcibly removing John could he do? 

"Please, you're not ready for this," he begged again, wrapping his hand around the small scars, "John please, _please_ , I'm sorry I messed up, please let me take you home. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you're not ready. I- we can leave him a note? Something? Please." 

"I-I'll explain and he'll understand," John stated and nuzzled against Greg's neck for the feeling of warmth and the touch of skin. 

"I'm sorry I-I was afraid. Stupid. Shouldn't be afraid like that. Stay? Can we go to my room? It's dusty and old and makes me sad because I don't have that life anymore but nobody has ever hurt me in my room. Lets g-go to my room." 

John babbled off his basic reasoning and tugged on Greg's hand. "Please, love?"

Greg remained rooted to the spot, still struggling to understand what had happened, how he'd managed to so fantastically fuck up already? Mycroft was going to _kill him_. 

"H-He won't understand. He won't. He- he's- he thinks I'm dangerous and- you're frightened and he's- he's not going to understand he's-" he stared at the door, completely unable to make a decision. 

"I- I don't w-want this to get worse. I'm- please, John please, I- I'm sorry I-" 

"Stop!" John tugged on Greg's hand again and pulled him along. 

"It's okay. I'll calm down in time. I promise. I will. I've said so many times that he'll need things he can count on. Like me. I need him to believe me. Come with me. Please. Please, Greg, please. Let's go upstairs and lie down for a bit. Just a few minutes. I know this isn't what you want, but I need it."

Greg moved along in a daze, allowing John to pull him. He was unaware of the ascent up the stairs and numbly pushed John to stand in the corner before turning to strip the bed.  
He fanned out a sheet he found in a drawer, so that the bedding was at least free of dust, before sitting on the end, completely silent, staring ahead with his hands shaking. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, absently rubbing at the fresh sutures in his arms, "s-so sorry." 

John took Greg by the arms and took him over to the bed. He curled up next to him and drew the sheets up to their shoulders. 

"Don't be sorry," he whispered. "Remind yourself what happened. You only tried to help. It was only a vacuum. I over reacted. Not your fault. Tell yourself that, love."

Mycroft was going to slaughter him if he found John and Greg in bed together. Greg wrapped his arm around John, pulling him in close, keeping his hand over the scars that had so severely hurt his John and bitterly despising himself for being such an incurable idiot. 

He ran his fingers through John's hair, lip trembling though he managed not to cry. He rocked them lightly, wondering how the fuck they were going to make it through the day now that he'd been such a marvelous idiot. 

"Are you listening?" John slid one leg over Greg's hip, which was comfortable and helped with his fear that Greg might leave if he became too much to handle. 

"I said it wasn't your fault. Can you at least...Jesus, I'm sorry I got scared. I-I just g-got so scared."

Greg spoke softly to John, voice heavy and eyes dry, "Not your fault. If I- if that had b-been done to me, I'd have- I'd have been terrified. This isn't- you didn't do anything wrong, I'm-" 

He closed his eyes as he thought of John curled on the floor cowering, exhaling slowly as self-hate roared to life, "I'm sorry I've already made today harder for you. It's okay that you got scared, I'd have gotten scared, too." 

"I love you," John said softly. "It's not your fault. I-I just got scared because I-I heard a-a d-drill..." John's voice wavered again and he chewed on his lip. "And n-now I-I'm doing better because you're here." John pressed himself closer to Greg and kissed him again. 

"It's o-okay, love. I'm here."

"I love you," John said softly. 

"It's not your fault. I-I just got scared because I-I heard a-a d-drill..." 

John's voice wavered again and he chewed on his lip. "And n-now I-I'm doing better because you're here." 

John pressed himself closer to Greg and kissed him again. "It's o-okay, love. I'm here."

It damn well was his fault. He pulled John in closer, eyes pricked for the sound of Mycroft, caught between the hope that Sherlock would never be brought up those stairs and the need to respect Mycroft's wishes, all the while trying to undo his idiotic mistake. He carried on rocking John, running his fingers through John's hair, tipping his face to the top of John's head as stress overwhelmed him and his lashes grew damp. 

"I love you, I'm still so sorry."  
John let out a low whine. "I love you. I don't want you to be hurting. If I can help...I mean, I shouldn't have gotten upset in the f-first place, but I m-might be able to help." He nuzzled Greg again, praying that perhaps he could comfort him in some way.

"You're allowed to be upset when you're scared, John," Greg whispered, petting his hair gently, "I'm just angry with myself and sad for what I've done to you, how can I help you feel better? I'll go toss out the vacuum? Or...I don't know...what do you need? Paul can bring Gladstone?" 

"How about you.." John furrowed his brow. He knew how important it was to feel useful. "You could help me find a way to make Sherlock feel useful. We could work on that together."

Greg was furious with himself for despairing when John was going for optimism. Sherlock was bedridden, unable to read, feed himself, or use his hands effectively. "I don't know," he whispered, "maybe...help Sherlock come up with a way to help Mycroft?" 

God, it sounded so pathetic. Sherlock couldn't be useful and there was no way around it. He'd been broken beyond repair and without someone that was going to properly stay with him and love him, he did not have a chance. 

"He could help me," John offered. "I get my worth from helping him and you, but he had nobody to help. What if he helped me? I can ask for things that help, or talk to him about things that scare me. Not like...not pretending, but you know. Just...just making him feel useful."

Greg nodded, relieved at the suggestion. Sherlock was the best person to talk to John about these sorts of things anyhow, having experienced them, and he was more lucid than John had been at that stage, given the differing times there were in captivity. 

"That would be very good, John. I think that might help him quite a bit." 

John smiled a little and his expression eased. "Okay, okay good. I'll talk to him about it, then. That's good. Good. I'll find something he can help me with. Thank you. I feel better now." John ran his fingers through Greg's hair and kissed his cheek.

"You're a wonderful man."

Greg carried on holding to John, wondering how much time they could have left. "I don't want him in a dusty bed, should we try to change his sheets?"

"Yeah, we should." John sat up and breathed a slow sigh. His hair was longer than he used to keep it, and it stuck up at odd angles from constantly nuzzling on Greg. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled Greg along behind him. "How much longer do you think it will take?"

Greg shrugged, leaving his fingers with John's. "Mycroft is...Less than pleased with me," he said in a voice heavy with sadness, honestly regretting that, "he hasn't been in contact much."

"Because of the kissing? We thought Sherlock was asleep. And it helps me calm down."

John led Greg into Sherlock's room and started pulling away the sheets. 

"I don't know if he has a spare. I was never around when he washed them."  
Greg dug around for so long he was starting to worry that there wasn't a set. "I don't think he does," he said after closing the last drawer. He settled for fanning out a blanket and then layering another atop it. He stood back and looked over the bed, speaking softly to John. 

"He...I don't want to tell you this, but it's likely too important. Each time Moran...assaulted Sherlock....he had Sherlock, forced him to watch him do that to you. Every time. I thought it had just been the one time, but...no."

"Oh." John dropped his head and shifted uncomfortably. "And...and each time he watched it...he would have...he would have heard me screaming for him to stop." John pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'll need to talk to him about that."

"The main issue is that...that he associates seeing...that sort of thing with...things that hurt you. He's not...I don't think it's jealousy, I think it's fear."

"Oh." John dropped his head lower and let out a small sound of distress. "So he is like me, then? He's scared not of me, but I remind him of the pain?"

Greg nodded sadly, "a bit, not in the same way, but a bit. He thought I was hurting you. He's...lucid most of the time though, if you wanted I'm sure you could talk to him."

John paused for a moment. "What would I even say? How would I even begin to explain? This is...Jesus, we kiss! I mean, it's not...whatever. I'll just stick to the truth that you aren't raping me." 

Greg put his hands out to calm John. "We've made his room comfortable, his brother is with him, if you'd rather go that might be best. You seem very angry. It's understandable, but he can't help it. He's...well, you've been there, you know."

"I'm not angry," John said and the tension left him. "I'll stay for a little. Just a little. I'm going to go put on my old cable knit, if you don't mind. It might....I don't know. Hopefully help." 

Greg nodded, following John out. The idea of John only staying a short while seemed worse than not being there at all. He sent a text to Mycroft while waiting for John:

_Would a short visit be better than none at all? We've done a bit of tidying here already._

Mycroft rocked Sherlock lightly then looked at his phone. "Would you like to go see John for a few minutes at Baker Street? He's a bit tired and can't stay all day, but he's there."

Sherlock was pulling at his hair, tears sliding down his face. "I...I w-want t-t-to go h-home," he sobbed, now concerned that John's absence would mean that he want allowed. "H-He doesn't w-want to s-s-see m-me," he lamented, struggling to keep himself together, "I w-w-want t-to go h-h-home."

"Okay," Mycroft said softly. "We are going to go to Baker Street. I'm going with you." He lifted his brother up into his arms and walked to the chair. 

"We're going, but this...I don't know if this is a good idea. Are you sure you want to? That it will help?" Mycroft had it in his mind that if this visit did not visibly improve Sherlock, it would be the last.

Sherlock was still in near hysterics, wrapping a hand around the tube in his nose, holding himself tight and shuddering in fear. "H-Home. I w-want to g-go h-home."

"Don't touch the tube," Mycroft warned and gently eased his hands away. "Just stay with me, Sherlock. We'll go home. But John will be there. You need to be calm for John. Can you do that?"

Sherlock swiftly pulled his hand away from the tube, tucking his fingers between his teeth. Keeping even this calm was a massive effort. John needing him calm was a problem.

"Th-th-e-en t-tell-" he bit down hard on his fingers, face a mess, sobbing as he pinched his eyes closed. "T-tell h-him-m to l-l-leave s-so I don't sc-a-are h-him."

Mycroft shook his head and wheeled Sherlock down the stairs. "You're okay. I've got you. If you don't want to see John, that is one thing. But I think he wants to see you."

Sherlock was rocking himself, pulling now at his hair, shuddering in fear. He desperately wanted John, but remembered that John did not want him. He chose Greg, and Greg chose him. Moving from one house to another was intensely intimidating and Sherlock was doing all he could to keep calm.

Mycroft brought Sherlock into the car, which sped down the road to Baker Street. "You're okay. You're okay. I've got you. I've got you. Sherlock, why don't you try and tell me something pleasant you remember from Baker Street?"

Sherlock was clutching to his brother's shirt with all he had. The pins would need to come out soon, catching the light as they drove.

"J-John a-and M-M-Mrs. H-Hudson," he wept as though both people were dead and gone. He was shaking so hard it reflected in his pained voice, "s-sorry I'm...s-s-sorry."

"Okay. Well, I can...I can have Mrs. Hudson come and see you. I'm just worried she'll get upset and make it worse." Mycroft looked up at 221B and pointed. "Look, see? Home."

Sherlock began to pull at his hair, clawing the sides of his face in anguish at the suggestion that he was so awful he'd upset Mrs. Hudson. He'd so been wanting home, but now he was terrified he was going to hurt people. Tears flowed endlessly down his face and he looked to Mycroft.

"I d-don't w-a-ant t-to hurt an-n-yone."

"Okay, okay. We can go back to my home if you want. It is your choice. Always your choice. Would it be less stressful for you if I said you couldn't come back here?" 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's hands away from his face yet again and tried to keep them still.

Sherlock's breath seized up in his lungs and he looked wide-wired from Mycroft to his home. A broken sob slipped past his lips and he curled in on himself, nearly shaking apart.

He was hurting people. Just by going home, he was hurting people. And now he wouldn't be allowed back home.

He stared up at the window where so many times he'd put his back to John in respect, playing to soothe him down. He looked over to Speedy's, and then to Mrs. Hudson's window, unable to form words, guilt and loss so sharp they made breathing impossible.

"N-Never," he gasped in question, tears too aggressive to wait their turn falling several at a time off his chin, "I-" he felt the darkness roaring up on him like a freight train, "ok-k-kay-" he breathed in horrified resignation, absolutely hysterical as he dropped his eyes away from home.

That appeared to be hurting Sherlock even more than going inside, and Mycroft swore at himself. "How about this? We'll just go in and get some of your things to take home. It's okay. That is safe and good. You can do that without pain and without hurting anyone else." 

Mycroft tried for a smile, failed, and opened the door. "It's good and safe in there."

Paralyzed at what Sherlock interpreted as contradictions, he remained exactly as he was, unresponsive and in panicked, grief-stricken tears.

Mycroft wasn't thinking clearly whatsoever, and thought only of what would help Sherlock then and there. He scooped him up in his arms, Jared before them, and walked into Baker Street.

Sherlock carried in hardly breathing, clinging to his brother as he was moved. It suddenly smelled of home and loss and ask the things being taken from him and he tucked his face down to Mycroft's shoulder, pure heartbreak in his tone as he sobbed against his brother's chest.

The sound nearly stopped Greg's heart and he pulled John proactively to him.

John let out a soft cry of distress in return and timidly left the room. He had one hand in Greg's, but dropped it when he rounded the corner and saw Sherlock in his brother's arms. 

"Hey...Uhm....Sherlock? I'm here...it's okay."

Sherlock did not pull his face away from his brother as he was carried. He'd forgotten John was there for a moment, and it took several heartbeats for him to find the bravery to look up at John, face a blotchy mess. 

"I- I'm s-s-s-o-rr-y," he stuttered through his sobbing, looking away again so that he didn't have to see disappointment or anger on John's face. 

"Oh, Sherlock," John breathed and took a few steps forward. He tugged on the sleeve of his old jumper, which was a few sizes too large by now, as his broad, strong shoulders had disappeared about the same time his sanity did. 

"I'm here. I'm here. Let's go in your room, alright? I cleaned things up. It's okay."

Sherlock kept his face hidden as Mycroft settled him on the bed. It was terrifying to know that he was hurting everyone just by being there. He spoke swiftly through panicked tears, utterly heartbroken. 

"I- I- I'm-m s-s-sor-ry, I'll- I'm-m g-g-going aw-way s-s-soon! Y-You don't h-h-have to b-be here," he stuttered, pulling at his hair, the gauze in his bloodied nostril starting to bother him. He chanced a look at John and then dropped his eyes, heart seizing up at the sight of him in his jumper. 

John walked forward and knelt beside the bed. He reached out a hesitant hand and placed it on Sherlock's cheek affectionately, almost lovingly, and spoke quietly. 

"Did something happen today, Sherlock? Is everything alright? Can I help you?"

 

Sherlock was bitterly fighting the urge to try and crawl onto John, craving safety and acceptance more than air. What the hell good was breathing when it only allowed him to feel like this? He leaned into John's hand only slightly, reminding himself that John didn't want him, that he was too tired to deal with Sherlock today, and simply whispered with a quivering chin. 

"Th-h-he-y s-s-sent m-me b-back." He turned his face a bit more so that the claw marks around his tube were easy to see, hands quaking at his sides, "a-and I c-c-ca-can-n't c-come h-h-om-me ag-gain." 

John felt Sherlock's need for affection and crawled up into bed. He lay down on the bed next to Sherlock and pulled him into his arms, which felt very intimate to him, but he didn't mind terribly. 

"You're okay. You're okay. I've got you." Lovingly John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and shifted him closer, as he remembered how much even an inch of space can hurt when away from the person associated with peace. "I love you. It's okay."

Sherlock melted into John's arms and tried to steady out his breathing, sobbing as he turned his face to John to hide. He did not allow himself to reach for John in any way, accepting what was given and simply lay there weeping, grieving that he was soon to loose Baker Street as well. 

John understood grief. It was much safer than fear, much deeper but much less stressful. John could feel Sherlock's grief and it did not frighten him,. It wasn't screaming or thrashing. It was calm. This allowed John to keep his wits about him, and he kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "It's okay. You can talk to me about it."

John's words were so kind that they nearly stole away his breath. He took a few minutes to find his words and then began to whisper very softly to John, quiet enough that only John would be able to hear him. 

"I- I w-was....th-h-hey t-tied m-me d-d-own." 

John tightened his grip on Sherlock at that. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know that makes you sad. I hate it as well. I'm sure they had a reason. They would rather you stay safe. But it's alright now. You're home, and I'm home, and we've got Greg and Mycroft to keep us safe"

Sherlock lay there in tears, recalling everything Mycroft had told him in the car. He hurt Mrs. Hudson. He hurt John. He was a source of stress for everyone involved. 

"I c-c-can-n't c-come b-back," he sobbed, reaching up and pulling at his hair in anguish. "I'm....h-hurt-t-ting y-you, I m-m-make Mrs. H-Huds-s-son h-hurt. I'm b-bad, and n-now I'm n-n-ot-t allowed...h-he won't l-let me c-c-c-ome b-a-ack h-home again. I w-won't s-s-see you ag-gain. It's all o-over." 

"That isn't true," John said in a small voice. "You don't hurt me. It took me very long to realize that, but I know now that you don't hurt me, and I love you. I did before, too. I mean not...not...sexually...but...I mean, you died and I fell apart. But you're back now. That's the best thing that could happen to me. You came back. and now you're back again and it's going to be hard again but we can make it work." 

Sherlock shook his head, struggling to breathe through his grief, through the conflicting information. 

"N-No! You- You c-c-can-n only d-do this f-for a f-f-few m-minutes t-today and th-then- you w-will go t-to your n-n-new h-home and I-" his voice cracked and he wrapped his fingers in John's shirt, falling apart at the idea of tubes and restraints and unending _nothing_ between bouts of pain. 

"Y-You l-lov-v-ved m-me?" He suddenly asked, struck by the painfully past tense statement, but wanting to understand nonetheless. 

"Yeah, Sherlock. I mean, I'm not saying...I...not sexually, but I just sort of did. You were my closest friend, closer to me than my family, and you were the one to pull me out of my depressive slum when I got back from the army. You're wonderful. I still love you. Things are just harder now." 

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head again and tried for a smile. 

Sherlock held his breath until he thought he could control it, and then began to breathe again. It took several attempts for him to master himself before he could think on what John was saying. John's words were guarded and diplomatic, the words of someone who didn't particularly feel the way they were saying they did, but trying to be kind anyhow. 

All Sherlock wanted was to die. There in that bed, maybe with John there just for a bit of comfort. That's all the hope he had in the world. 

"Th-h-ere g-g-going to s-send m-me away," he whispered, dejected and resigned. "W-Will you...y-you wr-rite to m-me somet-times?" 

"I will write to you, call you, and anything else you want every day we are not together." John nuzzled under Sherlock's chin for a moment in an attempt to ease his distress. 

"But I don't think they will take you away. Would it be okay if maybe...If maybe you lived here and I visited until I was stronger?"

Sherlock was simply in pathetic, defeated tears. He shook his head, looking away. "I'm n-n-not allowed b-back h-h-he-e-ere," he wept.

At least John would be willing to communicate with him, if he was even allowed to communicate with anyone else. He pulled at his hair, weeping bitterly. 

"Sherlock, please try and calm down. I've got you. Who told you that you couldn't come back? Who said that? They're wrong. This is your home. You should be able to do whatever you want." 

With a gentle sigh, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and kept his face kind and open.

John's request that Sherlock calm himself spiked panic through his chest. Mycroft had said he couldn't be around John unless he was calm. Mycroft said he was bad for John, bad for Mrs. Hudson, and now he was irritating John just like Mycroft had said. He whined in fear and pulled at John before letting him go, covering his face. 

"I'm s-s-so-r-ry," he stammered, holding his breath and then letting it go, again and again, struggling like hell to control himself. 

"Pl-le-ease I'm...the t-tubes and- and I...I'm-m sc-car-red and- M-My s-s-said I w-w-wasn't allowed b-back and we a-are j-j-just here to p-pick things u-up and y-you l-love Gr-reg and I'm _alone_!" 

John brushed Sherlock's hair back and pressed his lips to his forehead.  
"Shhh...Shhh...I love Greg, but I also love you. I'm not angry with you. I understand your pain." 

He lingered there and breathed very slowly so Sherlock would feel that he was calm.  
"I'm sorry you are upset. I want to help you. You being sad does not hurt me. You are a wonderful man, and I appreciate your help. If you don't mind, there's something I need a bit of help with, if you wouldn't be terribly bothered listening."

Sherlock lay there trembling, doing his best to catch his breath. He looked to John, wet eyes bloodshot and exhausted. The idea of being able to help with anything at all sounded insane, but he was eager to listen and to try. 

"O-Okay," he whispered, "ok-kay John, an-anyth-thing." 

John took a deep breath and decided that he needed to open up a little if he was going to help Sherlock. 

"I have these...these dreams...and they hurt. I dream that I'm somewhere, doesn't really matter where, and you're there, and Greg, and you're shouting at me, and saying that I...That I'm stupid and bad, that all I-I do is hurt people, and...and worthless, and...and you start p-punishing me for it. I love you and Greg. I don't like these dreams. And it h-hurts to talk about because I think I'm still afraid that it's true, that I am worthless, and that you will all stop pitying me some day and leave me. I don't want to be left behind all alone."

Sherlock lay there, dumbstruck and wounded. How was John going to accuse him of leaving him when all Sherlock had done for nearly half a year was scream for John, beg for John, seek John out and then crushingly mourn for him? 

"I...I-" his voice trembled and he closed his eyes, "I feel the s-same in r-reverse. I don't understand h-how...I-I don't p-pity you, I-" he swallowed hard and exhaled slowly, trying to find something fucking useful to say. 

"The dreams are _l-lies_. I- you are w-worth e-everything I've l-lost. I can h-hardly breathe without you, h-how could I ever leave?" 

His voice was all over the place, tears pouring down his face, which he pressed to John's jumper and held tightly there, aching so terribly he began to hope his heart would fail. The weight of loss was crushing, smothering the life out of him. 

"That's...Yeah, that's true." John gave a small nod. It was true that Sherlock did seem to want him around at all times. And Greg? Surely he wanted the same. But, despite knowing this, John could not understand why. 

"Why?" John asked in open bafflement. 

"Since I've got back, all I've done is ruin people's lives. Sherlock, I hurt you so badly. I screamed when you came close. I was so...I was broken and lost then. Why did you still help me even though I didn't accept you?"

Oh, and weren't these dangerous questions? Sherlock bit his lip and tried to catch his breath. 

"Y-You...there is n-n-othing...no one in m-my life outside of my b-brother that-" his voice was muffled against John's shirt, "you didn't see a f-freak, you...s-saw something worthwhile in m-me and I don't know wh-what but I- there is n-no one l-like you in the orld and I'd p-pull down the sk-ky for you. It d-doesn't h-have conditions, I just love you, J-John." 

John let out a soft sob and held on to Sherlock's shirt.  
"Thank you," he whispered. It was important for Sherlock to feel useful, and John had been prepared to act, but this was genuinly helping him. 

"You were never a freak to me. When I met you, I thought you were the most interesting man I'd ever met. Bloody fascinating. I couldn't figure you out. It was so exciting. And safe, too. Not exciting in the bad way. I couldn't figure you out, but I knew you were a good man, so it was perfect. And then the cases...That was the best period of my life. I have so many good memories of those."

Sherlock took heart that John at least had the memories. 

They were decidedly not worth the price John had paid for them in the end, Sherlock's debt to his friend far outweighing his ability to pay. Still though, the knowledge that what made John love him was now dead and gone added yet another brick to the weight of his catastrophic loss, and he was rendered speechless. John's use of past tense was difficult to bear, especially knowing he'd not be allowed to die at the end of this conversation, that he'd see John leave and he touch the walls of Baker Street for the last time and then...then it would be a lonely descent into proper madness. 

"I- I w-w-wish I h-had m-more t-t-to g-ive y-you." 

John held Sherlock's head against his chest and breathed as slowly as he could make himself. He was so very clearly failing. 

"It's alright," he whispered. "You've helped me plenty. You've given me so much. Remember how bad things were for me in the beginning? When I was a soldier without a war? I had nobody to protect and help. And now, I have someone who understands. I don't think anyone else in the world understands what we go through. Today I got scared because I heard a vacuum and thought it was something else. You understand those things."

Sherlock nodded. "H-His d-r-rill," he whispered, loathing the daily housekeeping staff. He'd been held where he could hear other men being tortured as well, often times wondering if they were John. He clung to John's familiar jumper and kept his eyes closed tight, pretending that they would never say goodbye, that it would at least go back to how it had been, if only for a moment. 

How he wished he could regain John's affection. He knew John didn't miss him, not as he was now, at least. He knew he wore John out, that John likely had to take hours to heal after-

"H-How long h-h-have you been here?" He gasped, suddenly pushing away from John enough to gauge how angry Greg and his brother were. 

"I'm-m s sorry," he wept in fear to the other men in attendance, letting go of John, shame dripping over him as he looked back to John. "I'm sorry," he wept, completely heartfelt and honest, "y-you- you just w-wanted a short v-v-isit I- I lost track of t-time I'm s-sorry!"

John nodded, "Yeah, the drill. The drill. I'm sorry you know of it. I wish you'd been spared that, at least. But..no, it's alright." 

John held on to Sherlock tighter and shook his head. "I only said I wanted a short visit because I was worried I would stress you. I would like to stay longer, if you don't mind."

Sherlock turned his focus back to Mycroft, his eyes pleading. 

"Pl-leas-se, M-My? J-Just...j-j-us-st a wh-while l-longer, please?" He was utterly terrified of leaving, of being forced to give up the last vestiges of comfort. 

Mycroft gestured to John in a way that indicated that Sherlock to return to him. "As long as you wish, 'Lock."

Sherlock tucked himself right back as he had been, holding on to John and just letting himself breathe.

"I m-m-is-s you s-so much," he whispered to John, wanting to get everything out before John was gone.

"I'm s-s-so h-happy that G-Greg is m-making you h-happy. Your d-dog is beautiful. I- all I wanted was to b-be sure you h-had a chance and...and y-you do have o-one now and-" he clung, crying against John's jumper in grief now and far less panic. 

"I'll miss you t-terribly, but I- it's good you f-f-feel safe and h-happy with Greg. That h-helps, knowing y-you're...you're h-happy. I'll- I'm so selfish though...I...I would h-have done....I w-wish I could...I'll...I'll j-just m-miss y-you." 

"Yeah, Sherlock, I'm very safe and happy with Greg. And...and if you want, you can be a part of that."  
Anything. John would give Sherlock anything he wanted. So clearly could he remember the old Sherlock now that he was at Baker Street that it threw into harsher light what the man had become. 

"You didn't deserve what happened to you. You deserve to be happy. Let's make a plan and we can start working towards this being...towards this being a permanent arrangement."

John obviously was not understanding that the window was closed, that they were back to restraining and forcibly feeding him, that My wasn't going to let him come home. Sherlock tightened his fists in John's shirt, so badly wanting to do just that, to live with John at Baker Street again and have his friend back, even if it meant watching- watching how he and Greg had...shifted their relationship. 

"I...b-but you d-don't...l-like me anymore," he said gently, indicating that he understood and did not hold it against John. Sherlock had never hated himself so much in his life. 

"Y-You are h-happy and s-s-saf-fe with G-Greg. I...I c-can't do...anything e-else for...anyone. That's why they a-are s-s-sending m-me away." 

"Not true, Sherlock. Not true. Mycroft doesn't send you away. He takes you home. His home. I'm sure he has the best intentions." John looked up to Mycroft, who chimed in, "I really do, Sherlock. We can come here often, but it upsets you."  
John turned to Sherlock again and kissed his cheek. "I don't dislike you. You aren't being sent away because I'm happy at my new home."

Sherlock shook his head, trying to get them to understand. 

"I...I'm h-hurting m-my br-r-rother and th-they....they are g-going to...t-t-take me to a h-home. I d-don't h-have a purpose and I-" his shoulders pinched as he sobbed in self-loathing. 

"I h-hurt e-e-everyone. Th-hey are s-sending m-me..." his voice broke and he couldn't finish, fear of an institution robbing him of speech. 

"Sherlock, I will not let them take you away. If they do, I will find you and I will take you home." 

John's words were certain and hard. He would not allow them to put Sherlock in a home. His voice dropped to a whisper and he spoke directly into Sherlock's ear. 

"I won't let them take you away. I'll never let that happen. If Mycroft tries to send you away to a home, Greg and I will come get you and bring you to straight back here."

Sherlock tightened his hold on John in acute fear. 

"P-Pr-r-rom-mise," He gasped, having done his best to remain stoic even in his terror about the home, "Th-h-he h-ospi-t-tal...My h-had to l-leave me...I- I c-couldn-n't h-handle- I was s-s-so af-f-fraid!" 

He leaned back and looked to John as he pulled the collar of his shirt down and to the side, exposing the pacemaker. "Th-h-hey w-wouldn't l-let m-m-me die. My h-heart k-kept st-op-ping." 

John's own heart twinged at the thought of Sherlock's stopping, and he pressed his hand to Sherlock's chest to be sure it was still beating. 

"I promise. I will never let you be put in a home. I'll make sure you have a home. Can we please make a plan to help you and I reach a place where we are both comfortable? This is a good way to live. We could do this, with you in here, and Greg and I upstairs. Maybe Mycroft could live in C for a while? We need to practice this, Sherlock. We need to make a plan for it."

Sherlock glanced over to Greg from behind John's jumper and then whispered very quietly to John. "Pl-lease d-d-don't be cr-r-ross with m-me...I know you l-like...it h-helps y-you, but...it t-t-terrifies m-me to see h-him...t-touch you and..." 

He whimpered pathetically, hating that John would still need Greg to protect him from Sherlock. "I still scare you t-t-too m-much and...you l-love him...I c-can't e-e-even e-eat. I'd h-hold you back."  
John looked back to Greg and was almost ashamed of how much his heart calmed just at the sight of him. When he turned his gaze back to Sherlock, his eyes were tired and sad. 

"I'm sorry it hurts you. I won't do it in front of you anymore. I want you to know that it's not...It's not sexual, it's just...calming. You wouldn't hold me back. I can only eat a few things. I would help you. You can drink water and I can't. It's been over a year and I still can't wash my hands in a sink, or drink from a glass. I drink tea with a straw. There's plenty of things we can work on together."

Sherlock looked at the sadness that washed over John's face and mirrored it with his own crestfallen expression. "Y-You've h-had...en-n-nough of m-me t-today," he whispered, trying not to let John hear how crushing that was for him to know. 

"It's n-n-not my b-business if-f...if y-you and Greg..." his lip trembled and he hid his face, doing what he could to keep hold of himself, terror at how soon he'd be saying goodbye to his home was encroaching. 

"I- I am gl-lad you h-have someone. I t-truly a-am."

"If Greg and I what? Sherlock, we aren't a couple. That's not how it works." He looked back to Greg for assistance, or at least some confirmation. 

"We don't...It was a long time ago, and I was panicking, and he kissed me and I calmed down. It just works. I don't think it would work for you, but...I mean...I just need to feel loved every once in awhile. I'm not..." He made a vague gesture with his hands. 

"Greg isn't hurting me, and I know _that_...it hurts. That isn't happening."

Sherlock nodded, sorry he'd said anything. Feeling loved was something he craved intensely.  
"I d-d-didn't m-mean to upset you," he sobbed, starting to tremble, terrified this goodbye would be a bad one. "Pl-lease, I'm j-j-just an i-idiot, I- oh please don't be cross with m-m-me." 

He reluctantly let go of John as Greg began to speak.

"Sherlock, John and I- it's just platonic. We are not...I'd never hurt him, and I'd never hurt you. John is doing much better, but you're right, he still gets very stressed. Maybe it is best we say goodbye for now." He kept his voice as gentle as he could, but his worry for John was pushing him to protect the man. 

Sherlock tucked his fingers between his lips, curled in on himself, and nodded. "I- I w-wish we...I j-just w-want to b-be home..." he swallowed as his breathing hitched on a sob. 

"J-John? C-Can I....c-can I-" his breathing picked up and he shook his head, bravery failing him. 

John shook his head at Greg, then took both of Sherlock's hands from his mouth. "Can you what, Sherlock? I'll do everything I can to help you. What is it you want?"

Sherlock's chin was utterly unsteady as he looked to John. "I....I w-wanted to kn-n-now if-f...if..." his breath hitched on another sob, knowing the question he was about to ask was pointless but still unable to help himself, "w-would...would y-you have c-come b-back after....af-fter A-Africa, if it h-had g-gone as it w-was supposed to?" 

"Sherlock...Of course I would have." 

John was absolutely floored by the question. 

"Did you think I was leaving forever? God, no! No! I had always intended to come back! I left my things here, and payed rent in advance. I left my favorite jumper here." 

John wrapped Sherlock in a proper embrace and let out a small laugh. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, you didn't think I could stay away that long, did you? I mean, you're my best mate." 

He'd slipped back into present tense, and though he noticed it, he saw no need to correct it. Perhaps it was correct. He didn't crave Sherlock's presence, but he did care about him.

Sherlock shook his head. "N-No...I'm n-not," he whispered, though he kept in the safe wrap of John's arms and wished to heaven and back that it were so. "Y-You p-p-packed...e-everything away. I- y-you were s-s-so cross w-with me I-" his breathing caught and he shook his head again. 

"I th-thought you w-were gone. I- I th-thought..." he could not finish the statement, it was too damned painful. For several minutes he was as quiet as his grief would allow, focusing on the hateful little electric shocks that forced his heart to keep beating when his body promised him mercy. 

"It...thank you for t-telling m-me...I...I'll k-keep that when I- when..." tears again stole his words and he pulled at John's jumper as grief roared up quite abruptly and overpowered him. 

"I d-d-don't know h-how to d-o this w-without m-my blogger," he sobbed, his voice desperate and broken, "I don't know h-how! They w-w-won't let me die, J-ohn! I- I c-can't-" he dissolved into panic, still speaking though it was utterly unintelligible. 

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, please stop. Please. I need to tell you something."  
John took Sherlock's face in his hands and took a few deep breaths with him. 

"When I was in the facility and you were captured, I wanted very much to die. In fact, I had the option to. I was allowed. Greg was going to let me go. But you know what he said? He said that you needed me, and just like that, I decided to stay. I stayed even though...Hell, you know how much you want to die. I felt like that. And I stayed because I care about you and I want to help you. So let's make a deal, alright? You stay alive for me, and I'll make sure you have something to live for. I can...I'm not supposed to make any promises, but I can not see a future for myself without you in it. You need me. So if you'll stay alive, I'll keep coming here and practicing living here until I can stay.”

Sherlock was trying very hard to listen to John, but it made no sense that Greg told John that. 

"Y-You n-n-never need m-me," he wept, "I've b-b-been r-replaced. You don't n-need m-m-me and you d-don't l-like m-me and I'm j-just h-hurting you like I _always_ do! You don't n-need m-me! I am p-painful f-f-for you, what b-benefit c-could you possibly....p-possibly have f-from this?"

"Sherlock, that is what love is, I think. I don't benefit directly, other than helping you. And helping you feels good. It does. And, in addition, you help me with my dreams. You help me because you understand. I said I got scared by the vacuum, and you knew it was because of the drill. You know those things without me having to explain or talk about them, because you've been there." 

John nuzzled under Sherlock's chin again and pressed his face against his neck. "And you're nice to me. You're very nice to me. Can't you see that you have worth?"

Sherlock did not know how to respond to that. No, he didn't see how he had worth. "I- h-hardly had an-ny when...when I w-w-was Sherlock H-Holmes..." he whispered, confessing a truth that hurt more than he wanted to admit, "I don't h-have any n-now." 

If there was no direct benefit to John, Sherlock could not understand the point. "I- I just want...I want t-to _stop_ ," he wept, "I don't kn-n-now why you stayed f-for me...y-you h-hated me the m-m-moment I g-got back. It w-would have been better for you if I'd d-died." 

"Sherlock, if you had died, then I would have too. And I'd have taken Greg down with me. This is all a very delicate balance. If I die, so do you and Greg. If you die, so do I, then so does Greg. I don't want you to die, or Greg to die, which is why I'm alive. And life can be good. I think even if you didn't need me, I'd still live. It's not bad after you get used to it. Toast is nice. And tea. And cake. Stupid movies. There are good things in the world. I can help you find them." 

John was at the very end of his rope. He had nothing else to give, nothing else to say. 

Sherlock could not understand for the life of him.  
"Why would y-you die if-f I did? You've....you've k-k-kept away f-from m-me...l-left m-me in h-hospital...t-told m-m-me many t-times how at f-f-fault I am f-for all of this how...how w-would you d-die?" 

He knew very well that his want for John was entirely different than John's want for him. 

He dropped his voice very low, clinging to John for another moment. "W-will you t-truly...c-come g-get me fr-rom the h-home?"

"First, I am going to die if you do because I am quite certain I would stop eating and refuse treatment if you left. I've a bit of a sore spot for it. Second, I will come get you from the home if you are put there. I promise." 

John was treading on thin ice, was running on fumes, and following a hope that he had long since lost sight of. Very abruptly he was hit with how little he was doing, how it was something he couldn't control that was hurting Sherlock, and that his own feelings were to blame for Sherlock's pain. He let out a sudden, pitiful whine and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. 

"Stupid John!" He suddenly cried in despair. John dropped his head to Sherlock's chest and trembled there in hopeless grief. 

Sherlock startled at John's anger coming on the tails of a pained sound of grief, slowly daring to wrap his arms around John. "I- I-" he stammered, shuddering, "wh-hat did- what- I'm s-s-s-orry! I'm sorry!" Panic was shredding him apart. 

Greg was already moving as Sherlock looked to be wrapping around John, a sharp stab of fierce worry ripping through him and he abruptly pushed Sherlock away, pulling John into his own arms, mistaking John's grief as fear. 

"You're okay, John. It's okay, you're safe," he whispered, holding John tight to his chest. 

Sherlock fell back only slightly, though he was shocked to his core and abruptly terrified. He tucked his fingers to his lips as tears poured down his cheeks, watching what he'd done. "I'm s-sorry," he squeaked through the tight constriction of terror, watching a real-time demonstration of his place in the world, "I- I d-didn't m-mean to." 

He pinched his eyes closed, bloodying his fingers as Greg tried to settle John, whispering to him softly, "Let's go home, try a different day." 

"Greg, no! You'll upset him!" 

John looked crestfallen and reached out to Sherlock. The tension was only making him more upset, as he viewed this turn of events as a direct result of his own inability to control his own emotions. 

"Sherlock, I-I'm sorry! Please! Please!" John struggled out of Greg's arms and back to Sherlock, who he reached out for. 

"I was just sad! I'm sorry. I'm here. Please, please, I-I..." John began to cry and pressed his face into Sherlock's pillow. He was trembling in his hatred for himself, and reached one hand out to Sherlock. 

"H-He didn't mean to p-push you," he whimpered. "I-I promise. I'm sorry! Please come back." He took Sherlock's fingers from his mouth and held them in his hands, ignoring the blood that normally would have terrified him. 

"Sherlock, I-I will do anything to make you happy. _Anything_! Please, just tell me what you want!" 

Greg's abrupt physical removal of him was terrifying, and Sherlock was paralyzed with fear. John's begging sounded sickeningly familiar and too far away, fuzzy at the edges, making the room spin. When his fingers were pulled from his mouth he whimpered in anticipation of pain, looking up at Greg and shying away, turning his face from view and rounding his back. His stomach twisted and he was trying not to sick up, confused and too afraid to move. 

"I'm-m s-sorry," he repeated again, not sure what to do, "I-I d-didn't m-m-mean to." 

"What do I do?!" John grabbed hold of Sherlock's shirt and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. 

It had been his mantra for weeks before he started to break down, a simple sentence to hold onto and base his resolve around.

_I will not hurt Sherlock._

John let out a sob and tangled his legs with Sherlock in fear that Greg would try and pull him away again. "What do y-you want? M-My life? My h-home? D-Do you want m-me to...to leave my home a-and stay here? What d-do you want? I'll give it to you! Please! Sherlock please, tell m-me what you want from m-me!" 

The words made Sherlock feel like the monster he most certainly was, and he whimpered and shook his head. No, he didn't want any of that, not at all. 

"I- I'm-m so s-s-sorry! I d-didn't m-mean to m-m-make you c-cry!"  
He was bordering hysteria, feeding off John's panic as his skin tingled in anticipation of pain. "I- I d-don't w-want anything! N-Nothing I'm s-s-sorry! I'm sorry! Pl-l-lease," his voice was cracking, reverberating in terror, sure he was about to be punished. 

"G-Go home," he whispered, hopeful that would work, "I- I w-wan-nt you to g-g-o h-home and b-be happy and s-safe."

John flinched when he was told to go home. It confirmed everything that he had been thinking, that he was hurting Sherlock and was overall a despicable human being. 

"D-Don't want t-to," he sobbed and clung to Sherlock's waist. He held on tight with his arms and legs as if Greg was going to rip him away any second now. But he knew that leaving Sherlock hurt him, and that he had already caused him enough pain, so he promptly went silent and pressed his face into Sherlock's upper stomach. 

Sherlock lay there, paralyzed with fear and doubt. "I- I d-don't know h-h-ow to st-op hurting y-you," he whispered, resting a quaking hand on the back of Sherlock's head. "I d-d-on't w-want you to g-go...but I've m-m-ade y-you hurt s-so much," he wept, looking to John and then flinching back from Greg who sat down on the bed beside John. 

Greg shushed Sherlock gently, trailing his fingers through John's hair. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just trying to help John," he said quietly, focusing on John as he pet his hair. 

"John? What do you want to do?" 

John tensed when Sherlock did, but he quickly relaxed when Greg touched him. "I-I want t-to do what Sherlock w-wants and that m-means I-I want t-to stay." He wanted to run, if he could, and get far away from Baker Street, the dead carcase of his old life. 

But Sherlock needed him, and so he would stay. John had a tight hold on Sherlock and made no move to release it. "I'm staying," he stated without a stutter.

Sherlock looked to Greg and then to Mycroft, eyes wide with acute distress. It was clear that John did not want to be there any longer, but he didn't know what to do about it. He wanted John there, but again, _just_ as it had been back at the compound, he was forced to find the kindest way to get John to leave. 

"I....I don't w-want you to b-be scared and m-miserable, J-John. This is m-m-making y-you..." he choked and his voice cracked, " _I_ am m-making you miserab-ble. Wh-at I w-want is f-for you to b-be happy and s-safe," he said again, shivering and pulling John closer, "and th-this is doing the opposite." 

John let out a single, dejected sob and reached up his hands to touch Sherlock's face. He peered at him through watery eyes and studied his eyes, broken nose, his cheek bones and the dark curls that framed his pale face. 

Clearly, Sherlock didn't just want John there with him, he wanted John to want him. Unfortunately, his deepest emotions were things that John could not change, though he had tried. John stayed very still and watched Sherlock as calmly as he could. 

"I. Want. To. Stay." He set his jaw and met Sherlock's eyes with his own steel blue ones. In that moment the old stubborn determination that John used to be noted for was visible in his face.

Sherlock studied him for a moment before giving a single nod and hoping to hell that his handlers would allow it. He bit down on his lip, and looked to Mycroft. "Please? H-He is w-w-willing to sit w-with me f-for a wh-while." 

Mycroft gave a small smile, but was more than ready to pull Sherlock the fuck out of there. "Of course. I'm glad things are peaceful again."

Sherlock looked back to John, tears still streaming down his face. "P-r-rom-mise I'm n-not hurting y-you?" He asked quietly, incredibly insecure. 

John tipped his forehead to Sherlock's and stayed very still. Such a close, intimate position would have bothered him a year ago, but he couldn't be bothered about it now. "I promise, Sherlock."

At John's words, some of the tension eased off of Sherlock's heavy shoulders and he tried to relax a bit more, choosing to trust John. He closed his eyes, still in tears but that was just out of the grief of knowing he was not going to go back home again. He took a moment to try and breathe John in, but one nostril was packed with gauze and the other fitted with the new damn tube he didn't want. Absently he reached up and wrapped his fingers around it, wanting nothing more than to pull, though the last time had been blindingly painful. 

"I l-l-loath-the this d-damned th-thing." 

John had reached out and grabbed hold of Sherlock's hands in fear that he would yank it out. When it was clear that he was still calm, John relaxed to simply holding Sherlock's hands. 

"I got to take mine out," he said with pride. "We can get you eating too, if you want. I can help. I know it's scary and I can help."

Sherlock looked down and away in shame. "I'm-m....n-not af-fraid of...e-eating," he whispered, leaving it there. He had so enjoyed food with Mycroft, still in the starvation period that had the body craving nourishment where John's body had shut down.  
"I'm...h-hungr-ry all...all the t-time." 

"Then...? Oh. _Oh_." 

John stared down at his hands and his cheeks tinted red. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'd heard..They told me about the exam, and...Jesus, that was all very frightening." John gave Sherlock a quick squeeze and spoke very quietly into his ear. "But we're safe now, yeah? Safe. Nobody wants to hurt us here."

Sherlock kept his head down, though John's soft words helped so very much that it was nearly overwhelming. Sherlock tipped his head closer and held on to John's jumper, whispering in return, "I s-s-ee h-him. All th-the t-t-time, cl-lear as G-Greg or M-My." 

He shuddered and pulled at John lightly, "I'm a-always so frightened." 

"I know. When I got back, I thought...Well, I saw you, and you were real, and solid, and I thought you were going to hurt me. It's so hard to accept that you're safe. It's so hard to just let go and trust." 

John gently took Sherlock's arms and very slowly started to rub one of his forearms. 

"You hold tightness from control here. You'll see it with people who shoot, or fight, or work out. They hold things too tight. People who've lost control, who've been hurt real bad, they get tight here. And your hands must get sore too." 

John was exceedingly gentle to the point of not actually working out the muscles at all, just touching him gently. "Letting go of it is hard. I still hear him sometimes. He says things when I'm panicking. But you'll be able to let go. I promise."

Sherlock looked down at his hands as John touched him, his lip trembling on him again. His mind was dropped down into a childlike emotional state, though he was painfully aware of it. 

"I h-hate th-that they...took y-you away f-from me. H-Hate that y-you're scared of...of..." his voice pitched and he drew in a sharp, heartbroken breath, "m-me." he whispered, watching John's face. 

"I c-can't fx it, John I d-d-don't kn-n-now how." 

"I'm fixing it," John said calmly. "Greg and I. I used to think you tortured and raped me. I used to be so afraid of you. But now? Jesus, Sherlock, we're in bed together. Look how far we've come."

Sherlock stopped breathing as John laid it out so bluntly, knowing John had thought that and understanding why, but now...oh _now_ did that mean so much more than it had. Now he knew what a man's eyes looked like sparkling with delight at the sound of horrified screams of pain, and John...John saw that when he looked at Sherlock. 

He dropped his hands away, curling them to his own chest. 

"Y-You've....d-d-done this b-before," he whispered, "l-laid with m-me before and then....then you...w-were g-g-gone." 

Though, once he said it, he felt very stupid. Of course this was not to be for the long haul. John was going to leave and Sherlock was going to be taken away. If Mycroft wanted him to stay in a home, he'd be stuck there no matter if John tried or not. "Thank y-you for c-c-coming back," he wept, covering his face with his hands, "I f-f-feel like I've l-lost you a thousand t-times." 

"I'm sorry," John breathed, "That was harsh. I shouldn't have said that. Please, it's alright. I'll try to stay with you as long as I can. And then I'll..." 

John turned his attention over to Greg. _Not supposed to promise anything._

"Let's make a plan. A good, solid plan we both can stick to. Now I'll need you to pay attention and be calm for just a few minutes. Can you do that?"

Sherlock nodded, holding tight to John in anticipation of the bad news to come. "I'll...I'll t-try," he said honestly, already pulling tension back into his limbs. 

"Okay. Good. I'll try too. Sherlock, it is stressful for me to be here. Not completely because of you, but it is just very...I'd need to work on it before I was comfortable living here. But I want you to know that it is my intention to, as it is the first thing I've ever suggested that you've seemed happy about. So, I want to live here. But not now. Someday. I will actively work on it as well as...Shit, I can't even touch water yet, but I'll make this a priority. But if I'm going to work on it, then you should too. You should try eating a little. Just milkshakes and drinks and things like that. We'll each work on our own things, and then we'll be able to reach a good goal." 

John was very clearly a goal oriented man, and needed a direction he could travel in. The one he set down seemed logical. Hopefully, Sherlock still had a shred of it left in him.

Sherlock dropped his eyes as John explained how stressful it was for him to be at Baker Street. There was something particularly crushing that John did not like their old home, when it was the only place in the world that felt right to Sherlock, even as it was wrong. To have John willing to try was a bit encouraging, but Sherlock had already been banned from home. 

"I... m-maybe if-f I'm....not s-so....so-" _ruined_ , "if I w-w-was...m-more n-norm-mal..." he whispered, too ashamed to look at John. "I...I'll s-see y-you again?"  
John sweetly kissed Sherlock's cheek. "I don't want you to be normal. That's boring, remember? I just want you to take a few steps towards recovery. That's all. As long as you're trying, so will I."

John's neglect to respond to his question was terrifying, and Sherlock bit his lip, nodding to keep from having to speak. "Ok-kay," he whispered, deciding that telling John he'd already managed food several times and now was just petrified of the after effects, was pointless. 

It had been very kind of John to pretend with him for a bit, for him to indulge the fantasy of a life where John was still there. Maybe he could build on that when he was alone again, make a little world out of it. "I...I'll do-" the lump in his throat made it impossible to speak for a moment, "that." 

"I'm going to need to go home sometime today. Not because I am upset with you, or because you've done something wrong, and certainly not because I don't plan on returning, but because it is alright for us to be apart for a little because I plan on coming back." 

John was scared out of his mind of the idea of a life with Sherlock. How the hell was he going to manage? He gained solace in the one, stupid, cruel fact that he was going to be up a flight of stairs -which might as well be Everest to Sherlock- with his Greg. That wasn't to say that he didn't wish to be around Sherlock. No, John only desired control of it. 

"I'm not leaving now, but I want you to understand that just because I leave for a little doesn't mean I'm gone forever. Have I ever left you and never come back?"

Eons may have passed between their visits, but John seemed to always return, still never close to glad to see him. 

"Ok-k-kay," he whispered, tucking his fingers to his lips. John saying that it was alright for them to be apart, was like Greg saying the same to his John. 

John took a deep breath and paused. He couldn't comfort Sherlock. He was _in bed with him_ and it still wasn't enough. He was coming up with reasonable plans to _share his life with him_ and it wasn't enough. He was offering to _leave his home_ and enter into a place that was painful for him and yet again, it was not enough. But what the hell would crying do? 

"I am doing the best I can, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, keeping his eyes averted. "Thank y-you," he whispered honestly, flicking his eyes to John and then back down, cautiously moving in a bit closer. "It's...nothing is y-your f-f-fault-t...b-but it's st-t-till...s-so hard to kn-know I'm....that I h-hurt y-you." 

He tipped his forehead down to John's breastbone and breathed in slowly, not believing any of John's plans as truth, or perhaps something John intended for years and years in the future.  
John suddenly let out a soft whimper and brought one hand up to cover his eyes. 

"Yeah, I..I know. It hurts to h-hurt people. I know. I-I'm sorry I make you feel that way." Tears streamed down his face and John let out a pitiful sob from behind his hand.

Sherlock simply clung to John, nothing more to say. It killed him to not be wanted. John couldn't help not wanting him. He was too broken, too much work, too frightening for John to be around. He'd not improved enough, and he was… _him_. He was the man who did all those things to John, even if he wasn't. 

Sherlock kept his forehead to John's chest for another moment before daring to take a moment and listen to John's heart, trying to remember it. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he was quiet and still, knowing the hourglass was almost out for him. Then he'd say goodbye to John again, and to his home for good, and the lies would start until he was knocked out and transferred to a facility. But for now, for right in that moment, Sherlock was allowed to listen to John's heart beating. 

John was openly sobbing within a few minutes, and he cried hard with his arms wrapped around Sherlock. He wept for what was surely to come. He would lose his home, the place he'd come to be happy, his nice flat with Greg where he'd learned to drink tea and eat on his own. The loss of it was so tangible that John sobbed harder even though he knew he was going back soon. He'd be going back, but his time would be limited. 

John did not want to live on Baker Street, but he'd realized a long time ago that he was just not fated to be happy.

Sherlock pulled back as John's grief sharply increased, looking at him quietly for a long while.

He was internally grieving something, he wasn't upset over Sherlock. "Wh-hat is it, J-John? What's...y-you're...grieving...w-hy?"

John pressed his hands over his face and cried. "I-I just w-want t-to be happy," he wept and gave voice to his crying. "I-I'm s-so tried of t-trying! I-I hate trying! I-I want...I-I want easy a-and simple and n-no more h-hurting people!"

 _Ah_. John had been happy, and then he'd been made to see Sherlock more and more often, and now he was seeing the long and arduous road ahead to get anywhere comfortable with him. 

Sherlock's heart broke apart, bits of him dying away forever, as he boldly wrapped his arms around John and held him very close, whispering near his ear. 

"Y-You and....and y-your wife couldn't be...s-settled together and l-living with me," he said in as steady as a voice as he could force himself to use, carefully keeping his heartache suppressed.  
"I th-ink, when I've m-made enough improvment, y-you and G-Greg...sh-should come visit m-me on S-Sundays for t-tea. I'll be s-sure there are straws."

He tried his best to give John a smile as he leaned back. 

"G-Greg w-w-will annoy me, anyhow. C-Can't h-have an officer l-living in my home." 

John shook his head and wept at his failure then for hurting Sherlock. 

"I-I'm j-just making things w-worse! Why-" He cut off as he abruptly was swept over by hopelessness that stole his breath away. 

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "I-I can't ever do this right b-because I-I'm n-not enough. I-I'm damaged. I-I can't give you what you want and all of my efforts, all of my sacrifice will _never_ be enough." 

He gave a small nod, as if deciding that it was indeed his fate to fail. "And all I will have done with this life is gotten people killed and hurt. A-And I'll end up taking Greg d-down with me because I-I was too weak to do this on m-my own and I-I needed someone to...to love me and..." 

John let out a panicked, choked sob and shook his head. "N-Never enough. I-I've b-been trying for a y-year and it's n-never enough. Nobody w-will ever b-be happy. I..." John was struck again with the hopelessness of it and tears poured down his face. "I think....I think I give up."

Sherlock blinked, taking his hands away from John in severe hurt. 

"S-someone to _love_ you?" He whispered in stunned shock. "H-How can you s-say...is th-that what you truly-" he'd never been so wounded, stung down to his core, every scar and horror raging to life as John tossed that all aside as though it were nothing. 

"I- I g-gave my _mind_ , m-my...my h-hands, my legs I- I don't h-have a thing left to g-give and-" tears flowed down his face and he stared up to Greg, who also looked stricken, "all I want in the w-world is _you_ , but I know that m-makes you...look at what that m-makes you! When you a-are with G-Greg you- you smile and...and..." 

He shifted fully back, feeling the last threads of his sanity snapping. John had been loved and cared for the moment he was found. "I'm t-r-rying to...t-to tell you that I s-see what you are doing. You don't w-want me...b-but you f-f-feel guilty about it so you are adapting, b-but I am _him_ and I _hurt_ y-you and I w-was trying to...to t-tell you that y-you don't h-h-have to do this anymore! Go live with Greg, he...he d-deserves y-your l-love and y-your help, doesn't h-he?"

John clamped his hands over the sides of his head as if battling with a severe headache.  
"I-I know you love m-me! And I know I-I failed when I couldn't l-love you b-back because a f-fucking psychopath tortured m-me for a year! I-I'm SORRY I was tortured! I'm SORRY you were! I-I want more than anything for you to be happy and alright!" 

John's voice was raised, not in anger, but in clear, agonized grief. 

"I know what you gave m-me! Y-You gave your everything and I-I am t-trying to give you m-mine but it isn't enough! I-I don't...I'm trying! I-I've been trying to make things a-alright for you since the moment you got back! It...I know you l-love me, but I'm not enough. I-I've told y-you that I am willing to g-give up my home, m-my happiness, my life, my...If I-I could give you m-my hands, I-I'd have them off myself and give them to you with a ribbon! B-But I can't and y-you know that a-and I am just n-not enough b-because it _does_ stress me to be here and it _does_ stress me to be around you but I can't help that and I HATE MYSELF for it! Why isn't this enough?! I-I'm offering you EVERYTHING I HAVE!" 

John turned his face away and let out a half scream, half sob into the pillow. He had no expectations of being good, or appreciated, or even having his efforts recognized. He just wanted what he could offer Sherlock to be enough. He had no control over the fact that he did not want to live here, and did not love Sherlock in the same way he used to. He could not control these things, and they carved at his heart. 

"Why isn't it ENOUGH? Why am I not ENOUGH?!"

Foam was collecting at the corners of Sherlock's lips as he tried to breathe through the shocking horror of it, only narrowly avoiding wetting himself as he scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed. He looked wildly around the room as he drew his quaking limbs to his body, breathing wild through his clenched teeth. Everything shut off. Everything. He could hear nothing outside of John's screaming, the rustle of the whip resting at Moran's side, shredding, grating agony resonating up the core of him. 

He went sheet-white, wheezing as he tried to breathe shallow enough to keep from burning himself. Electric shocks twinged across his chest as a thread of saliva trailed down his chin, eyes wide and unblinking, tears flooding down his cheeks. 

John doubled over and screamed. He was well past his breaking point. He'd tried so very, very hard to help, to be good, and to make Sherlock happy regardless of what was good for his own well being. But in the end, it had failed, just as every thing else did. John was oblivious to Mycroft, who'd rushed to scoop Sherlock in his arms. He was oblivious to Greg, and the room, and the clothes he was wearing and the part he was supposed to play. 

Thrice he tried for words of apology, only to find grieved sobs on his lips.Twice he tried for a promise to do better, only to find a broken whimper where he knew a strong tone was needed. And lastly he tried for a simple reassurance that things would be alright, only to find himself instead calling for someone to help him.

"Never again," Greg shouted over John's screams in the direction of Mycroft, all while pulling a syringe from the kit and struggling with John just long enough to get it to his port, swiftly knocking John clean out. When the screaming stopped, as Greg was gathering the broken man into his arms, he spoke softer, "we are never doing this again. I'm sorry. It's never going to work." 

With that, he carried John out of the room, his own heart in his throat, taking the stairs very cautiously until they were back out on the street and in the waiting cab. He held John, staring at him the whole way home, leaving Mycroft to Sherlock. 

Mycroft was not handling it well. He'd lost John, the only thing he'd had as leverage and hope. Sherlock didn't give a damn about going to the beach with him. He wasn't John. 

Still, he could give what John could not. He honestly, truly and without any restraints, loved his baby brother. There was no torture keeping him away, no trauma making him afraid. He genuinely wanted to be near him and loved him dearly. But, he was the wrong person. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered and held him on his lap. "are you there?"

Sherlock was breathing so fast he was bordering blacking out, hysteria taking over his mind, making him fully believe that a proper breath would strip the skin off his chest. Each exhalation wheezed terribly, and his skin was going a deep shade of gray. Paul scrambled over, throwing open his kit, wanting to stop this before a seizure hit. 

Sherlock could not keep his focus still, trying to source the threat, looking erratically about the room in an effort to find Moran. He wasn't swallowing due to his struggle to breathe, strings of saliva sliding down his chin. 

Mycroft put one hand gently on Sherlock's chest as he held him. "Hey, 'Lock, please breathe. You need to breathe. I'm here, and I'll make sure nothing happens to you. Please breathe. I've got you."

Sherlock's focus snapped to Mycroft and for a few horrific moments he wasn't sure who had him, a blank white light where Mycroft's face should have been keeping him from understanding. Slowly though, his brother's face came into focus and Sherlock shouted in relief, nearly tackling his brother as he wrapped his arms around him, burying his face against Mycroft's chest and screaming his brother's name as he gave voice to the panic. 

"I've got you!" Mycroft shouted it and rubbed Sherlock's back with the palm of his hand. He gestured for Paul to come closer and sedate him. There was no way they were getting Sherlock out of there without medication.

Paul whispered his apologies to Sherlock as he gave the jab right in the meat of Sherlock's thigh when he realized he had no port. The dose would take longer to take effect, but would still knock him down. Sherlock jumped terribly, gripping at his leg and wailing against Mycroft's shoulder, his voice going up several octaves as blind terror tore his mind apart. "MY! _MY!_ " 

"It's alright! Just a needle! Just some medicine to help you. Medicine to help. Free. It's all going to be alright. We'll have plenty of water and warm blankets and a hot shower if you want one. All good things." 

Mycroft rocked back and forth and prayed Sherlock would go under swiftly.

Sherlock's energy levels slipped down progressively over the next ten minutes. He stopped screaming when Mycroft assured him of the good things, soothed greatly by the familiar touch and the steady rocking. As the strength began to ease out of his muscles, he was simply crying pathetically, shuddering in his brother's arms, holding Mycroft's shirt like a life raft. 

"I k-k-killed m-my ch-a-ance," he sobbed as he realized John wasn't screaming because he was _gone_ , "I've l-los-st-t....I-I've l-lost-t." 

He could feel sleep rushing up on him and remembered that he was going to be taken to a home. His eyes opened wide in fear and he reached up, taking Mycroft's face in his hands as he began to beg, "Ple-eas-se d-don't s-send m-m-me aw-a-ay! I'll sleep alone n-now, I'll b-be better," he stammered, words slurring from the drugs. His eyelids began to drop despite himself, his grip easing while he sobbed like a lost child. 

"I won't send you away," Mycroft reassured. He held Sherlock tighter than he normally would and hummer erratically to calm himself and keep from crying. 

"I won't let anyone take you. I've got you. You're alright. Little 'Lock, you'll wake up and I'll be there with you. I promise."

Sherlock went down sobbing. Even after unconsciousness took hold of him, he was still left breathing erratically, sweating and shaking. John had magnificently terrifying him. 

Paul looked up to Mycroft once Sherlock had finally gone limp in his arms. "We need to get him home right now," he said seriously, measuring Sherlock's pulse and worrying over his physical condition, which had been poor since the morning. 

Mycroft moved like an automaton. He lifted Sherlock and headed for the stairs before pausing, putting Sherlock back on the bed, and fetching a few things from his drawers. Mycroft found a box that must have been left over from John packing and gently placed whatever he thought Sherlock would miss into it. 

"He said never again," Mycroft said far too calmly. "Which means Sherlock truly has nothing to hope for."  
Paul shook his head. "One thing at a time, Mycroft, one thing at a time. Let's get him home and stable, let him get some sleep and then we will see how things go. John and Greg have had rash reactions to negative visits before." He stuck close to Sherlock, keeping a very close eye on him.

"He said never. That man...I'm inclined to believe him. He'd pull heaven out of the sky to protect John." 

Of course, Mycroft would to the same to protect his brother. He brought him back downstairs, Mycroft carrying Sherlock and Paul carrying the box. 

"You're supposed to be the expert. What do I do?"

Paul helped load them into the car while keeping an eye on Sherlock's breathing. "Get him home to Miller, that's what you do. Then we take each day as it comes. Just like always. Sherlock offered to remove himself from John, remember? He seems to accept this. Let's just take it a day at a time. I'm going to help you get settled, and then I'm going to call Greg and see how John is. I've not seen him that worked up in a long time." 

Mycroft got Sherlock home and in his bed, not the guest room. "One day at a time leading to what? What am I supposed to tell him? That John is truly lost forever? The man made a valiant attempt, but he does not love my brother."

Miller was already waiting for them, swiftly getting a line in Sherlock once again, working on keeping him stable while Paul spoke to Mycroft quietly. 

"No. He doesn't. Sherlock knows that, though. In all fairness, it's always been a question as to what the future holds for Sherlock. Even if John took him in, what would Sherlock do? His focus has to be toward getting himself as rehabilitated as possible so that he can carve out a new existence with you. You're brilliant. Surely there is work you can find for him that doesn't require mobility? Forensic accounting, something like that? For right now, it's physical healing. John can't be his focus anymore." 

Mycroft nodded and tried to absorb the meaning behind the words. "I'll get a job he can work. But he loved _crime_ , and that often involves violence or rape or injury. I'm worried that his chosen passion is lost to him now, as is his chosen love." 

There wasn't much to say on that. All was true, and there was very little that could be done. John had been extending his best, but it wasn't at all for Sherlock. It was for John's own need to assuage his guilt at being, what he perceived, exactly what Moriarty said he'd be. 

"He lived alone a long time, he knows how to do lonely. Let's see if we can find some other interest for him. Chemistry maybe. Something." 

"He was dying when he had his hands! His mind! His work! When John left, he went back on drugs and we all thought we were going to lose him. That was while he was not traumatized by rape and torture, had his hands, his legs, his mind, his work, and knew that John was at the very least not deathly afraid of him. What does he have now? He had me then too, and I wasn't enough." 

Mycroft stood abruptly and paced about the room. "How long will this last? Years? Decades?"

Paul watched Mycroft moving about, frowning. "He should be in a home, Mycroft. What's the alternative? If you're not going to be enough, and his work wasn't enough, and now John is gone, what else is there to do? You've done as much as you can for him. If you think it's worthless, then there is no reason to carry on stressing yourself so severely with his constant care. There are plenty of good places that will properly care for him while he heals, and then you can go from there. I think you need distance. I'm worried what you think an acceptable alternative is." 

"I'm not putting him in a damn home, _Paul_." Mycroft glared over at him and clenched his hands into fists. "I am not dropping my brother off with strangers in a place he does not know with people he will not trust. Do not suggest it ever again." 

He dropped onto the bed beside Sherlock and gathered him into his arms in a slightly frantic way. "He stays with me. He will always stay with me. I'll get distance, but I'm not putting him in a home. I have Jared. I'll just go outside more. No home."

Paul gentled his tone as Miller put an oxygen mask over Sherlock's face, working around Mycroft. "I will suggest it any time you sound as though you're considering euthanasia," he said quietly. Sherlock was down hard, the little monitor on his finger showing his erratic heart rate as he lay limp in his brother's arms. "You're despairing. Understandably, but it won't help him." 

Mycroft tightened his grip on Sherlock and put one hand over his heart. "We worked so hard to keep him alive. We put him through so much pain and stress to force him to heal. Why did we do that? Why are we still trying?”

Paul settled down on a chair across from Mycroft and spoke softly, watching Sherlock's breathing fog the mask. "It sounds that he'd given up before he met John. One never knows what life will bring along. If he's alive, there is hope. If you are considering killing him, Mycroft, then we need to keep him someplace safe and let you recover before you take him back into your care."

"I'm not going to kill my brother," Mycroft snapped. "I wouldn't. Jesus, no. I couldn't live with myself. You do not need to worry about me being a danger to his safety, Paul. I will not harm him." 

He let go of Sherlock once more and stood. "I am going to go walk outside. I need to move around. I need a change of scenery. Call me when he shows signs of waking."

Paul nodded and assured Mycroft that he would call. He looked to Miller, who took a deep breath and shook his head. "Giving him fluids and a feeding while he's down, we are lucky he didn't seize. Going to run new labs today as well just to see how his system is doing. That's a damn shame about John, was really hoping for them." 

Paul sighed as he texted Greg, quite agreeing with Miller. 

_Are you alright with John?_

Greg responded from beside John in the bed, his own face dry though he was terribly anxious about John's waking. 

_We are here, yeah. I'm- tell Mycroft I'm sorry._

John was down hard. When the first brushes of consciousness touched his mind, he did not stir or reach for Greg as he usually did. As awareness settled in, John began to gradually recall what had happened. He'd gone to Baker Street. He'd seen Sherlock. He'd tried so incredibly hard. He'd been in bed with Sherlock, he'd kissed his cheek and made plans to share his life with him. He'd said he would give up his home and his life. 

He'd not been enough. 

Without any signs of waking, tears began to pour down the sides of John's face. He would not wake up today. He'd simply lie still and pray everyone forgot about him. Maybe Greg would just leave him to die after what he'd done. Maybe Sherlock's reaction would make Greg realize he really did not like this stupid trauma patient. 

John's breathing remained steady even as tears wetted the pillowcase he was nestled on. 

Greg simply pulled John very carefully closer to him, occasionally wiping tears from his eyes. He pressed feather-soft kisses to John's temple and forehead now and again, and swept his fingers through John's hair. 

"When you want to talk to me, I'm right here, love," he whispered very quietly, indicating that John did not have to talk if he didn't want to. 

John simply cried. He was praying that if he was still long enough, he would be forgotten. It was foolish, but there was nothing else he could do. He hurt Greg, and now everything he had was not enough for Sherlock. 

It would be easier to cease, to drift away into deep purple darkness. He'd known sleep, death's younger, more innocent sibling, but it was too fleeting and promised the return of troubles. 

But he didn't want to leave Greg sitting there, waiting for him to talk. "I give up," he whispered in a voice so small it shattered on contact with the delicate air. 

Greg forced himself not to panic. Today had been very hard on John and this was to be expected. "Alright, we can give up for today. Today we give up, and then tomorrow we eat eggs and watch telly. But today...today we give up." 

He carried on sweeping the tears off john's face. "I love you, and you were....what you tried to do today....that was one of the bravest things I've ever seen. You can give up for today, that's fine."

John gave a small shake of his head. "I don't want tomorrow," he whispered in quiet heartbreak. Tomorrow would be another day where he was exactly who Moriarty wanted him to be, where he hurt the ones he loved more than anything, and where he was so fucking _useless_ that everything he had wasn't enough to someone who had nothing. 

Greg pulled John closer to him, trailing his fingers through John's hair in the same way that typically soothed him. "Why not? We are not going back to Sherlock. We can put that away. Just you and I....just you and I." 

He tried to press as much hope into his voice as was possible. "You gave it an honest try, John. It's not your fault, none of that was your fault." 

John remained limp and lifeless save the occasional voice that barely moved his lips. "I don't want tomorrow," he repeated inanely. "Failed. .Useless now. I can go. No more use for me. I'm free now."

The words stabbed through Greg's heart, through he was careful to keep the pain out of his tone. "I...I need you. Can I count," he asked as calmly as he could, "you don't have to force yourself to feel love for Sherlock, you're free of that, but....but I need you," 

John did not open his eyes or otherwise move. "Do you want to be alive? Forget about me and be honest. I'll know if you're lying. Do you want to be alive? Is this life worth living for you?" 

Greg sucked in a sharp breath, wounded by the question. "It was with you," he said quietly, already knowing where this was going. 

"This..." he said quietly as he tightened his hold on John, "lazy days, cake, Gladstone, watching you learn new things...those things were worth it. But if you're leaving me...then....then no, I don't want to stay." 

Apparently whatever John could do for Greg, whatever use John could be to Greg, didn't matter to him. He'd told Sherlock he'd not felt love, that he just wanted to feel loved, and after all this time it seemed that Greg hadn't done that. "I- I- did my best to m-make you feel loved. I am sorry it wasn't enough. I do love you. I wanted much, much longer than this with you."

John finally cracked his eyes open and stared up at Greg. His heart swelled with genuine, deep love for the man, and if he had even the smallest ounce of belief that he could help him, he would have stayed alive without complaint.

But he did not believe that. Not at all. He believed that he was a burden, capable of being loved and loving, but never doing any good. Tears burned his vision and he closed his eyes again. 

"I know you love me. I love you so much. But I think this is ending. I can't see...how am I supposed to go on living knowing I failed to give Sherlock what he wanted even after he gave me everything he had? How?"

Greg's heart rolled over in his chest and he pulled John against his chest, resting a hand over the side of his head. "He said it was free. It was unconditional. He- time will let you forget him, and I- I can show you a happy life, I can. We...we've made so much progress and you've been...been _happy_. He's not ever been a part of your- we can just let that go and live, we can live. We can...I...I..." 

He trailed off, crestfallen. "But it's not me that you want to help. So I...it doesn't matter what...what I can do for you or you for me, does it?"

"Greg, love," John was prompted into movement by the sound of Greg's distress and he sat up. "Don't ever think you don't matter. You matter. I can't help you. I've tried. When...I tried to go away so I would learn how to handle myself better and it only hurt you. Remember in the facility you told me not to toss him out? I remember that." 

_I- I g-gave m-my mind, m-my...my h-hands, my l-legs…_

John flinched and leaned forward to kiss Greg, which always helped him when he was upset. "I'm so sorry, my love. I care more about you than anyone else. I'm being selfish again. I'll stay for you. I'll stay. I'm sorry I was being selfish. It's difficult for me not to get obsessed with protecting myself. I'm trying, dear. I promise."

Greg kissed John back with far more to it than he'd ever given, wrapping one gentle hand around the back of John's head, thumb brushing along John's ear. When he slowly parted, he tipped their foreheads together and held him close, holding the back of John's neck. 

"You help me. It's intensely painful to be away from you and I'd thought I'd lost you forever. You always help me. What are you protecting yourself from? We are not...I'm not letting them speak to you again, it's over, I'll keep you safe. What are you protecting yourself against?" 

"I'll write to him then," John whispered. "Just let me do something. I need to do something. I'll end up killing myself if I don't. I know that makes me sound weak and stupid and frail, but it's just true. And...Can you tell me he'll be okay? Even if I'm not okay, I want him to be. I...It was mean of you to push him. You shouldn't be mean to him."

Greg looked down and away, ashamed of that. "I- the last time he grabbed you- I was trying to protect you, not be mean to him. It was wrong of me." 

He cleared his throat and decided to let it lie about the letters, which sounded like a terrible idea, but he was not going to tell John that. "He'll...he'll be fine," Greg lied, speaking softly, still looking down in his shame, "Mycroft will...figure it out." 

John brushed his fingertips over Greg's cheek and gave him an open expression of grief and sorrow. "I've been through too much and I am very confused. I don't know how to help people. All I know is that I want Sherlock to be happy, and I want you to be happy. I suppose I want to be happy as well, but if you two would only be happy if I was with Moriarty again, I'd go. I just don't give a damn anymore. I need you to tell me what I should do to make the most people happy."

Greg caught John's hand and pulled him onto his lap, cuddling him against his chest. "I love you, just stay with me. That's all, stay with me. Let other people help Sherlock, we can't do it. But I can help you, and you can help me, and we've had loads of happy days, we can keep having them and it will be easier without trying to work around how you feel about Sherlock. Just stay with me. I want you to be happy, it makes me happy to see you happy." 

"So you're saying..." John let out a small sob and ground his teeth together. 

"That I should just forget Sherlock? That...That after everything he did for me, I should just...just leave him and go off with his only other friend in the world?" 

John looked Greg dead in the eyes and it was clear from his face how much this was killing him to even speak of. "Is that what would make you happy?"

Greg could not meet John's eyes. He scrubbed the back of his neck and spoke very softly. "He scares you. That hurts him. He doesn't just want you to force yourself to be around him, he wants you to want to be around him and it hurts him that you don't feel that way. Then...then you want to die. I'm stuck, John. I don't see an alternative. We've tried every variation of this I can think of and it still...you still want to die, he's still sad...he- I don't think he can be saved." 

Guilt laced thick in his words as he looked down at his lap. 

John took Greg's face in his hands so he would meet his eyes. 

"Be honest with me. I know he wants me to want to be around him, and I am already very aware that I have failed him in that aspect." 

John flexed his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. "If they put him in a home, we're going to go get him and bring him here. Other than that, I will agree to whatever terms you set. It is clear that I can not make both of you happy, and I've already failed Sherlock. So you set the terms, with that one condition in mind."

Greg looked at John and shook his head. "You didn't fail him. You can't help how you feel, and he knows that. He...he offered that tea on Sunday business for far later in the future, trying to tell you that. He was trying to show you that he doesn't blame you or think you should waste your life trying to do something that hurts you. I...I think we should just....let him go. I don't see another fix." 

"I will not let him go," John said firmly. "And if you suggest it again I will be angry. I'll back off for a while. Stick to letters and maybe Sunday tea in the future. But I won't forget about him and I will not move on. You...I refuse to believe it's hopeless." 

John was getting a bit worked up, but he was still clear of mind. 

"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him. He will pull out of this. I know he will. And I'll back off for a while, but I won't forget, and I will not let go."

Greg drew in a slow, deep breath. "Alright," he said quietly, "Alright, John. But this....this is how you are when he's not around. You were furious with him when we left. He- listen, he knows you can't help how you feel, but love, he can't either. You were very angry with him for wanting your love. He was thanking you for all you were offering, but you would not hear him. I...John, I think that you still see the man back in Moriarty's cell and not...Sherlock, when you really get emotional. Again, not your fault, not your failing, but I'm seriously starting to doubt either of you getting beyond this. You've not been so angry in a long time, and he's not been so terrified. It's crushing, I know, but...that's why I'm saying what I'm saying. I'm not trying to be cruel to either of you." 

John let out a soft cry of grief and closed his eyes. "I was angry because he wanted something I couldn't give him, even after I'd offered everything else. But I didn't feel really angry. More sad. I was angry at myself, yeah, but not him. Maybe just a little. When I get scared or sad or out of control I get more...I hate myself more, and I dislike him more. God, I don't mean to. I really don't. Please, Greg, please at least tell me that you see me trying to love him. You can see that I've tried so hard, right?"

Greg nodded and cupped John's face. "I see it, he sees it, we all see how hard you are working. You just can't make yourself love someone, and you don't love him anymore. That's not your fault, but he's still allowed to feel the pain of that. You would too, were it me. We can't have you yelling near him, it...it's like boiling water or drills. Again, your anger is not your fault, but it's...it's got to be kinder to just keep away than it is to constantly show him how angry you are that he can't be happy just being tolerated by you."  
"Oh God, if you didn't love me..." John was stricken by the thought and he wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. 

"I've got to try harder. I have to try! I'm so...Jesus, I'm worthless. How could I do this to him? I have to work harder. I didn't shoot him when I could! Remember? That wasn't out of guilt because I didn't owe him anything. Hell, I thought he had tortured me. But I still cared enough to want him safe. That means I must have a little of my old self, right?"

Greg held John tight to him, rocking John slowly. "Shh...John, love...you're okay! You are trying. You love him in a way, there is no debating that. You are trying, and you keep making efforts and working even though it hurts. You are a _good man_ , John. No one thinks you are...are doing this on purpose. Sherlock of all people understands, he's tried several times to...to help you let him go, even though he loves you. You have loads of your old self, John. I see it most when you are with Sherlock, or when I'm hurt, but you...you're not entirely different and each month there is more and more of the John I knew before." 

"I'm so tired," John whimpered. He felt lost, small, and hopeless. He was ready to give up, not because life was particularly unbearable, but he was too tired to keep fighting. He felt as if he were lost at sea, treading water, and though he didn't want to drown, he was too exhausted to continue swimming. 

Greg kept him to his chest, "Then rest. You are the only person making all these demands of yourself. Rest, John. Heal and allow yourself to be happy and stay with me." He carded his fingers through John's hair and tried to ease him into a more comfortable position. 

John was actively pressing himself against Greg's chest. "I d-don't want to die, b-but I don't see another w-way to rest. If I-I stay, I will b-be hurting Sherlock by not trying. If I...oh, oh, Greg? Greg, you said it was hurting him for me to be around him. So..." 

John then saw a way for him to keep a sane conscience while not actively helping Sherlock. "S-So if I keep working with Paul, it'll be okay? I can help him by trying to get rid of the resentment?" 

Greg jumped on it. "Yes, yes that's right. You working with Paul will be the best help, yes. That's a perfect plan. You told him to do the same, yeah? Said to come back when he wasn't so damaged. You can work with Paul and that will be fine, you can rest in that, just....just relax, John. You can't control how Sherlock feels. He's...with his brother. He's going to have to be okay there. You need to rest. We are not going to see Sherlock for a very long time." 

John began to cry then, first in relief that he could do something to help that wasn't horribly stressful, then in relief that he wouldn't have to see Sherlock, then in shame at his own relief.

"I-I can do that," he wept. "I-I can work w-with Paul. I c-can. I will d-do that. I w-will work with Paul until I-I don't resent him anymore, then if I am ready, and I can do honest good, I'll go back to him." John put his hands over his face and leaned heavily in to Greg. "I'm j-just so _tired_."

Greg rocked him slowly and spoke as softly as he could, so very relieved that John was willing to let go of the idea of Sherlock for now. It was...fucking tragic for the both of them, in all honesty, but John could not handle Sherlock, he just couldn't. 

"Do you want a sedative? Sleep for a day, let your body heal from the stress?"

John let out another mournful cry and his thin shoulders shook. "T-Tell me this is what's b-best for him," John entreated. "Please. Please! I n-need t-to know. I w-want to rest!" 

Greg held John as close to him as he could, rocking him slowly. "This is what's best for him," he said with conviction he honestly felt. Given John's intense dislike of Sherlock, it was better for him to keep away. "This is best for him. You can rest." 

John went completely limp when the burden was finally lifted from his shoulders. "Oh, G-God," he whimpered and fell into Greg's lap. "I-I can r-rest, I'm so tired. So tired. Could you h-hold me in our room? Y-Your room, sorry...I j-just want to go to sleep."

Greg stood up with John in his arms, keeping him close. "Our room, it's our room. Let's get you to sleep, you need rest. Everything is alright, John. I've got you, I'm not leaving you, not ever."

He got them settled on the bed and skipped Sherlock's music. They were going to have to do this clean and complete. Instead he tucked John under the blankets with him, resting John's head on his chest. "Everything is fine. You're home, you're safe. It's okay to sleep now." 

John didn't like the music being turned off. It was pleasant, and reminded him in a happy, painless way of the good and peaceful times he'd had with Sherlock. "I love you," he whispered and cuddled on Greg's chest. He threw his leg over Greg's hip, pulled him close, and wept softly even as he shuddered in relief. "C-Can w-we do n-nice things tomorrow? I l-like nice things. Things that a-don't remind m-me of n-needles and saws and knives and drills."

Greg nodded, "Just nice things tomorrow, that's it." He pulled John in comfortably and set his mind to getting rid of the jumper as soon as possible. He'd already taken care of notes and memories of Sherlock in his flat. There wasn't much else that needed doing. His mind trailed to Sherlock for a few moments, wondering if he was even at Mycroft's home or if they'd taken him to hospital." 

John drifted off to sleep with tears streaming down his face.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be out of town this weekend, so here is a massive chapter push for all of you wonderful readers. It's an honor that you are all still here so long after the start. 
> 
> I read each and every comment and appreciate them so deeply. I will assure you all that the development of each character -for better or worse- is deliberate. This is a deep study in the web-like effects of trauma and personal revelation. That our readers are picking up on this, analyzing it, studying it...it's an honor. 
> 
> Have heart. In trauma it's often progress before the fall, and the cycle repeats. Two steps forward, hopefully only one back. 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to give your feedback, I cannot tell you how much it makes my day.

Mycroft was pacing back and forth in his backyard while irritating birds flitted about. He would not put Sherlock in a home. He would keep Jared and Miller around, and shift his weight onto them, but he would not send his brother away. Mycroft caught sight of a maid looking out the window at him, and he glared. 

She scampered away, and he continued his pacing. 

Paul left Miller with Sherlock and sought out Mycroft, directed by the house staff nearly a half hour later. He walked out on the lawn and looked over Mycroft, reaching into his pocket and producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, offering them over. 

"Look like you could use one." 

Mycroft hadn't smoked in months, but the cigarette was a welcome distraction. "I'm not handling this as well as I believed I would," he said quietly. 

"Well, that's not quite true. I had plans to deal with myself if I became this illogical. I had a whole spectrum. Right now I'm at the lower middle. No serious breakdowns yet. No thoughts of suicide. But still, I am illogical and flawed. I had hoped...ah, but there's the folly. People never rise to their expectations, do they? They fall to the level of their mastery." 

Paul huffed an irreverent laugh and shook his head, lighting up with Mycroft. "You are a unique man, Mycroft. A unique man." He allowed himself a moment to simply enjoy the cigarette, taking a slow drag and observing the man. Finally he spoke, addressing the situation they both wish were not at hand. 

"He's ripped out his port three times in two days. He tore a naso-gastric tube out with his bare hands. He's back on oxygen and Miller is keeping him from seizing, but Mycroft, we need to honestly face what we are working with here."

Mycroft hummed in response and watched the smoke disperse into the air from his lips. "He'll know I've been smoking when he wakes. He'll know it was a sign of stress. He's already worried I'll put him in a home."

Paul shrugged. "He may not be aware enough to know what's going on. That...Mycroft he was hysterical, he might not...easily recover from...that looked like a break, Mycroft. He's- I don't have a lot of hope for him right now, I'm sorry, I wish there was another way to phrase it. A home honestly might be best. I know you don't like me saying it, likely because you recognize that it is true." 

"I'm not putting him in a home. If he could come out of the hell he was put through with even a scrap of sanity, he can handle this. If he is going to spend the rest of his life drooling and crying, then so be it. But it will be in my home, under my protection." 

Mycroft looked back to his house. "Is he awake yet?"

Paul shook his head, "Fighting the sedative as always. Miller is giving him a feed which he isn't taking to, and he's trying to keep him under control for now. If you don't want to consider a home, I do need you to understand that we cannot allow himself to cause harm. To you, or to himself." 

"Yes, yes, I understand." Mycroft was already heading back towards Sherlock. "I will give Jared more responsibility and work on keeping Sherlock calmer. As for now, I have two months before I return to some semblance of work."  
Sherlock was semi-conscious as Miller pecked out a swift text to Mycroft letting him know his brother was waking up. He batted weakly at Miller's hands, already starting to cry before he opened his eyes or properly woke. His fingers wrapped around the tube in his nose and Miller gently moved his hand away, speaking softly to him. 

"You're alright, easy, easy." 

Mycroft walked in and directly to his brother's side. "Little 'Lock," he said kindly and took his hand. He was just going to assume that Sherlock knew him, and perhaps the familiar nature of his voice would bring him back even if he didn't. "Are you alright?"

It took several minutes for Sherlock to fight off the sedative, multiple times reaching up with a trembling hand to pull the tube from his nose in fear. He continuously swallowed, shifting restlessly on the bed as he tried to calm himself and managing only to carry on crying, struggling to understand what was going on. 

"M-My?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from screaming in the earlier hours. 

"Yes, it's me. You're very safe here. Would you like some water? Or something nice to watch like a movie or documentary?" 

Mycroft wanted to establish early on that he was in a safe, gentle, and pleasing environment. 

Sherlock cracked his eyes open, looking about as the smell of cigarettes filled the room. He did not respond to Mycroft, his pupils blowing as the bit of color Miller hand managed to get back in his cheeks faded. Paul stood at the back of the room, watching terror settle over Sherlock's expression and he swore, "Mycroft, the cigarettes," it had been a massive professional lapse to forget such a critical detail. 

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips and suddenly screamed around them, scrambling back on the bed, gagging in fear. 

"K-Kill m-m-me," he screamed again, his voice cracking. He could not tolerate another _second_ of fear on this level, sure the brilliant, slicing shock of a stubbed out cigarette was sure to follow. The lure of safety followed by acute loss was a circle he could not endure. He wasn't seeing his brother, or the actual room, holding onto his trousers as he began to scramble away from every man standing in attendance, "J-JUST DO IT-T!" 

The color drained from Mycroft's face and he stared numbly at Sherlock for a moment before grabbing Paul by the arm and ushering him out. He stayed outside the door and shouted to Miller and Jared, who had not been smoking. 

"Keep him from hurting himself," he practically begged, and Jared was the first to make it beside the bed. He dropped to his knees so Sherlock was above him and held up his hands. 

"Can you hear me?" He asked in a loud voice. 

Sherlock screamed again as his hands were grabbed, though the pain he expected to flair up along his arms never came. He opened his eyes and looked down at the man shouting to him, breathing so fast it was making him dizzy, tears flooding down his cheeks.   
"N-No m-more," he begged, whining like a child in his terror. He was so horrifically exhausted, "I- w-what do y-you WANT?!" He tore his hands away, going for the tube in his nose as it seemed to be his only tether, "LET M-ME G-G-GO!" 

Jared grabbed Sherlock's hands again. Not his wrists, his hands. Wrists were far easier to hold onto, and better if he actually wanted control, but Jared simply wanted to keep him from hurting himself. He pulled Sherlock's hands away from his tube and held them to his chest, the place he usually kept them when not biting on his fingertips. 

"Do you know anyone named Jared?"

Sherlock nearly came out of his skin as he was touched again, but the name which he only associated with his brother's house seemed to shock him out of it. Sherlock went very still, staring at the man for a full minute as his heart fluttered under his fingers. 

"Oh… _g-god_ ," he breathed in nearly collapsing relief, "J-Jar-r-red," he sobbed, "it's y-you." 

Jared gave a broad smile and nodded. "Yeah! It's me! I just wanted to let you know that the smoke you were smelling was just Mycroft and Paul. It seems they forgot the rule. Sorry about that. But you're safe now, and everything is alright. I'm here to protect you, remember?" 

He kept his voice casual and easy. He'd found that it was his tone, not his words, that affected patients the most. 

Sherlock did not think, he only reacted, reaching out with trembling arms for Jared. 

"H-Help m-m-me," he whispered, still deeply confused about where he was and who he was with, "I c-can't anym-m-more...I- J-John was....I w-was _h-home!_ " 

He sobbed, still wanting to rip the tube out, loathing being by himself, "J-Jar-red h-help m-me!" 

Jared reached out his arms in response and very slowly gave Sherlock a light hug. He lingered there and kept track of Sherlock's hands very carefully. 

"I know. I know. You were home, and John was there. But he got a little frightened and emotional, so he had to go back. And you were getting sick, so you had to come back here. But it's alright. Nobody is being hurt. You're safe. Could you keep remembering who I am? What instrument I play and what my sister's kid likes to play with?"

Sherlock's teeth chattered together in fear, tipping his face down against Jared's shoulder as he wept. "C-Cello," he managed while his mind so helpfully played back the sound of John screaming at him in anger. 

"Oh g-g-god-d he...h-he w-was s-so ang-g-ry w-w-with m-me!" his heart lurched as though a blade twisted in it, breathing picking up much faster then before, "I- I- t-tried-d," the lingering smell of smoke was making it very difficult to keep present, leaving him begging against Jared's shoulder. 

"Pl-l-lease I'll- pl-lease h-help m-me." 

"It's alright. I'll help you. Just take a few deep breaths with me, alright?" 

Jared motioned to Miller, who brought something for Sherlock's nerves. 

"Now, Sherlock, it's alright that you're scared. That makes perfect sense. What I am worried about is that you're going to forget where you are. While my friend Miller gives you something through your port, will you tell me where you are?"

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the material of Jared's shirt, sobbing as he kept his head tucked down. 

"Pl-lease d-don't b-b-burn m-me," he wept before taking in a sharp, deep breath. He held it and then let it go in a rush, repeating his efforts to breathe. He felt pressure at the bruised area where his port met his hand and began to sob in earnest, deeply sensitive to pain. In the next moment though, a soothing rush of chemicals took the most brutal edge of his mind-bending fear down to a much more tolerable level. 

"Wh-h-here..." he whispered, still keeping his face down. His tears turned from panic to grief and resignation, "I d-d-don't kn-now wh-h-hat f-facilit-t-ty I'm...I don't know!" 

Jared gave Sherlock a gentle squeeze and dared to rub his back slowly. 

"Mycroft's house," he said casually. "We've been here for a while. Nobody hurts you. And no, I won't burn you. That is one thing I want you to always remember about me. I will never hurt you, and I will make sure other people don't hurt you. Can you remember that? You told John my niece likes to play with clay. If you can remember that, I think you can remember that I'll never, ever hurt you."

Sherlock kept a tight hold of Jared, not sure if their proximity was uncomfortable for the man and honestly not able to care at the moment. He had told John about Jared's niece, and then...and then...his shoulders pinched as he let out one long, heartbroken sob. 

"I l-lo-o-ost-t J-John," he wailed, his heart twisting violently as he recalled the finality of it all, the way John had sobbed and sobbed at the prospect of learning to tolerate his presence.

"What you did was very brave," Jared said quietly and relaxed enough to hold on to Sherlock properly. 

"You did what was best for him, and I am very proud of you. You're a wonderful man, and I can see you love him very much. You're so strong. And I think John was right. You should try and put a little focus on recovering. It worked well for him, didn't it?"

All Sherlock could do was sit with his grief. It was worse than John dying, in a terribly selfish way. John was alive. John did not love him anymore. He'd have been more merciful to have shot Sherlock through the skull when he'd had the chance. Sherlock's home, his John, all of it was gone, the structure still standing and the man still breathing. Sherlock had simply lost his value, and in the end lay abandoned, soon forgotten. Mycroft was smoking. He was going to toss him out soon, if not that same day. 

He clung to Jared, wondering if the man would come with him when Mycroft left him, or if he'd have to learn someone new, frightened and so grief stricken each heartbeat was agony. 

"Wh-h-hat w-will i-it m-m-matter if...if-f I r-r-recover?"

"It will matter because you have people who believe in you," Jared continued. 

"And you are stuck in the dark right now, okay? You can't see. You can only see the dark, and it's your only reality. It's like this. I took my niece out for a walk around a lake once when she was just a baby. When I got to the opposite side, it started to rain, and she started to cry. She didn't know that she was being carried, that the thunder and lightening wouldn't hurt her. She just knew that she was cold and wet and scared. It was her entire reality. She had no idea that I was bringing her home, and that the rain wouldn't really hurt her. You're scared, Sherlock. You don't feel like you're worth anything. But you can have your own worth to yourself. You will have happy times in the future. I am certain. It doesn't seem like it now, but that's just because you're caught in the storm."

Sherlock slowly let go of Jared, the sedative finally doing enough to make him brave enough to let go. "I'd b-be so-" he pressed his useless hands to his face as a sob cracked from his throat, "s-so l-lucky t-to have the l-l-lightning st-t-trike m-me." He wasn't worth anything. He had no value, and here he sat in the belly of evidence. 

John didn't want him. 

A year out, his entire body and mind laid to waste, and still John didn't want him. The only man in existence who'd seen anything of worth in Sherlock had thrown him aside. 

"H-He...I- I d-d-isgust-ted h-him," he wept in anguish, recalling John's instructions for Sherlock to heal before trying to see him again, before he'd gone ahead and completely given up in a fit of rage that Sherlock felt he fully deserved. 

Jared shook his head in earnest. "No, not at all! Not even a little! I was there. I remember. He got in bed with you and tried everything he could to make you happy." 

It was, however, rather unfortunate that John didn't feel the same for Sherlock as the other clearly did. 

"And you did so well helping him. In the end, I think this is best for a while. You two both went through so much, and you react badly when together, especially when emotional. So Sherlock, don't give up yet. You will be happy again. I'm certain."

Sherlock shook his head, "N-No! He w-was th-there to s-s-soothe g-guilt! He-" he pulled at his hair, tears racing down his cheeks, "He h-hates B-Baker Str-r-eet and m-me and all th-those m-m-memories.. I- rem-member he s-said he w-w-wouldn't s-see m-m-me until I w-was," he waved a hand at himself, recalling how John had promised to help him eat. That would never happen. John would never help him again. "M-More than-n...this..." 

'Happy' was such an obscene term that he wanted to lash out against it. "H-He's _gone_! He screamed a-at m-m-me and n-now he's- I'm g-going to g-g-go away and th-that's the e-end of it!" 

"Sherlock, can you remember a time in your life when you were happy without depending on another person for happiness?" Jared did not mean to pry, but he honestly wanted to know if he was even capable of what they were asking. 

Sherlock blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. 

"Wh-at is...is th-there to b-be h-h-happy about al-lone?" 

He asked quietly. Sure, the cases had made him happy, but in the same way heroin did. More of a fix than anything else. It had nothing on the way he could get a reaction out of John, out of hearing him in the shower or noting his coat hanging in their entryway. It had nothing on days at the sea with Mycroft, or tea with Mrs. Hudson. 

"Okay, point taken. Have you ever been happy without John?" Jared was counting this as a success already, as Sherlock had calmed considerably. 

Sherlock flinched at the question, doing what he could to catch his breath. "I- it w-w-was....a l-long t-time ago...a different....d-different l-life," he whispered, eyes taking on a more far away appearance. He was quiet for a few moments until his face crumpled again, an image of Christmastime at Baker Street abruptly flashing across his vision, crumbling down to ash. 

"I w-w-wish you'd j-j-jus-st l-let m-me die." 

Jared gave him a small squeeze. "You're okay. I've got you. You're safe now. I will keep you safe and eventually you'll find something that makes you happy." 

Sherlock just sat there, still pulled into the defensive position of earlier. He rocked himself slowly, eyes tight shut, cigarettes and John's screams full in his head. His nerves were much calmer, dampened by the jab, but his heart was pumping fibreglass through its four, useless chambers and he was in agony. He'd never understood how humans could be so absurd when it came to love, to sentiment, but now...knowing he couldn't go home again, that John had lost his love for him...the air felt like fire, scorching his lungs and forcing tears from his eyes. 

_John._

He sank his fingers back into his hair, curling down on his side and guarding his blistering heart. He was driftwood on the open sea, aimless and lost, doomed to sink or rot away now that the doors of hope and chance were shut tight against him. 

Jared had seen his fair share of distress and agony before, but this was so all consuming that it touched his professional heart. He was used to such sorrows, and while he was a very warm, compassionate man, he kept himself from getting too emotionally involved. 

"You are a very brave man," he said and rubbed Sherlock's back. "You are so brave, and so strong. You are more capable of love than anyone I've ever met."

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

How his brother had been right, how he wished he'd listened, tossed John out of his lab and never seen him again. Wishes were not for men like him, though, and so he could do nothing more than sit in the wreckage of his life and wait for mercy. 

"W-Will y-y-you knock m-m-me out? Pl-lease," he tearfully begged, deciding the best way to go about life was to no longer remain awake as often as possible, " _please._ " 

"I will," Jared said softly, "but only if you promise me that tomorrow you'll let me try to find something that makes up happy."

Sherlock grit his teeth and covered his face, sobbing into his hands. 

"I've l-lo-ost _everything_ that b-brought mme any joy at all! I c-can't e-even go t-to the sea with m-my brother!" 

He curled his fingers in, sinking his nails viciously into his scalp and shredding at the skin there, losing even the opportunity of the relief that oblivion would bring. There were traps at every turn, he was still in hell and there was no escaping it. 

"I L-LET JOHN G-GO WHAT M-M-MORE DO YOU _WANT_?!" he screamed with such force his legs curled up to his belly, voice cracking apart. He'd watched John offer everything that John did not want to offer, and tried to let him go, tried to put John before himself, accept that John no longer loved him despite the countless times John had _lied_ to him about it, and still he was being punished for not being _happy_. 

"I believe you can still go to the sea," he said softly. "I'll get you a sedative. You've been so brave today. What you did for John was very kind." 

Jared gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder and motioned to Miller, who brought the medicine. 

"Now, Sherlock, you can at the very least be proud of yourself for what you did. It was selfless and kind, and you helped John."

Sherlock flinched terribly as Miller touched him and was having a very hard time holding still, keeping his eyes on the sedative. Through his trembling, he began to babble, breaking in and out of English and French, terror-struck and crazed with grief. 

"I checked e-e-ever-ry....everyth-h-hing they g-gave h-h-him...stood guard...t-t-taught h-him-m to sp-eak again..." another broken scream tore out of his throat, crushed under the weight of loss, "n-never e-e-enough...I was n-nev-v-ver...G-r-reg is g-g-one and...and...he t-t-took J-John fr-rom..." his heart squeezed tight as he choked on tears, opening his eyes to look for his brother again. When he could not find him, his expression somehow managed to fall further. 

_I'll be there when you wake up, I promise._

Mercifully the sedative dropped a heavy blanket of darkness over him and was soon limp and unconscious. 

"He's down," Jared said quietly and Mycroft practically fell through the door. He was in new clothes, straight from the laundry room, had brushed his teeth and even scrubbed his hair. 

He looked to Jared with extreme gracefulness for just a split second, then went to Sherlock. 

Miller was slipping the little tube of oxygen back under Sherlock's nose, taping it to his face. "He's not going to leave that tube or his port alone. If no one is in here with him, actively watching him, he needs to be restrained. I have labs being run now to see how he's doing, and ortho can come in a day and pull the pins. Maybe that will help his moral." 

"Yes, removing the pins will help. And either Jared or I will stay with him." Mycroft had mostly been in the room when Jared was, but could see even though he did not want to that it was time for him to shift some of Sherlock's weight. "I'll press the matter of eating again."  
Miller nodded, "Yes, he's down in weight. He fights even these feedings. I don't know any better way to help him than to just...give him pain medicine to help with the after effects and be ready to endure some difficult weeks. He needs to eat. I don't know how far you are going to get, he was not very happy with Jared." 

Mycroft gave a small smile to Jared. "You did well. I heard the first part. You calmed him." 

Jared bowed his head for a moment. "Just called him back a bit."

Miller nodded to Jared. "No, that was impressive. He so dislikes Paul and I when he's afraid, but he took less than five minutes to calm him and get him settled. It was a very good effort. I was afraid that was going to go much worse than it did." 

"Maybe he'll like me eventually. I can play cello, and games, and tell stories. I'm not a super genius like you suggested, but I'm willing." Jared looked over to Sherlock with a sad smile. "I'll do my best."

Miller nodded and looked to Mycroft. "I'll set up with ortho, but we may need to take him in to get him a full exam. John is past due for one as well. Not that...well, how much do you want to be updated on him? I get from Sherlock's...distress...that the door between them is closed now?"

"The door is closed for now, yes. At least several months. Sherlock is not ready, and John is just hurting him. I can see that he is trying, but he is only succeeding in hurting." Mycroft sat down on the bed next to Sherlock and absently put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Update me often, though. Keep an eye on them."

\---

The first week after losing John, Sherlock struggled to remember where he was, alternating between fighting against Jared and Miller with all his strength, and long hours of staring off into nothing. The suggestion of eating could not even be made, given his low cognitive awareness. On the tenth day he was fully sedated, taken to hospital, where the pins were removed and he underwent a day surgery to correct some of the damage which was causing him such discomfort in the lav. The decision to keep him completely down for several days following was made in an effort to keep him from mistaking post-surgical pain as abuse. He would still have minor issues, but it was more a matter of body-awareness than pain. In time, it would fade and he could potentially properly heal. 

By the third week he had given up nearly round the clock sobbing for a blank, distant gaze which, for several days, made Paul deeply concerned that Sherlock had simply snapped and gone catatonic on them. That was, until he started whispering quietly under his breath. Jared was the one to finally figure out that Sherlock was spending several hours a day speaking to John, responding as though hearing the man. He could not be interrupted when having his nearly silent verbal exchanges, of which often times ended with Sherlock back down in hysterics, requiring sedation. Still he fought the feeding tube and the port, refusing to leave them alone and getting craftier and craftier about attempting to pull them when eyes were not directly on him. 

In the fifth week, he began to scream for Mycroft in the small hours, always failing to see his brother when he responded. Sherlock was spiraling into a world of his broken mind's own creation, steadily losing his grasp on reality. Paul began to interview home care aids on the side, knowing they were going to need more than Jared, while Miller carried on making visits every other day. All in all, Sherlock had plunged into sharp decline.

Mycroft was physically better and emotionally deteriorated. With John's recovery, there had been progress. There were setbacks and standstills, but all in all it went in a positive direction. But Sherlock? He was less coherent now than the day they first brought him in, still fresh and bleeding. 

Mycroft had taken to walking outside when he was not in direct use comforting his brother, but truthfully he saw little point in doing it himself. Sherlock did not respond to him. He did not know him. it was the worst time of Mycroft's entire life, and all the while he was arguing with Miller, Paul, and even Jared at times that Sherlock did not need a home. 

As his brother became less and less responsive, Mycroft became more and more desperate. He leaned more of Sherlock's weight on Jared, who handled it nicely, but when the man was not on hours, Mycroft read to Sherlock. He started with children's books. Then went to Shakespeare. Poetry. Leading scientific journals. He wrote in code and spoke it fluently to see if it would spark Sherlock's interests. 

It did not.

The start of the fourth month, Sherlock had not spoken to anyone in weeks. He stopped tracking Miller's fingers, failed to respond to Jared's cello, and had been combative any time he was touched by anyone. It was not unusual for him to wake in the small hours, screaming for John, or at times, for Mycroft. He had to be restrained, either chemically or physically, for every feed and actively attempted to drown himself when bathed. 

Paul found Mycroft in the gardens on his walk and came to track alongside him, silent for several minutes. 

"Mycroft. I have interviewed a series of staff to help take round the clock shifts. This...if you won't put him in a home, which I understand, I think it would be of benefit to you to return to work on a full time basis. Sherlock is failing to thrive, and I believe we are looking at the end result, much as that disappoints me to say." 

Mycroft had expected such a talk and continued to stare at the first red leaf that indicated the beginning of an early fall. "I will hire more today, then. I'll go through the same process, but I don't think it much matters if he likes their personality at this point." 

Paul stopped them then, taking a moment to look at Mycroft. 

"You've done literally everything you could. This sort of decline is...well, we have Broken Heart Syndrome on the books, it's not soft science. Combine that with what was done to him, and John's unfortunate reaction to him...short of a mostly healed John Watson walking into his room to help walk him out of his darkness, I don't think there is anything more that can be done. He cries for you, it's not that your love is insufficient. He's- that Moran...if he'd had John without the restraint of the other lunatic, John would have been back to us in boxes."

Mycroft had a permanently morose expression on his face. "I love my brother, and I do believe I have done everything I could at this point. Had I been quicker....Nevermind. It hardly matters now. I'm going to speak with Greg today, I think. Tell him that it's over."

Paul angled his chin up slightly, surprised by that. "Greg? That's interesting. Are you simply inclined to tell him that it's over or....is this something else. What do you mean by over? Sherlock is alive and breathing, and potentially reachable in the future. Unlikely, but potentially."

"I just plan on telling him to stop bothering with John, if he still is. John is the cause of this." 

There was bitter resentment in his voice that he did nothing to hide. John wasn't truly the cause of this, but if he hadn't come along, he would not have been used against Sherlock. If he hadn't shouted at Sherlock, if he'd been kind, perhaps Sherlock would be functioning. 

"I'd just like to fill him in."

Paul tipped his head and took a moment to stare at Mycroft's face. "You are cutting them off, you mean. I see."

"Not financially," Mycroft said hastily. "I would never. I will care for and protect them for as long as I am able." 

Paul nodded, "I apologize for the misunderstanding. But you are cutting them off then? Banning John from a visit. And what if, in a year's time, he's much improved?"

"If, in a year's time, John has demonstrated a genuine interest in seeing my brother for the purpose of friendship, not simply quelling a guilt, then I will interview him and determine if he is allowed a visit. Then I will speak with Sherlock as much as I can." Mycroft spoke in a way that demonstrated previous thought. 

For a few moments, Paul was quiet. "I find that wise. These premature meetings have been explosive and detrimental, I agree." He carried on walking with Mycroft, watching the occasional leaf fall from the trees. 

"Sherlock...he might find his way. It's always still possible. As long as he's breathing, there is hope." 

Mycroft hummed in response and looked at the trees. They were dying in preparation for winter. How fitting. 

"I will continue working with him. I'll go to him today, before I speak with Greg."

Paul looked up to the trees as well. "He's only been crying today. Maybe your presence can help. He's calm, as far as calm goes for him." 

Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling, muttering to John with constant, slow tears rolling down his cheeks. He'd wasted in the months gone by, sallow and waxen, but that had become his norm. He would reach for the tube and then dropped his hand away when Jared gently touched him, knowing they'd stop him, always, always they stopped him. 

Mycroft went to Sherlock's room as he had dozens of unproductive times. "I'm here," he said gently, "I'm here. My is here. Can you hear me today, Sherlock?"

He turned his head toward the familiar sound, constantly seeing people without faces, blurred lines where features should be. He blinked at the faceless body and then began whispering faster to John, who was doing his best to calm Sherlock down.

_You're alright, Sherlock. Come on now. I'd be shooting this bloke in the face if he were here to hurt you, you know that. Calm down._

Sherlock curled his fingers to his lips, nails trimmed down to the quicks, the skin there constantly warped and infected. He looked at Mycroft's hands, trying to identify him. 

_You know this one, go on. Deduce it._

"Sh-ut up-p, J-John, "he stammered, reaching out slowly with a trembling hand and taking Mycroft's, fingers stinging where they were split and chapped. His fingers fluttered over Mycroft's, trying to sort him out as a blind man would with hands on a face. 

Mycroft turned Sherlock's hand over in his and tapped his name into his palm.

_MY._

"I'm here," he said to add voice to the physical. "I'm Mycroft. You know me. I'm your brother."

Sherlock closed his eyes and internally addressed John, frightened and hopeful at the same time. 

_John?_

_He's safe...you know him._

Sherlock's fingers tightened around Mycroft's, though he kept himself quiet. Eventually he whispered, "My," in a very quiet voice, as though soothing himself down. 

"Yes! Yes, I'm My. Wonderful, Sherlock. Wonderful. Can you hear me?" 

Mycroft held gently to Sherlock's hands and prayed he'd be recognized further.

John clicked his tongue at Sherlock's spike of fear. 

_He wants to talk to you, don't be an idiot._

Sherlock bit down on the fingertips of his free hand, sniffling around them like a child. 

_He's disappointed. I was supposed to....supposed to_.... He sat dumbfounded, unable to recall what John and Mycroft and all the others had wanted, while he paced the rotted and silent front room of his mind palace, ignoring a rat that scurried past his feet. 

_You're such an idiot. Talk to your brother._

"I...I c-c-can-n h-h-hear-r y-you," he breathed, whimpering in fear at the end of it. 

"Thank you," Mycroft said softly and brought Sherlock's spare hand up to his lips. "I'm glad you can hear me. I love you, you know that? If you ever want to talk to me, I'm here."

Sherlock held tight to Mycroft's hand and was silent for several more minutes before his expression crumpled. "I'm-m s-sorry," he whispered, trying to get John to shut up. 

"I d-d-didn't-t do what y-you wanted. I c-can't remember wh-a-at I w-was supposed to do. J-John won't _sh-u-ut up-p_ about it." 

Mycroft was torn between reminding Sherlock that John was not there and leaving him to his fancy. "It's alright, little 'Lock. Would...Would you like to go to the beach? We can see the ocean, play in the sand. It would be nice, right?"

Moran abruptly had Sherlock by his throat, making him choke. His fingers dropped from his mouth to his neck as he clawed in an effort to get free, suddenly sobbing. 

"N-Not-t allowed," he gasped, averting his gaze to look up imploringly at Moran, hoping he'd said the right thing. John was in the corner, pulling his hair and sobbing, cigarette smoke filling the room along with the scent of charred flesh, "I c-c-can-n't g-go," he added for extra measure, his pulse jumping wildly. 

Mycroft expected that reaction. Perhaps today they would break through it. 

"I know he says you can't go, but I say you can. He only says that because he can't go to the beach. If I take you to the beach, you'll be safe."

_Sure, Sherls, go have a holiday at the beach. You'll still come back here, won't you? I'll just play with John while you're away._

John screamed from the corner of the room and Sherlock stopped breathing, shaking his head and knowing that he was letting his brother down. Moran advanced on him and he flinched enough to nearly dislodge his hand from Mycroft's, gasping with fear. It took only a few moments for him to race back into the safe harbor of his mind, slamming the door shut and outwardly staring at the corner, tears flowing down his cheeks. 

Mycroft swore under his breath and held Sherlock's hand a bit tighter. "I'm sorry. No beach. I'm sorry I tried that again. I'm here. Please come back out. It is safe here. My is here. My is here. Please."

Sherlock was safe down into his mind, no longer hearing John or Mycroft. He curled into John's chair, hiding his face, protected from harm.

Outwardly, there was no further response from him.

Mycroft swore and leaned back. "I suppose I failed for the day," he said softly and looked over to Jared. "If you get anything more, let me know, alright?"

Paul shook his head, wishing there was more he could do for Mycroft. He waited by the door, watching all that had occurred. It seemed unlikely to him that Sherlock would improve now that John was gone. He'd had clarity and drive before, but came back from that last trip to Baker Street a changed man.

John had been through a very different five months. 

At first, there was crushing guilt. It tore at him, devoured his reason and left despair and loathing in it's place. Twice he broke down hard to the point of attempting to inflict harm on himself, which was always stopped by Greg. 

But once he was told again and again that the only way to help Sherlock was to recover himself, he poured his energy into it. The first week was that of emotional recovery and exhaustion while he worked his guilt away. The second was fervent work with Paul, water, and outdoors. John made progress in all areas, but by the third week he was on to a different task. 

John saw in sharp detail the damage he'd done to Greg. It was intolerable. He had, by this point, made peace with the fact that he needed to heal more to help Sherlock, but Greg was another story. Every day, he strove to be helpful. He swept, inched into the kitchen when the food was being made, and cared almost obsessively for Gladstone. John showed Greg a good deal of affection, complimented him, and gradually, piece by piece, tried to build him back up. 

In just five months, his improvements were vast. He had managed a few sips of tea without the straw after cooling it. He'd worked with the small bowl of water and could now function properly with it in the room. And while he still had nightmares, flashbacks and bouts of childish behavior, he was sprinting full on towards his goals. 

All his work and dedication was taxing, and he seemed to have a system going where he would work very hard on the things that frightened him such as water or speaking with Paul about Sherlock, then the next day he would focus on being useful around the house and building Greg back up with a constant stream of appreciation and love. 

It was on one such day where he leaned over while watching telly and gave Greg a tight hug. "Remember when you used to take me to the tree at the facility? That was always so helpful. Thank you for doing that for me." The day before had been trying for him emotionally. Paul had stopped by for the nearly scheduled meetings, and John had left the room in violent sobs that neared screaming. But today was turning out to be peaceful. "I remember seeing the sun. It was beautiful. You are like the sun to me, Greg."

Greg smiled and closed his eyes, holding onto John's forearm. "Thank you, love," he said warmly, tugging at John to sit down with him. "That's good to know, that it helped. That's really good to know." 

John grinned back at Greg and happily nuzzled closer to him. "I'm glad I could help. What would you like to do today? I was thinking we could walk around outside for a bit. Oh, hey, could I have a bit more of the painkiller for soreness? I wanted to try something."

Greg smiled at him broadly, "Yeah, John! Of course." It was wonderful to hear John asking for what he needed. "You sure can, what are you thinking about trying?" He pulled John into his arms and kissed the side of his head, "Wonderful man." 

John momentarily forgot what he had been wanting to try, as a broad and gleeful grin lit up his face and he leaned even further on Greg. When he gathered himself again, he was still smiling, but almost shyly. "It's just that I used to be really strong. I'm trying to get back to being normal and healthy, and I've got my weight back. Miller said so. But I'm not strong. It's...it's stupid." 

He shook his head and decided perhaps he should just drop it and not potentially stress a good day. "I was just going to try and see if maybe I can still do pushups. I...It sounds stupid. Never mind."

Greg grinned even more broadly and clapped his hands together, landing a happy kiss to John's lips. He stood and went for John's pills, handing them over with a pouch of juice and a straw. 

"That's not stupid, that's bloody brilliant! I haven't had a proper bit of exercise in ages, I'm likely as out of shape as you. Let's do it together. That's...yes, this, fantastic idea."

John lit up once more and jumped to his feet. "Really? You think it's a good idea?" He followed Greg like an overexcited puppy and took his pills. 

"I'm nervous. What if I can't even do one? How pathetic would that be? I used to do hundreds. It was like breathing."

Greg smiled at John, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "And before you could do hundreds, you couldn't do one. Pathetic my arse, you've overcome more now than anyone I've ever heard of. Come on, I'm likely not to manage more than two," he laughed, wrapping an arm around around John's shoulder in a warm and friendly way. 

"It's a great idea, I'm over the moon to hear you suggest a bit of proper exercise." 

John loved his self care days, where his only goals were to help Greg and be happy. "I wasn't sure if this was the right day for it, but if not, we can try tomorrow." Blocking things into days, the day where he did hard things, and the day where he did easy things, had become incredibly important to John. There were no surprise difficulties or pains, save the uncontrollable things such as triggers and nightmares. It made the difficult days entirely more tolerable. 

John walked over to a carpeted area and stood awkwardly. "You try first."

Greg laughed and followed what John asked, going over and rubbing his hands together before dropping into the position. He'd been lifting John, and was in far better shape than he let on. He very slowly managed three and then went to the floor, laughing. 

"Oh hell, John, I'm out of shape," he beamed as he shook his head and stood up, going to John's side. 

"Alright, alright, go on and show me up."

John felt better, even if he suspected that Greg was downplaying his abilities. He slowly got onto the ground and found a few things that made it difficult. First, his left hand did not want to bend all the way back, and his forearm felt uncomfortably tight. Second, the ankle with the Achilles injury felt stiff in the flexed position. John grabbed his blanket and put it under the heels of his hands to help his left one. He was very determined to get this done. Small things such as those simply would not be allowed to get in his way. 

He got into the plank position and held it for a moment just to see if he could. His arms were frail and weak, but his body remembered the motion. He started down slowly, careful to keep his abs engaged. That proved to be the hardest part, and on the way back up again he vowed he'd spend more time holding the plank. He stared down again, and his arms shook. He flopped on to the ground with a frustrated expression.

"Haha," Greg exclaimed happily, dropping down beside John, "you got that one out! Now 'can't even do one' is off the table. Let's build you up with your knees bent, hold plank and just go half-way down for this week. Mostly for the benefit of the stretch and letting your body get used to you asking things of it again, yeah?"

"I feel..." John wiggled his arms in front of him. "Uncoordinated. It's not all working the way it used to." He crossed his arms over his chest and was lost to frustration for a moment. But today was a happy day, and he would deal with his negative self image and terrible self esteem tomorrow. Today, he had made Greg happy. John rolled over and wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders. 

"You'll be my coach. I'll work on plank. I'll admit it's frustrating to know that all those pushups I did before only got me here, unable to get through two, and the first was an ugly one."

Greg smiled at John, brushing his fingers through John's hair. "It was a brilliant one. Christ almighty, if you watched me in your position deciding on my own to _strength train_ I doubt you'd be so critical. That was a fantastic first go. Think of it like a doctor; the fact that you got into the position at all is one hell of something to be proud of. We'll keep at it, love."   
John was built up with Greg's words and he beamed with pride. "It is good of me, isn't it? I got through all that and now I'm training again." 

He absently took Greg's hand and sighed happily. "They never expected this. I think it means I'm strong."

Greg nodded without hesitation, "Hell yes this means you're strong, are you having a laugh? You're incredibly strong, and I am so proud of you." 

Again he trailed his fingers through John's hair and smiled at him, honestly happy and bursting with pride at his accomplishment. 

John giggled. "I love you," he said with pure, honest affection. "I've made it this far with you carrying me. I owe you so much. I mean, you built this life for me and dragged me into it even though I fought it. And now I'm happy. I'm very, very happy here."

John's proclamation struck Greg hard and he had to take a moment, blinking in disbelief, before pulling John into a deep, warm hug. "Oh...god that's good to hear. That's so good to hear. I love you, I'm so glad you're happy here." 

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't tell you before!" John leaned back just enough to kiss Greg's cheek. 

"Yeah, I am happy here. You have made a wonderful life for me. It's gentle, fun, I feel safe, loved, useful...I mean, Greg, you won."

Greg's brows came together for a moment in confusion. 

"I won? I suppose I never looked at it like that, but that's...that's good. I'm...god, I'm just so glad to hear that you are happy overall and that you enjoy your life. That's all I've ever wanted-" he cut off mid-sentence, guilt slicing through him. That was _Sherlock's_ entire goal, always had been. They would not be here at all without him. He had no idea how Sherlock was faring, but it was hard knowing that they'd had to leave him behind. 

He smiled again at John, "I love you, god how I love you." 

John smiled again and gave Greg a quick kiss. "Love you too. Want to go outside? I think Gladstone would like that. I'll do more plank when we get back. It's nice out, and we should take advantage."

Fully unaware of the drama over at the Holmes' estate, Greg gladly got up and then pulled John to his feet, just thrilled to see him at a healthier weight. They got the dog ready and as always, headed down to the courtyard. It was a nice day, with a cool breeze, a few leaves turning already. 

"Autumn is nearly on us," Greg said as he watched a yellowed leaf flutter down from a primarily green tree. 

A leaf drifted past John and he grabbed for it like a child. He felt like a child on these happy days. Childlike, not childish. On the difficult days, he could be stubborn and depressed, but on these days he was light and playful. John took off Gladstone's leash and waved his ball to get his attention. The dog was as attentive and excited as ever, and shot off like a rocket after his toy. 

John took Greg's hand and leaned his head on his shoulder. "I'm still not ready for him, am I?" It was a bit less cheerful than the rest of the day, but it was a pressing question he asked often.

Greg was startled at John's intuition. "I don't think so, not yet, no.You're doing incredibly, John, you really are. He just...is the hardest...part to think of." 

He squeezed John's hand and tipped his head to John's in response. "If we don't ever get there, that's okay." 

John threw the ball again and watched Gladstone go. "I'll talk to Paul again tomorrow, then." It was always his response. Always. He was going forward with it, even if it was slowly. "I'd rather be good enough for it, eventually. I've come this far. Just...that one block..."

And oh, was it a hell of a block. They could not keep at this unless they were _sure_ that John could be near Sherlock without falling apart. His beautiful John had fallen apart, and he'd never seen Sherlock look so terrified. 

"Ah, watch that. Remember that we've been over 'good enough.' You are good enough right now. The focus is to help heal the other bits that make it frightening and stressful."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry." John was working on it. He still felt terribly for things that were not his fault, and often grew overstressed if he believed himself failing, but he as working on it.

"Tomorrow. We'll work on this tomorrow."

Greg smiled and gave John a gentle nod. "I love you, you're doing fine. Let's go up and watch a bit of telly?" 

John leaned over and snaked his arms around Greg's waist. "Yeah. Let's. I'm having a really good day. Really good. Thank you so much." 

John hadn't seen tears in Greg's eyes for days. _Days_. He didn't know how many, but he knew he was doing something right. Surely, he had to be.

When they were settled on the sofa, the telly on and a blanket over their laps, Greg managed to doze off. He'd been sleeping much more than usual, finally making up for the year that he'd hardly managed rest at all. He could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, and often did. John beside him, warm and happy, was more than enough to pull him into abrupt rest.

John leaned over and kissed Greg on the forehead. Another successful day. He'd managed to make Greg happy and do things he liked, and he only got frustrated once. John was happy.


	19. Chapter 19

John swore and dropped his head into his hands. It had been two months, and he was still drilling against the mental block that kept him from progressing. Externally, he'd done well. He continued to exercise, eat new foods, and build Greg back up. But in therapy, he had been stuck behind a block. 

"I don't blame him!" He practically shouted and glared at Paul. "I've said so! I know it wasn't him, and that I was tricked. I've revolved that. I have! I want to help him. I really want to help him. Doesn't that mean love?"

Paul took a deep breath and tried another angle. "You continuously shout at him that he thinks you're not enough. Let's talk about that. Why do you say that to him so often?"

"Because I offered him everything!" John pulled his blanket closer to his chest and slouched over further. "And it wasn't enough! Why does he want the one thing I can't give? The first day I saw him in the facility, he told me I leave because it was hurting me. He told me that I should leave him and take care of myself. And now I am, and I can't help but think I'm just making him worse." 

Paul listened for a moment as Greg shifted in quiet frustration at John's side. "And so you see his offer for you to focus on yourself, when he knows you can't give what he wants, as him seeing you as insufficient? Help me understand that, John." 

"Because he loves me," John said and dug his fingernails into his hair. "He screams for me when I'm not there. He'd borderline obsessed! And then I can't...I can't love him the way he wants to be loved, and I get sent away. I know that isn't fair. I know, logically, that he is only trying to keep me from harm, but it hurts him that I don't have romantic love for him."

Greg was the one to jump in on that. "Romantic? John, I _seriously_ doubt that's what he wants at the moment. Maybe he wanted that years ago, but now? No, that's- Paul that can't be what Sherlock wants?" 

Paul touched a finger to his lip and considered his answer. "Sherlock often says, when we are trying to get him to communicate with you, that you don't miss him or willingly desire his company. The only time I've wondered about the romantic aspect of it is when he was calm enough to realize that you and Greg were...willingly engaging in the bit of caressing you do. It seemed to be more of a...it was just painful for him to consider that you might be romantic with someone but never him. That is such a minuscule aspect of it, John. No, he means love in the platonic sense." 

John let out an exasperated sigh. "Well I can do that! I have been trying! I can. I do love him. Just not as much as he loves me. I try, though. I am willing to make sacrifices for him. I'd go back to Moriarty for him. Isn't that love? Doesn't that count?" 

Paul laced his fingers together and leaned forward. "Do you honestly believe Sherlock wants you to come to harm, just to show him that you don't want him hurt? That's not what anyone wants, John. 

"He wants me to honestly want to be around him. I honestly want to help him. That's how it is. I can't help it." 

John tugged on his hair and fought the burn of tears. "I am hurting! This is no different! This is worse, because I'm not actually helping him. I love him. I know it! I loved him before. It's just...stuck." 

Greg was biting his tongue, knowing frustration would get them nowhere. Paul spoke softly to John instead. 

"John, he _knows_ he hurts you. Time and time again when you start offering things that frankly terrify him, he tries to gently let you go, give you permission to leave him behind. None of this has to be done. You have made major progress in this life here with Greg. You don't _need_ Sherlock anymore. It is very likely that you have simply...moved on, and that's alright. Tell me why you are still hurting even when you know you can just walk away." 

John sighed in frustration and leaned over to Greg. He was slowly reverting back to his childish posture, which he had been trying so hard to move away from. 

"I don't want to let go! I just don't want to! I love Greg, and this is a wonderful life, but..." John shook his head. He could not let Sherlock and his old life go. He simply did not want to. Greg had stopped putting on Sherlock's music and John had taken to doing it himself. 

"I don't want to. I want to help Sherlock. Does there have to be a reason why?"

Paul put his hands up for a moment to calm John. "What I'm trying to help you do, John, is get to that core of _why_. There is a reason down there somewhere, it has nothing to do with there having to be one, there just is. When you think of just moving on, what happens in your mind?"

"I feel bad," he said and curled up closer to Greg. He was mentally shutting down. 

"Hurts. And I feel guilt, I guess, but also sadness. It's....it's painful. He is just an important part of my life. I left him. I left him! I am not supposed to just leave him. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock." 

John spoke in a monotone way that showed it had been his metronome to survive the first few months of his torment. 

"It's stuck in there deeper than the torture. I knew I was going to break. I absolutely knew by three weeks in. But I was stubborn. I had to fight it. So I kept that in my mind. I will not hurt Sherlock."

Paul was gentle as he nudged at the stubborn wall. "You are no longer fighting for your life, John. You are not the man Moriarty wanted you to be. You have not hurt Sherlock. You've done no physical damage to him. The harm he experiences now is self-inflicted. You are not hurting him. He is hurting from a situation, not from your actions. You have no obligation to stay with him. You're not _supposed_ to stay with him. There is a difference between grieving what you've lost, and feeling obligated to go to him even when you don't want to." 

He looked to Greg and then back to John. "Does Sherlock still frighten you when you physically see him?"

"No, he doesn't," John snapped as if offended. "It's only when I get scared that I start to get stressed and feel..." John ground his teeth. 

"When I get back into the same emotional state I did when I was with Moriarty, I feel resentment towards him as if his fault. I _know_ it isn't, but... I'd just like to talk to him about it, but I'm not ready, because I don't...I do want to see him! I do! Because I'm worried. But that's not the right reason. Can I write a letter? Something?"

Paul already knew Mycroft would not go for that, not to mention the fact that Sherlock was hardly ever lucid anymore. 

"What would you want to say to him, John? Do you mean that you'd like to talk to him about this and seek his assistance in overcoming it?"   
John reached out and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. "I want to not have resentment towards him," John explained. 

"It doesn't feel good. Every time I think about him it hurts because I feel bad and I miss what we were. And I think about him a lot. I think about him a lot because my entire torture was centered around him. I don't see a way for me to let it go." 

Greg pulled John in closer, rocking him slowly to keep him calm. 

Paul spoke softly to John. "It may not be something you can overcome. The last thing, and the strongest thing, you associate with Sherlock is pain. I know Greg here has many tapes of you and Sherlock together, and you have your old blog. My best suggestion is for you to immerse yourself in memory of him prior to this. The only way to get past this, if it's even possible, is to associate him with what made you enjoy him earlier. I don't see how talking to him right now would help you." 

"Even if he never wants me back, I want to get over it." John nuzzled under Greg's chin and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. The affection kept him grounded and reminded him of how good his life could be. "Mostly I want to help Sherlock, but even if he hates me now, I'd like to be able to think of him without feeling sad and bitter and guilty. I'll watch the tapes Greg took, and read the blog front to back." 

Paul nodded, pleased with that. "I don't believe there exists a world where Sherlock for one moment doesn't want you around, John. I truly don't. That is a fear you can put to rest." 

Greg nuzzled deeper against John and drew in a slow, deep breath, wondering if they were ever going to get past this. 

John ground his teeth again and his jaw flexed. "It's been...it's been so long since I last saw him and I have a lot of anxiety about it. How is he? Does he eat? Does he go outside? Has he found other good things? I'm just so...worried. Constantly."

Paul leaned back in his seat and looked to Greg for a moment. "He is well cared for," he responded diplomatically, "I'll tell him you're asking after him, it might help him to know that."

"Paul, I'd like you to be honest with me." John sat up and folded his hands in front of him to show that he was capable of handling the information. "Do you think that, at this point, I can be a positive influence on his life?"

Paul took a moment to arrange his words. He spoke calm, and frankly to John in an effort to let him see that he recognized his want to be rational. 

"Yes, if any of us can, it's you. I say that, however, with the caveat that your interaction with him is based on authentic want to be in his company and help him, and not out of a place of guilt and obligation. Otherwise, no, you would not be helpful to him at this time."

John took a deep breath and turned back to Greg. He found it easiest to think about such things when he felt safe, and promptly nestled himself in his arms. 

He wasn't sure how he felt about Sherlock anymore. It had been more than half a year since he last saw him, and he remembered it as painful. He had false memories of Sherlock beating him, which he logically disregarded and emotionally held on to. But he had many lovely memories as well. Memories of playful banter and hilarious frustration, of a time when he was surrounded by friends and cases, when he had never been raped and didn't know what it felt like to have hot knives pressed into his flesh. 

The man Sherlock had been, and certainly the one he was now, did not deserve to be alone. 

"I want to see him."

Greg tightened his hold on John and nuzzled closer to him. Paul cleared his throat and spoke softly. "Perhaps after you've spent some time with your blog and the old videos, John."

John raised sad eyes to Paul and breathed a slow breath. "Okay. Okay." He felt dejected, tired and morose, as he always did after a session with Paul. But he'd done well today, which was wonderful. 

"And..." He averted his eyes in embarrassment. "And...You're sure I'm not...not hurting anyone with what I'm doing?" John looked to Greg then and back to Paul. "I still...I still worry."

Paul spoke softly, "You are doing exactly what has been asked of you, John. Nothing you are doing is selfish. This is critical if you are at all interested in helping him, and..." he cleared his throat, "that's something that would benefit him greatly." 

John nodded, but had mentally shut off. He curled up on Greg and fell silent for awhile in order to process the amount of information he had been given. He was on his side on the sofa, facing the cushions with his head on Greg's leg. "Love?" They had a system going, in which John would notify Greg when one of the programmed responses in him was giving him trouble. 

"I-I feel like a bad person again."

Paul got up quietly to return to Mycroft's home, intent on another effort at reaching Sherlock, gently touching Greg's shoulder on his way out. Greg shifted John in his arms and leaned in to kiss him slowly. With their foreheads resting together, Greg spoke softly to him. 

"I love you, my wonderful John. Let's tell your mind to leave off, want to watch something? You did so very well today. I'm so proud of you." 

John leaned in to the kiss and breathed slowly to calm himself. He was an absolute expert on forced calm. "Yeah, I'd like that," he said in a small voice and smiled at Greg's beautiful face. "You're a wonderful man. Let's watch something. Maybe one of the old videos of Sherlock? Like Paul said?"

Paul made his way to Mycroft's house as was the routine, knowing that Mycroft was likely having his late afternoon visit before he began his evening work, often telecommuting with foreign diplomats. 

He came into the room quietly, finding Sherlock quiet and staring at nothing across the room. Paul went to sit next to Mycroft, speaking to him very quietly. "John is starting to ask after him." 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. That had been common the first two weeks, but had dropped off entirely after that. "And what is your professional opinion of that? Still just guilt?"

Paul watched as Sherlock shifted on the bed, murmuring under his breath. He was calm, but seemingly unaware of any of them. 

"It's difficult to say, but today there seemed to be more to it than guilt." He looked back to Mycroft, "I'm having him do some immersion therapy, expose him to many of the films of them before all this, have John go through his blog. He wanted to speak to Sherlock today." 

Mycroft was suspicious. He'd had months to brood on if he even wanted John back in Sherlock's life, but they'd hit a stand still. Sherlock was nearly a vegetable. He hardly responded to anything, and never did so positively. 

"Work with him. Paint Sherlock in the best light possible. Make him miss what they used to have. Do whatever you need to to get him back to Sherlock."

Paul nodded and looked back to Sherlock. "Any luck with him today? John is completely unaware of his condition. He asked after him, but I was not forthcoming with it. John already feels intense guilt. I think knowing this would set him-" 

A muffled cry, followed by frantic movement at Sherlock's bed interrupted him. Sherlock had abruptly shied away from the corner of the bed, raising his forearm to shield his face, suddenly screaming. Paul got to his feet, disliking that Sherlock was not constantly restrained, but he'd dropped that argument with Mycroft a long time ago. Sherlock nearly always went directly for his tubes when he got lost like this. 

Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hands. He went through his usual routine of calling out his brother's name, then his own name all while tapping on his hand. 

"I'm here 'Lock. I'm here. What do you need?"

Paul watched as Sherlock stared at his brother's hands, never his face, battling terror. It seemed that today he recognized his brother, going through the motions of trying to climb Mycroft though he'd grown so weak he could scarcely keep his grip. Moving himself was out of the question. Miller had adjusted and adjusted his feeds, adding more and more calories, calling in a nutritional expert, but still Sherlock was wasting. 

"M-My," he sobbed, his voice closer now to a breathless old man than the rich baritone it used to be, "h-he has _John_!"

"No, no he doesn't," Mycroft exclaimed. "You saved John, and I kept him safe. I am keeping him safe for you. He is safe. What you are hearing is not real. You are in my home. I would not let them hurt John."

Paul watched one of the dozens of cycles they went through with Sherlock play out. In a moment, Sherlock would look around the room for John, concluding that if he was safe and rescued, he'd be there. And when he didn't find John there, he'd become crestfallen and morose, likely to spend the rest of his limited waking hours quietly crying. 

The cycle began, and Paul as always seriously wondered if even John could help Sherlock at this point. 

Mycroft fought against the cycle as he always did in an attempt to derail it. "He's not here right now. He's somewhere else. But he's safe. I promise. Could you look at me, Sherlock?"

Much to Paul's surprise, today Sherlock responded with compliance. He sluggishly moved his eyes to look up at his brother while tears rolled down his face. Paul held his breath, watching the brothers quietly. 

Mycroft's face lit up and he nodded enthusiastically. "Thank you, Sherlock! Is there anything I can get you? A sip of water, maybe? A smoothie? You don't have to, if you don't want to. Or I can put on music."

Sherlock was silent for a long time as he stared up at his brother. One could nearly see the wheels turning, rusted and broken, as he tried to think. 

"J-John...John is w-with Gr-reg...and th-they're g-gone n-now," he whispered, slowly putting it back together. He looked down at his feet, silent again for a full minute. "I...I w-want m-my viol-lin." 

Mycroft was pleased to get clarity and words in one day, even if it was hopeless requests. "I can get your violin for you, and play some of your old music."

Sherlock's disposition swiftly shifted as he shouted at his brother. 

"NO!" he balled his hands into fists and shook his head, "I d-don't want t-to hear...n-not m-my music, _no_. I w-want my v-viol-lin!" 

Mycroft hesitated. If he brought the violin, it might break Sherlock's heart that he couldn't play it. On the other hand, it might comfort him. Sherlock's hands had been worked on more when he was sedated for care, but Mycroft had absolutely no hope he'd even be able to hold the bow properly. 

"Okay, Sherlock. I'll get it."

Sherlock settled immediately, going quiet as he looked at his hands in his lap. He was clearly upset, but he was as lucid as he'd been in days. 

Paul took a chance and spoke to him from across the room. "I met with John today, Sherlock. He was asking after you." 

Sherlock did not shift his position, keeping his eyes in the same place and outwardly failing to react. A tear suddenly dripped off the tip of his nose, though Sherlock did not behave as though he was aware of it. 

"I...s-suppose it....is g-good to kn-now that he r-r-remembers I exist," he whispered, heartbroken as the day he'd last seen John. 

This was progress. It was small, and depressing, but there was progress. "Not only does he know you exist, but he is worried about you. He said..." Mycroft hesitated. 

"He said he wanted to see you. It is up to you, and we would have to make a plan, but he has opened the offer."

Sherlock laced his hands together, his thumb circling a scar that he'd taken to worrying when not chewing on his fingers. "W-Worried ab-bout m-me," he repeated flatly while sluggish tears made their way down his face. 

Paul nodded, highly encouraged that Sherlock was even communicating at the moment. "He said he wanted to talk to you about his difficulties in seeing you. He's working very hard, Sherlock. Back up to a good weight, eating and drinking well, even exercising. He's trying." 

Sherlock's hands stilled. In the next moment he wrapped his arms around himself defensively, tears falling faster. "H-He'll b-be...d-disgust-ted w-with m-me. J-Just t-tell h-h-him I'm d-dead."   
"It would break his heart," Mycroft said softly. "It would absolutely devastate him. You don't have to see him now. Not today. But the offer is there, if you ever want to see John again."

For a moment Sherlock desperately wished for something to throw. "H-He has n-no heart f-f-for m-me! Only h-here," he roughly tapped the side of his head, "in m-my f-fucking madness d-does J-John have a h-heart for m-m-me! I _always_ want to s-see John!" he was breathing fast and audible, fingers bloodless from the grip on his own hands. 

_John told you not to come back until you were healed. You can't even sit up on your own anymore. Well done there, mate._

Sherlock looked up sharply and snapped at Moran, furious and at his limit. "SHUT U-UP!" he screamed as the color drained from his face. He'd pay for that, but it had been worth it. 

Mycroft reached and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "I've got you. You're okay. I've got you. I'll talk to John about it, alright? If you want to see John, we can organize something soon."

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft's shoulder as he fell apart, quietly sobbing his grief into the rich fabric which told him that his brother would soon have to go back to work. It didn't matter anymore. Sherlock knew that he was a pesky annoyance that no one had the bravado to do anything about. He was trying to kill himself for them, but it was taking _ages_ to die. He likely would not see John again, which would soothe the man despite what they all were telling him. 

John had been _enraged_ with him the last he saw him, screaming and hateful. Sherlock had done what he could to alleviate John's anguish, and it had earned him one last look at how deeply John Watson despised him. His heart never showed him mercy, and it never failed to hurt so deeply it stole his literal breath away, locking up his lungs and leaving him in anguish. 

The insanity hurt far, far less. He had John there, had Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. People loved him there in the dilapidated structure of his mind. 

"I love you," Mycroft whispered and emotion swelled in him. He was crying very suddenly with his arms wrapped tight around Sherlock and his eyes squeezed shut. 

"I truly love you. Thank you for talking to me today. I...It truly means the world to me. Thank you."

Sherlock leaned into his brother, shuddering now and again, already exhausted. Keeping present was so difficult. He was struggling to remain there with his sibling, greedy for whatever affection he would be allowed. 

"I d-d-don't i-ignore y-you intent-tionally," he whispered, breathing fast and shallow as he tried to keep calm, knowing Mycroft would walk away soon, that he was hurting his brother. 

"I'm s-sorry," he whispered in shame, "I l-love you."

Mycroft hadn't heard those words in far too long, and it shattered what composure he had left. "I-I miss you," he whispered through a thick throat and pressed his face into Sherlock's curls. He was so certain everyone hated him. Surely Greg did. And John too. Sherlock as well, for forcing him to live. 

"I miss you and I-I love you."  
Sherlock held to his brother's arm and kept quiet. How his brother could miss him, he had no idea. His value was gone. He was worth far, far more dead than alive at this point. Whatever it was, it had Mycroft upset. Sherlock was tempted to allow the blanket of madness to drop over him again, but Mycroft seemed to need something. 

"I...I'd c-come b-back if-f I could," he promised, assuming that Mycroft missed who he had been, not the pile of bones and wreckage he was now. 

"Y-You don't...h-have to k-keep...coming h-here if-f...I'm h-hurting y-you. It w-will be over s-soon." 

"I want to keep coming here," Mycroft insisted with tears in his eyes. "I want to keep coming and working with you like this until you'll talk to me every day. Then I want to bring you water and juice and smoothies so you can have things that taste nice. Then we can play games and I can read to you and..." 

Mycroft stopped himself before he grew too hopeful. "I just want you to be with me. That's all."

Sherlock had no idea how to respond to that. Water would keep him alive. Food _hurt_ and he wasn't going to have it. Being read to was...a reminder that he could not read to himself, though he desperately wanted to. Sometimes it was nice, but it often hurt. Mycroft did not have time for such things and John wasn't out there...his home wasn't out here...he could feel his body dying when he was present, and though it's what he wanted, it was quite unsettling and painful as well. 

"I l-lov-ve you," he whispered once more, leaning his weight entirely on Mycroft as he lay there shaking. 

Mycroft nodded and tears fell down his cheeks. "Lo-ove you too," he stammered and prayed to heaven that he could be calm. "I love you s-so much, and I-I will never leave you so long as you want me here."

Sherlock took that to mean he had a reprieve from the evening with strangers, clinging harder to Mycroft and trying suddenly to pull him into the bed. He wanted to be held so terribly it ached. He did not have much strength to tug at his brother, but he tried anyhow, not considering that perhaps it was not what Mycroft had meant. 

A little, pitiful whimper slipped from his throat as he tried to bury himself in Mycroft's suit coat, frightened and feeling horrifically alone. 

Mycroft crawled in to bed and scooped his skeletal brother into his arms. 

"My loves you. My loves you. Do...Do you remember that song that mum used to sing to us? She'd change the words to make it happier. Can't remember what she changed it to. You are my sunshine. She started when you were a baby. Can't fathom how I remember." 

Mycroft didn't know what to say, and so continued on. "And you used to smile with your huge blue eyes and giggle up at her. You sort of gurgled too. She always laughed."

It was painful to be moved, even gently, but Sherlock was silent and focused on the fact that he could now rest his head on his brother's chest, tuck his fingers to his lips, and listen to My's heart beating and the sound of his voice echoing through his ribcage. 

He held to Mycroft's shirt with one hand as he sucked on the fingers of his other, so thirsty it hurt, but this would make the sand fall faster through the hourglass and bring an end. They were hydrating him, but he was often able to switch it off at shift change, and in the last month had been getting half the dose he was supposed to. It was wrecking his renal system. He'd yellowed slightly but it was hard to see with his skin so sallow already. 

He could not respond to Mycroft, other than to hold on and close his eyes, taking what comfort he could. 

"And you would always try and taste everything. You had to put everything in your mouth. It was cute at first, but after a while everything was covered in baby saliva. And mother would always go pick you up and sing." 

Mycroft saw that Sherlock was not responding and began to cry once more. He dropped his head down and scrambled for something to talk about. 

"Y-You...You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me h-happy, when skies are grey. You never know, dear, how much I-I love you. P-Please d-don't take, m-my...m-my s-s-" Mycroft broke then and pressed his face into Sherlock's hair as he wept in desolate despair.

Hearing his brother fall apart, Sherlock's heart twisted and he did all that he was capable of, taking his hand from Mycroft's shirt and slowly rubbing his palm over Mycroft's chest, too weak to reach his back. It was stunning to him to hear his brother so distraught. 

"'M h-here," he breathed, the rest of his mother's song playing in his head. "st-ill h-here." 

Mycroft hated himself for taking such comfort in his brother's words. "I-I don't want you to leave," he nearly whimpered. Sherlock was dying. It was clear. It was so obvious. 

"I don't want to be alone. A-And you should l-live. I-I...I should b-be able t-to m-make y-your life g-good."

Oh, and how Sherlock knew that ache. He clutched at his brother for a moment before resuming the way he'd been gently touching him. Torture was a study in comfort, really. It cast a brilliant light on how innately valuable gentle, loving touch was. That he and his brother both had gone so many decades denying such a critical part of their humanity was a travesty. 

"I...I'm....I w-will n-n-never be able to e-eat....I'm...I w-will m-make your l-life miserable f-f-for far too l-long. Y-You can f-f-ind a goldf-fish to t-take home, I...I am n-nothing." 

"I don't want a goldfish," Mycroft insisted. "They're boring and stupid and I can't even talk to them properly without having to explain anything! I don't want a proper family. I just want my brother and I've failed you and you'll just keep going like this until you die and then I'll have nobody."

Sherlock was exhausted. He shook his head against his brother's chest, holding on tight to the material there.  
"Y-you didn't f-fail m-me."

"You're hurting. I was supposed to take care of you. I've...god, Sherlock, I've tried. I promise you, I never abandoned you. I always had people watching you even when you didn't want me. I had every dealer in your area personally arrested for years. But I'm sure you knew. I just...I wish I could have saved you from this." Mycroft was late for work and he did not give a damn. 

Sherlock could not find the strength to pick his head up and look at Mycroft, slurring his words in exhaustion from just this short period of interaction. "You al-ays too-care ah me, M-My," he whispered, pulling lightly at Mycroft's sleeve. "I'mma shite k-kid brother is all, gave you hell." 

His breathing had become labored and he had to stop speaking for a few minutes, just trying to catch his breath back. 

"You were just being a little brother," Mycroft insisted softly. "Never more trouble than I could handle. Honestly you were more mature than the politicians I deal with on a daily basis. You can sleep now. I'll stay with you today. Would you like to sleep?"

Sherlock nodded, still holding on to his brother's shirt, though is arm was tremoring with effort. He carried on sucking at his fingertips to soothe his thirst, taking less than a minute to drop off into sleep. His labored breathing became a bit more slowed and the tension slowly ebbed from his muscles. 

Paul was at the foot of the bed, watching the men closely. "I'll call Miller to come have a look at him," he whispered. 

"He's dehydrated," Mycroft said calmly and gently lowered Sherlock down. "He needs his mouth tended to again, as well as his fingers. That needs to stop." 

Paul nodded, "The staff have been trying. Miller has him on antibiotics to combat the potential of infection. I don't know how he could be dehydrated with as much fluid as we are giving him." He walked over to Mycroft's side and motioned to Sherlock's mouth, "May I have a look?"

Mycroft moved to the side and waved them forward. "He's grey and yellow! You need to get him more fluids. I don't care how."

Paul looked inside Sherlock's mouth and then stepped back, looking to Mycroft. "He's either figuring out how to avoid getting fluids, or this is renal failure, Mycroft. This is not a lack of care on your staff's part. He's...He's just letting himself shut down. He has to eat. He just has to." 

"I'll get him to eat. Keep giving him fluids. Maybe we can give him something to suck on that will give him some moisture besides his fingers." Mycroft leaned away then and stood by the bed. "Check for renal failure." 

Paul nodded, "I've already called Miller."


	20. Chapter 20

John leaned back and laughed. It had been another two weeks, and he had delved fully back into memories of Sherlock. "Oh, Jesus, I don't even remember that!" It was a film that Greg had taken at a crime scene where Sherlock and John were bickering about something petty, which turned to shouting, then uproarious and simultaneous laughter from the both of them. 

"It was always like that, wasn't it? Cases and laughter and bickering."

Greg watched all of this with bittersweet fondness. John's reactions were highly encouraging and he nodded, "Nearly always. Don't get me wrong, you two could bicker like an old married couple but yes, this was mostly it. Do you remember when he quit smoking? Good god you were the only man alive who could put up with him and his manic games of Cluedo -which you won every time, by the by." 

"I won only because I forced him to play by the rules. By his rules, I was hopelessly behind. It got to the point where I would win by the rules, and he would win by his. We both came away equally angry and smug." 

John had one arm looped in Greg's as he watched. The memories of Sherlock were filling out in his mind, but Greg was still his protection, his love. 

Greg leaned back into John, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Oh yes, we all remember the great debates between the two of you. In the end you pegged that board to the wall and that was the end of that," he said with a laugh. It was supremely difficult to watch footage of Sherlock, knowing that they'd just left him behind. 

John closed his eyes for a moment and tipped his head forward against Greg's shoulder. "Do you think I could ever make him that happy again?"

Greg nodded swiftly. "Yes. Absolutely, yes. I have no doubt. But that's not what I'm worried about right now. Right now the question is could _he_ make _you_ happy? None of what he did before, the cases, the music, none of that comes with him. It's okay if...if just that man in Mycroft's bed is not....what you need to be happy."

John shrugged. "I don't know. I'd say it doesn't matter, but clearly it does. He wants me to want him. I can't just do it to help him, even though I want to. I'll...why don't I just see him? Maybe we can be happy. I think this," he gestured to the screen with Sherlock and him at a bar, "this could make me happy." 

It was something, at least. Greg drew in a slow breath and let it back out again. "What if he is still very scared or confused when you see him? What if he's afraid to let you help because he's scared you don't want to? Will you be able to tolerate that? I suppose that's the main thing, learning that it's not to do with you, but his own very real damage that keeps him frightened and resistant to you."

"Yes, I will." John was bursting at the seams. "I want to help! Truly! I want to help him so badly, but that looks good. What I've seen. I'll work towards that."

Greg shifted so that he could look John full on, taking his face between his hands. "Love. I need you to really think on this. It's not your fault, okay? But we _cannot_ have another episode where you scream at him, or tell him you're not enough. We can't do that. I want you to close your eyes and imagine giving him your best effort, and only receiving tears or fear in response. Will you do that for me?"

John closed his eyes and tried to picture it. "It will hurt," he remarked slowly. "But I think I can. It will hurt, but I'll be able to do it. If he cries, I'll just hold him. If he tries to send me away, I'll tell him I honestly don't want to." 

Greg watched him closely, extremely torn on what to do. "Will you be able to understand that it's not about you not being enough? He wants you more than anything in the world. Can you keep in mind that it would be akin to our relationship suddenly changing? I hate to grill you on this, John, I really do but...he's not been doing well and we cannot risk another upset. It's not your fault. Do you hear me? It's _not_. The situation is simply...complicated."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll do my best to remember that." John sat there very sill, eyes closed and hands linked together. "I love you, my Greg. I love you so much. Do you think I can do this?" 

Greg so very deeply wanted to shout a resounding yes and believe it, but after all this time he had his doubts. John could love Sherlock at a distance, but up close it typically fell apart. 

"Tell me why you are doing this," he said instead.

"I'm doing this because I want to help him, and because I honestly believe that I can be happier with him than I can worrying about him here. From what I can see, I had fun. I loved him. I still do. And while my past interactions have been...stressful, I can see that there is hope for a friendship. And I want that. I want to be his friend." 

John gave a broad smile. "I want to be his friend again."

Greg exhaled slowly. That would have to be enough, surely it would be enough. "I'll call Mycroft, yeah? But truly, John, _truly_ , you've got to promise me you can keep in mind that he is hurting and confused, and will not likely respond positively immediately. Promise me that?" 

If John couldn't, they'd wait longer. Greg had not had an update on Sherlock in several months, but the last he'd heard was not encouraging. 

"Yeah. Okay. I'll talk to Mycroft too, okay? I should say sorry for shouting at Sherlock. I'm sure he's mad at me." 

John slumped against Greg's side and held on to his arm. "I could I write Sherlock a letter? Or call him? I want to set this up like I promised months ago."

Greg pulled John to his side. "Let's see what Mycroft says, yeah? He's not angry with you, John, he's upset at the situation. He wants you back near Sherlock, he does. When would you like for me to call him?"

"Him...today? And tomorrow we can have our nice day, then the day after we can have a day with Sherlock." 

John brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek. 

"We've been working towards this for months, love. I'll be alright." 

It was troubling to Greg that John did not count contact with Sherlock as a 'nice' day, but that was only to be expected, he supposed. He plucked his mobile from his pocket and reluctantly dialed Mycroft, intent on speaking with the man first before John got on the line.   
"Let's just see what Mycroft says."

Mycroft saw who the call was from and wrinkled his nose. Quickly he stepped into the hall and spoke in a hushed tone. 

"I made progress today. Got him talking. How is your end?"

Greg took a deep breath and then just jumped in, "John misses Sherlock, he'd like to speak with him, or see him."

"I will speak with him first," Mycroft said without hesitation. "I will need Paul to look at him, then I will ask Sherlock."

Greg spoke softly, "Mycroft, he is highly motivated right now. Right now. I just want you to understand what we are working with." 

"Then I will come to you right now. I will not have him screaming at Sherlock. I'll drag him out myself before I let that happen again." Mycroft was back in the laundry room where he got a nicer pair of clothing. 

Greg ground his teeth but let it go. "I understand that, Mycroft. We will wait for you. I'd not have called if I thought that was a risk." 

He leaned over and kissed John on his temple, squeezing his hand. "How is he?"

"Sherlock previously to today did not speak to anyone but the voices in his head for a solid two weeks. He does not drink or eat or speak. He has not acknowledged me except today and one other time in the past two months. If John can help, it will be welcomed." 

Mycroft spoke in a flat tone as he went to his car. 

Greg felt the blood drain from his face. "Oh...god...Mycroft I'm...Jesus I'm sorry. We...we will do what we can, if you'll allow it. Let...Christ, let me talk to John about this until you get here." 

He took another moment and then rang off, turning to face John, nauseated as he absorbed what Mycroft had told him. 

John stared at Greg with his heart beating furiously in his throat. "What is it? What? Is he alright? Greg?!" He reached out and grabbed his shoulders. "Is he alright?"

How was he to answer that? "He's alive," he whispered swiftly, hoping to calm that fear if it was one. He swallowed several times in an attempt to calm himself. 

"He's...not well. He's not well, John. Mycroft is on his way over to speak with you, and he may be a bit...abrasive, but that's likely because he's scared for his brother." 

"Scared for him? Has he not been making progress? It's been a year for him, almost. Shouldn't he be...better?" John didn't expect a full recovery, but wasn't some progress just inevitable? 

Greg swallowed thickly before looking back to John, shaking his head. "No...no progress, John," he whispered, "no progress."  
"What the hell?!" For a moment he sounded as if he was angry with Sherlock. 

"Isn't Mycroft helping him? Is anyone helping him? Paul? Jared? For fuck's sake! I need to help him!"

Greg shook his head, "John, this is exactly what you can't do. If you're going to be angry, we need to keep away."

"I'm not angry with Sherlock," John corrected. "I'm pissed at Mycroft for letting this happen to Sherlock! How dare he? Is he trying? Is anyone working with him?"

Greg looked at John for a moment, getting his thoughts together. "John, Mycroft is doing...they are all doing what they can. He- yes, Mycroft is desperate to help his brother, Sherlock is just...I don't know, maybe it's too much."

John gave a small sound of disbelief. "Then he's doing something wrong. Six months! All this time, nobody told me he was just rotting? No progress at all? I need to go help him. Soon."

Greg looked down at his hands. "I didn't know...but what could you have done? You were so angry with him the last time, and you needed to heal. Let's talk to Mycroft and see what he says."

"Could I talk to him today? Today is a work day. I could get it done and then rest tomorrow, then see Sherlock the next day." A flutter of anticipation rose in his stomach as he spoke of seeing Sherlock, mainly on his insecurity on how he would be received.

Greg shrugged. "We are going to have to see what Mycroft wants, John. I don't know. We can ask. Sherlock has been mostly non-verbal so I don't know how much good a phone call will do."

"It won't help him. I'll call Mycroft. I'll call him now and he can come over and see if I'm alright to talk to his brother." John leaned over so he could shift his weight on Greg. "I just want to help."

Greg shook his head, "Mycroft is on his way here right now to see you. He's very protective of Sherlock as you can imagine, he needs to see for himself that you are able to do this. It will be alright, he surely will let you help once he sees how much progress you've made."

John nuzzled under Greg's chin and pressed his face against his collarbone. "I've been out of torture longer than I was in," John said quietly in an abrupt change of topic. "But I'm still not better yet. Can we hide that? Can I look normal when he comes in?"

The thought had occurred to Greg as well that Sherlock was doing shockingly poorly compared to John in regards to healing. 

"You don't need to look normal. Mycroft isn't stupid, he won't expect for you to be completely healed. He just wants to see that you can handle stress, that your motive for going back to Sherlock is a good one. That's all. You don't have to be normal, John. Hell, none of us are normal. It's going to be fine. Let's just breathe and try and relax, he'll be here in a few minutes and we will get a better idea of what's going on." 

John relaxed against Greg for another ten minutes before he heard a knock at the door. He knew who it was, but the idea of his bubble, his isolation from the rest of the world, was going to have someone uncomfortable in it made him uneasy. John got up anyway in determination to show he was normal and went to the door. 

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, John. It's me. You sound well."

Mycroft did not. John opened the door and let him in. 

The first thing Mycroft noted was that John had put on weight. His clothing was no longer draped on him as it had been before, and he looked almost healthy. Thin, but getting there. He also noticed that John's hair was a bit longer than he had habitually kept it before the incident, but despite it looked recently trimmed. Keeping it that way, then. 

"I'm pleased to see you've been doing well," he said quietly. 

"I've been making great progress," John said with an easy smile and went back towards Greg. "Come sit down, and we'll talk." 

As soon as his back was turned, he shot Greg a nervous glance that showed his calm demeanor to be a carefully pieced together farce.

Greg stood up and extended his hand to Mycroft. "I can put the kettle on if you'd like. Come sit down, please. John and I are anxious to hear how we can help." 

He hand one hand behind his back, catching John's fingers and giving them a light squeeze.

John didn't want to be curled up against Greg during this, since he was trying to portray strength, but he did take hold of his hand for a moment before sitting down. 

Mycroft sat in an armchair that was otherwise largely unused and watched John carefully. "I believe that you are the only one that can call him back. As it is, he has retreated fully into his mind."

John gave a small nod. "I understand how that is. You think he will respond to me?"

Mycroft took a slow breath. "Well, he certainly has in the past. Do you believe you are ready to see him in such a state?"

"I've seen him in worse."

"That is true."

"And I think I can help. I truly do. I want to. I've been watching videos and reading the blog a lot recently. Paul told me to. I think that Sherlock and I can have a friendship again."

Mycroft leaned in and studied John's face with an attentiveness that made the man squirm in discomfort. "He will try to send you away. He will make an effort to let you go. You must insist that you want to be there, that it is not hurting you, and that you are doing this for your own benefit. Make no mention of helping him. Not a word. You will be there off your own desire. Sherlock will need to be told that often. This is all assuming he even speaks to you past screaming."

John's confidence was deflating and he looked to Greg for help.

Greg wanted so very much to offer support to John in this, but he had to be truthful, and only John knew if he'd be able to do this. Not only able, but if he _wanted_ to do this. He gave John a gentle nod, reminding him that he was there, that it was okay to back out if he needed to. He would not vouch for John, as he had no idea if John was able to do it or not. He hoped so, he knew John wanted Sherlock better, but they had just broken into the 'I think we might be friends' spectrum and where not yet to the 'I miss my friend' aspect of things, which made Greg worry this was premature. 

"John has been working tirelessly," he offered. 

John tried once more. "I look at the videos and see how happy we both were. After everything we've been through, we could use something happy. Plus, I understand what is happening with him. I really do. You have no other options. No progress, remember?"

John hadn't intended the words to bite as much as they did.

Mycroft brushed it off. "And what do you think, Greg?"

Greg had flinched when John spoke so forwardly to Mycroft. He brushed it off with the elder Holmes as well, leaning forward to speak softly. 

 

"I think that John understands what the risks are, and that he knows that if he says he can help Sherlock, that it's vital for that to be factual. He's worked very hard, and has had many good things to say of Sherlock. He's been very worried for your brother, and very focused on helping him." 

"I am going to speak with Paul as well," Mycroft said hesitantly, "but John, you seem to have recovered quite a bit since I last saw you. The only problem is I have no idea how you handle the sort of stress you will be in. Tell me, if Sherlock starts to panic and tell you that you are in danger, what will you do?" 

John rolled his eyes. "A quiz? Really? I'd gently explain that we were at your home and he was safe, and that all danger was passed." 

Mycroft continued. "And if he says that you don't really want to be there, that you belong here with Greg and you should leave, what will you do?"

"Then I will insist I want to be there and explain my desire to be as close as we were."

Mycroft addressed Greg. "Do you believe he is being honest?"

Greg spoke without hesitation, "Yes. I do. I believe that in this moment, here and now, he is being completely honest and this is his intention. I believe he will follow through with this to the best of his ability. Of course, John can't know until he's in it exactly how he will react, but he and I have discussed these scenarios before and he answers the same. John does not often get lost anymore, it's been...quite a long time since that happened. I believe he can do this, but not on a daily basis just yet." 

Mycroft was sill hesitant. "John, how much time are you willing to put in to helping my brother?"

Again, John looked to Greg before responding. "As much as it takes. Can I see him the day after tomorrow?"

"Specific. Why?"

"Tomorrow is my day off."

Mycroft gave John a skeptical look, but eventually shrugged. "I suppose we can arrange it, but you are not allowed to shout or make any accusations towards him. If you feel yourself becoming agitated, you are to leave."

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry about...about what I said last time. I'm sorry." John scooted a bit closer to Greg and his head dipped in shame. 

Greg wrapped his arm around John's back and spoke to Mycroft. "John works with a day on, day off schedule. That may have to be altered if Sherlock is....as regressed as you say. He won't be able to do this daily. We've spoken to Paul about this and John is very clear on the fact that he cannot become angry around Sherlock again, or discuss being insufficient or any other point of derision. Contacting you has been the last step in the process here, we have covered as much material as we can from this end." 

Mycroft leaned forward and stared at John. "He is dying. I believe you can save him. I believe this because there is nothing else to believe. You'll start the day after tomorrow, and we'll have one visit to see how it goes." 

John gave a nervous smile. "Okay. Good. Yeah. I can do that."

Greg looked up sharply when Mycroft said that Sherlock was _dying_. "He's-what? He's...why do you say he's _dying_? I know you said he's not recovering but...is there something else happening? Is he ill?"

John looked frozen and he stared at Mycroft as he spoke. 

"My brother does not eat, drink, or speak. He hardly opens his eyes and when he does it's to track nonexistent things or stare at the wall. He is losing even more weight, chronically dehydrated, and Miller is testing him for renal failure. Simply put, he has been a vegetable for six months." 

John let out a short gasp and grabbed Mycroft by the arm. "I could go now."

Greg sat in stunned silence. He'd not imagined it had become that desperate. If Mycroft needed evidence that John truly wanted to help Sherlock, surely this was it. "Let us come now, Mycroft. Please. We had no idea, we didn't know." 

Mycroft knew that it was unwise to rush things, but John seemed so sincerely ready. "Alright. Alright. I need help. Come with me, please. He's...Sherlock is dying. I need help."

John stood and walked into his room. He got his socks and shoes and the jumper he'd worn the last time he'd seen Sherlock from the very bottom of one of Greg's drawers. 

Greg held up a finger to Mycroft before patting his shoulder and jogging off to follow John. "Take your pills," he said calmly, "keep breathing. This...we are going to get through this, yeah? He's- you can help him, I'm sure of it. You can understand him better than us. Are you ready?"

John abruptly wrapped his arms around Greg's waist and clung to him for a moment. "I'm so scared," he whispered. "I'm afraid I'll fail and I'll hate myself. I know...it's not my fault if something happens. He's far gone. I know. I will not get angry. I'll be kind and gentle. I'll insist I want to be there. I've got this." He leaned in slowly and brushed a lingering kiss to Greg's lips.   
Greg kissed John back, holding him as close as he could and putting everything he had into it, trying to build John up. "You are brilliant. You can't fail. He sounds as though he literally cannot get worse. You can't fail. I love you and I will be right there with you, I promise. We have to help him, he can't..he can't die like this. You can do this." 

It was nice to hear Greg wanting to help Sherlock, and John kissed him once more. It was immensely comforting to be loved, and to know that he would still be loved even if he failed. 

"I'm going to be alright. I'll do this. I can do this." John stood taller and walked back to Mycroft, who was standing by the door. 

It was a bit awkward to get all of them loaded in the car and over to Mycroft's. Greg sat with John flush to his side as Mycroft drove, the ride passing in silence. Greg didn't know what to say for Mycroft, and was deeply worried for Sherlock. 

When they arrived at Mycroft's house, John stayed plastered to Greg's side as anxiety swept him along. Months of planning for this. Sherlock's life and sanity were on the line. They went first to a guest room while Mycroft carefully entered his room. 

"Sherlock? I brought someone to see you."

It was always a risk to speak to Sherlock without first going through the arduous process of letting Sherlock identify the speaker. Sherlock immediately began to cry, sucking on his fingertips to comfort himself, frightened by his brother's words. 

Paul was still in attendance and went right for Mycroft, speaking softly, ignoring that Sherlock was in tears as it rarely made a difference if they spoke to him or not. "Miller says that he is not in renal failure, but he is severely dehydrated. This means he's figured out how to stop his fluids somehow." 

"Put the line out of his reach," Mycroft said flippantly and walked to the edge of the bed. "Lock, it's Mycroft. Your brother. My. I'm here. Can I talk to you for a moment? I have good news."

Sherlock turned damp eyes to Mycroft's hands. He'd stopped even trying for faces anymore. When he realized his brother stood at his side, he reached out with one hand and wrapped it around Mycroft's wrist, holding on weakly without saying a word. 

Mycroft inched closer and held Sherlock's hand gently. "I am here to help you, and..." Might as we'll be blunt. "And John wants to see you."

Sherlock's hand flexed on Mycroft's wrist as a pang of fear raced through him. "John," he croaked, hopeful and deeply worried. John had screamed at him the last time he'd seen him. John had brought Moran, and pain, and the dark loneliness, and everything that was making Mycroft cry. John _loathed_ him. 

Tears began to slip swift and messy down his cheeks, "i-is....is h-he h-here t-t-to....is-s he angr-ry?"

"No, no, not at all. He is happy and feeling much better. He wasn't angry, just confused. He isn't confused anymore. He is very sad that you aren't feeling well, and...Sherlock, he says he wants to go back to the way things were when you were happy and laughing. Remember that? He wants that again." 

Mycroft brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair and smiled at him. "He's just down the hall."  
Sherlock's lip quivered as he leaned into his brother's fingers. His head ached horribly, joints hurting along with the rest of his body. 

"B-But...but I c-c-can't e-ever..." he could not even finish the statement. Had he healed, had he learned again to read, and to walk, and to...function, he might have been able to earn John back, but as it was, he had _nothing_ to offer. 

"H-He's g-" he swallowed hard as nausea bubbled up in his throat, "going t-to be d-dis-sapppointed." 

"No, he won't. I've told him that you've not made any progress and...well, I think he blames me for it. I know he does. He certainly does not blame you." 

Mycroft bent down and kissed Sherlock's forehead gently. "Would you let him in for just a bit?"

Sherlock held tight to Mycroft's wrist, his arm shaking with effort, and nodded slowly. "Alr-right," he breathed, as though there was another option. He curled his fingers back to his lips, aching with thirst, sickly finding a bit of relief in the thin trails of blood he could manage from the deep fissures he'd put in the skin there. It would be over soon. John would look at him, see how disgusting he was, and then leave. 

It would be over soon. 

Mycroft text Greg that they were ready, and went back to consoling Sherlock. 

In the guest room just a few doors down, John was pacing back and forth, going over lines in his head. "I'll just...I mean, I've rehearsed this for months now. I should be fine, right?"

Greg nodded, catching John gently at the shoulder. "Hey...slow down. You don't need to be anything more than what you are, John. It scares him when you try and put on a show, just be yourself. He needs to see that you miss him, that you're worried about him, that's all. You don't need to be anything you're not." 

He kissed him very gently and then pulled back. 

"Are you ready?"

John spend another few seconds holding on to Greg and drinking in the warmth before plunging into the icy waters to come. He turned and took Greg by the hand as he took quiet steps towards the door. When he opened it, he peered cautiously inside. 

The sight of Sherlock stole his breath away. He was far too thin. Too yellow-grey in the skin. Too distant. John took a step inside and stared for another moment before speaking. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's mind ground to a halt. He'd spoken with John so many times, but somehow in his mind he'd gotten John's voice wrong. He tensed and bit down at his fingers, wanting to vanish into the bedding, so burning with shame it felt as though he'd been set ablaze. 

He pinched his eyes closed in terrible fear, already beginning to cry in earnest, bracing for the anger and the upset. 

"S-S-Sort of," he rasped, suddenly sure that if John started yelling, he would simply die. 

"Oh, _Sherlock_ ," John said and rushed over. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and took Sherlock's hand in his. John was confident that he looked better, at least. Even if he didn't act like the old John, he could look closer to how he had. 

"Sherlock, it's me. It's John. I'm here. I'm so sorry you're not feeling well."

Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes just enough to look at who was touching him. As had become his habit, he looked to their hands. This was surely John, the corporeal, shouting, screaming John who loathed him, not his friend that lived in his mind. He traced a familiar scar on John's hand with his thumb, verifying it was him, before slowly following the corded jumper up to John's face. 

_Gained weight._

_Eyes are clear._

_Eating._

_Sleeping._

He blinked at the sudden burst of analytical thought, something he'd forgotten he'd used to do without effort, and carried on looking to John. How long had it been? It felt as though yesterday John was screaming in fury at him, but that couldn't be. 

"Th-hey won't l-l-let m-me d-die," he whispered in anguish. 

John reached out and wordlessly wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He ignored Mycroft's irritated twitch and spoke calmly to Sherlock. 

"I am so sorry I was angry with you last time. I never meant to be so cruel. I was hurting and confused. But see? I've been doing much better. I've found happiness, and I wanted to come share it with you. I remember how we were now. I remember how nice it was to have a friend like you. If you let me, I'd like to be your friend again."

The smell of John wrapped around him, mixed of course with Greg, but _home_ nonetheless and Sherlock went utterly still, sure that if he dared move he'd scare John off and lose this one little mercy before he _finally_ wasted away. 

He leaned slightly toward John, subtle and minor, and breathed as deep as he was able, silent tears sliding down his face. It was never _nice_ for John to have a friendship with Sherlock. It was hell, and brutal, and Sherlock had ruined John's life, but the words were like cool water on a burn. 

He lost hold of a little, aching sob, tucking his face down close to John's shoulder. 

"We can play cluedo and both win. You can shout at the Telly while I pretend like I'm irritated. We can be happy. I want to be happy with you." 

John got up on the bed beside Sherlock and curled up next to him. "If you'll work with me, we can do it."

Sherlock blinked slowly at John, stunned to see him up on the bed at his side. Those were obtainable things. He could do both of them. Sherlock curled his fingers back to his lips, watching John warily. 

_Where does it go wrong? Where is it going to happen? This is wrong, John hates me, where is this going to go wrong?_

"Wh-at do y-you w-want m-m-me to do?"

John saw that he had a small amount of power here, and he looked Sherlock over. "How about a bit of water? Just a sip. However much you can handle. Or maybe tea? I like tea better. Just one sip? It would make me feel much better."

The request was unexpected, to say the least. 

John wanted him to drink water. Just a sip of water. It would make _John_ feel better. 

He wasn't allowing himself water, but if John would feel any relief at it, then he'd do so. "I...I c-can...a s-s-sip of w-water," he whispered, even as his voice caught on another little sob, simply from the stress of it all. 

Mycroft tripped over himself in his haste to get to the bathroom. He got three plastic cups filled with water and handed one to John before remembering that he was afraid of water. 

John handled it very well, though, as he'd been practicing. John gently wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and helped him sit up just enough to get another pillow behind his back. 

"Thank you so much, Sherlock," John said kindly and handed him one of the cups. He kept his own hand wrapped around Sherlock's to steady it. 

Sherlock stared at the water in front of him, breathing fast and shallow. John had only asked him to take a sip. He could allow himself that and not set back his progress. One sip of water would not undo the dehydration he'd managed. His hand trembled violently under John's as he brought the little paper cup to his mouth. 

His plans flew out the window the moment the water touched his lips, mind shutting down as he groaned in pained relief, never in his life feeling anything so good. He was suddenly guzzling the water down, the first cup gone in seconds, though he was trying for more, whimpering pathetically as his trembling hand managed to crush the paper. He sobbed when he hit the bottom, bringing his fingers to his lips and sucking on them without hesitation. 

Mycroft handed John another cup, which he gave to Sherlock. "Thank you so much," he said and gave Sherlock a little squeeze. "I'm so glad you're drinking. It makes me happy to see you improving. Do you want more?"

Sherlock could not speak, only reaching out for the cup in desperation to sate the thirst he'd forced himself to endure. He got his hand around the cup, managing to spill the water on his own arm in an effort to get to it, crying out in panic at the thought that he might not be allowed more. 

"I'm-m s-s-sorry!" he wept, still trying to bring the nearly empty cup to his lips, his mouth already like sandpaper again. 

Mycroft rushed back and brought more cups of water, which he passed to John whenever he needed them. 

John held the next cup to Sherlock's lips for him and tipped it back slowly. "Nothing to be sorry about. Remember the time we were working that disappearance and I got absolutely covered in coffee? Wasn't paying attention. Just dropped it right on my legs. It was so cold it froze stiff! I had to walk weirdly the rest of the case until we got home." 

Sherlock actually huffed a laugh into the paper cup as he was frantically taking in water, the act of drinking distracting him from the fact that he'd been trying to kill himself, and that John hated him. His stomach was beginning to protest the sudden influx, but he didn't care, focused completely on the bliss that was water in a cup. There was no better thing in the world, aside from John Watson, calm and physically near him without screaming. 

"Oh, you laughed! I'm glad. I love it when you laugh. Always have. It was rare and beautiful." 

John was slower with the next cup to give Sherlock's stomach time to adjust. 

"Do you remember the case with the swamp? How we had to trek out but the boat got stuck and I thought that I could just walk on the mud? Remember how deep it ended up being?"

Sherlock's mind swiftly called up the image of John chest-deep in mud with the most annoyed, put out expression on his face that Sherlock had ever seen. He'd had the image, but no idea what the context was. Carefully he slotted the picture with the scant details of the case, though the rest did not come. 

"We c-c-couln't g-g-get a c-cab...af-f-ter. You h-hate the t-t-ube," he rasped, though a bit of his voice had returned thanks to the water, which he was still heavily fixated on. 

John laughed a bit and his chest shook. "Do you remember that one kid who pointed and asked her mother if I was a monster? And then the woman said: 'No, he’s just homeless. Come away, dear.' And that took forever to get out. I swear the stuff had a glue base. And getting out was a nightmare! It was like quicksand! You had to drag me back in with a branch, and when I finally got free, I fell face first into the boat. You laughed so hard you couldn't breathe!"

Sherlock could not find that bit of the memory as his stomach rolled, threatening to kick back the water. He whimpered as he tucked his face down, curling his fingers to his lips. He wanted to rock himself, but was too ill to manage it.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair slowly and cuddled him closer. "You're alright. I've got you. I am so glad you had some water. It makes me feel so much better."

Sherlock nudged slightly closer to John, feeling physically miserable but very glad he'd done something to help John. He tipped his head down and tentatively reached out to catch the corner of John's sleeve, hardly daring to make contact, braced for anger as he held to the cuff. His stomach rolled hard and he was having to swallow quickly now to ensure that he did not sick up. 

"H-hurts," he breathed, the water seemingly forcing him to become actively aware of his body, "H-Hurts, John."

"I know. I know how bad it can hurt. I'm here to be your friend though, if you want me to be. Is there anything that helps you when you're feeling down? Your old dressing gown or some music?" 

John had one arm behind Sherlock's back and rubbed up and down. He could feel ribs and vertebra, which was concerning, but he didn't want to push it.

Greg held in the background with Paul, nearly beaming with pride at John's behavior. Only Sherlock's dire condition dampened his mood. Sherlock did not respond to John's question, both not knowing how to, and frightened he'd say something to upset John and then lose him. He traced the cords of John's jumper with his thumb while he tried to sort out why it stung when John said 'friend,' to him, as though they'd ever been anything but that. 

John's fingers at his back were soothing, if not a bit painful, and he allowed himself to close his eyes, exhausted and still very thirsty, though his stomach would have no more water. 

John bent down and kisses the top of Sherlock's head sweetly. He began to hum the song that Sherlock used to play for him when he was having night terrors. "You've always been there for me and I left you. I am so sorry. I won't leave again. I've healed. I'm back. I'm more like myself, and I want to stay with you."

Already the familiar sound of his song for John, hummed by the man himself, had Sherlock nearly in tears. John's words, however, pushed him right over the edge. His breathing caught on a sob and he tucked his fingers between his lips, so desperately wishing they could be true. John had promised him countless times that he wouldn't leave, that he wasn't abandoning him, that he'd be there to help. Each and every time they were the precursor to an explosive exit. 

Sherlock felt the clock start. Their time was surly limited now that the assurances that John would stay were made. What if it had all just been a trick to get Sherlock to take in water, a lie to give him hope when there was none? He held a little tighter to John's cuff, wanting to cling to him and beg mercy, forcefully keeping himself quiet. 

"I've been reading from the blog," John continued. "We had some wonderful times, didn't we? All the excitement and adventure. But above that, it was nice to not be alone. I know we can't go on cases any more, and you can't play violin. But we can still be friends, like we used to be. I know I'm not alone, but you are. You're alone up here." 

He tapped on Sherlock's temple and gave a slow sigh. "So I'm here to try and bring you a good life. I would love to have you back. Do you think that is something we could work towards?"

It was both difficult and relieving to hear the truth of loss from John himself. There would be no more cases. 

_Adrenalin pumping, feet pounding the pavement, wind biting at the cheeks, rush, rush, rush and 'come on, John! We're losing him!' The scuffle and roll, struggling suspect, lights from Greg's squad car…_

And there would be no more violin. 

_Pegs pressed in place, calloused pads on perfect strings, size and position just as they should be, ringing vibrations of a note perfectly hit, soothing down into the nerves, body and bow fluid movement to sound that settled in the core of the mind, perfect medium for thought and meditation, food for the soul._

Sherlock breathed in shallow and clipped as he attempted to keep himself from openly grieving it all. It was gone. John lived with Greg. Sherlock was banned from Baker Street. It would be tea and possibly a game on Sundays, and it was so hateful he just wanted to scream. John's words never held weight any longer. What he was saying would not be what happened. Sherlock was going to upset him somehow and then he'd be gone again. 

"I...I've...g-got y-you, a-and Mrs. H-Hudson...G-Greg...M-Molly...all....all h-here," he breathed, voice wavering terribly with grief as he touched his temple. "a-and M-My s-sits with m-m-me when h-he can." 

"I haven't seen Mrs. Hudson since this all happened," John remarked quietly. He had seen her, but it was so early in the recovery that he could not remember ever seeing her. "Maybe she can come over. Molly too. Maybe they can visit sometime. Until then, I'd like to keep working with you towards our goal."

Sherlock kept his fingers in his lips, shaking his head. "M-My s-says I...I f-fr-right-ten th-them. I'm n-n-not....n-not allowed t-to s-see...." his voice cracked again, grief stealing his ability to speak for a few moments. 

"Th-h-hey m-might w-want to v-visit you and G-reg, th-though," he tried to be encouraging as his heart twisted. Sherlock had become convinced that he was some sort of hideous, hateful _thing_ that could no longer be around the rest of humanity. He was too damaged to be around John, and Greg had given up on him. Mycroft discouraged him from allowing anyone else around. He was a _freak_ , meant to remain locked away, and oh how it was intolerable. 

John tilted Sherlock's face to look at him and gave him a warm expression. "They will want to visit you. I'm sure Mycroft will allow it. Mrs. Hudson will bring one of those knotted blankets and scented candles and everything will be warm and happy. Greg, could we arrange that for some time this week?"

Greg looked to Mycroft then, not sure what to say. He quite agreed that if Molly and Mrs. Hudson didn't want to see Sherlock before, they decidedly wouldn't want to now. John was much better, but Sherlock was frightening even to _him_. The man looked as though he could die at any moment. 

"I- I'll see what I can do," he answered softly, trying to sound encouraging without making promises. 

"I'll call her, then," John whispered to Sherlock. "I'll text her tonight and explain what's been happening."

Sherlock kept his head down, just holding on to John's sleeve. 

"I-" he shook his head, swallowing hard and trying to keep himself grounded, "I'm-m...s-sorry I...I'm s-s-o sorry f-for..." his breathing snagged hard and he swallowed several times, "e-everything. I sh-should....sh-hould h-have n-never...n-never looked f-f-for a fl-lat m-mate. I- I w-want to g-go away n-now."

John nuzzled the side of Sherlock's face, which was a bit risky. "I'm sorry that I got captured. I was destroyed. I'm sorry I was too weak to stay together. I never wanted to hurt you. That's how I kept myself together in the beginning. 'I will not hurt Sherlock'. Said it over and over again. He hated that."

Sherlock simply lay there quietly weeping. It was agony to know he'd destroyed John Watson, intolerable, unacceptable, all was wrong with the world. He could not make it right. He could not ever fix it. John had suffered indescribably for him and he could do _nothing_ , offer nothing to help his John. 

Not _his_ John. 

Greg's John. But that didn't matter, he still owed a debt he could never begin to repay. Why the hell was John here? Was it part of a punishment program, designed to ensure Sherlock suffered as long as John had? He'd been punishing himself, was it not enough? Shame dripped down his spine as he realized how easily he'd given into water. 

"I'm s-orry," he gasped, tears flowing freely down his face, wasting hydration he so desperately needed, having no other words to help. 

John could not say anything more. He vowed he would get Mrs. Hudson in here to help. 

"Sherlock..." How could he help? He'd already done everything that Greg did. Well, to a point. Kissing Sherlock would be far too complicated and John did not particularly want to. Not that he wouldn't if he thought it would help. 

"Sherlock...love... Please, I just want you to be my friend. I want to be happy again, and I think you and I can be happy together. Please." Tears began to burn in his eyes and he tightened his hold on Sherlock. 

"I- I am-m y-your f-friend," Sherlock whispered in agony, tugging gently at John's sleeve. John had left him, not the other way around. Sherlock had done nothing but try and try and _try_ , and John always left him. 

Greg stepped closer, hearing the tremor in John's voice, afraid they were already at the end of the visit. If nothing else, they'd gotten water down the man. He put his hand on John's shoulder, looking down with compassion at Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked up at Greg and whimpered pathetically. This was always the pattern. Sherlock failed to do or say whatever it was that John wanted, John started to fall apart, and then John disappeared. Sherlock reluctantly let go of John's sleeve, afraid he was causing this, tucking those fingers back into this mouth. 

John turned to Greg and shook his head. "I'm alright. Just a bit sad. I can be sad." 

He returned his attention to Sherlock and kissed his cheek. 

"Sherlock, we are friends. But we hardly see each other and it makes me sad. Would it bother you if I visited more often now? It makes me happy to see you."

All Sherlock wanted in the world was John and his home. How could John not know that? Visits more often could mean anything though, as Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed, but it easily could have been a year for all he knew. It was odd to hear John say it made him happy to be there; John seemed anything but happy in that moment. 

"I a-always w-w-want t-to see y-you," he whispered, dropping a hand in his hair and pulling tight, "I'm...I'm-m your f-friend?" 

John saw it then; years of mistakes. He'd first seen it when he'd asked Sherlock to be his best man, and he'd been surprised at being his best friend. 

John had always mistaken Sherlock's emotional distance for emotional maturity, at least on some level. He'd thought the distance Sherlock kept had meant he just wanted it that way, not because he didn't know where he stood. 

"You never knew, did you? You never knew how much you meant to me. You didn't know you were my friend before. You didn't know you were my entire life. You never knew, and you still don't. You are so very important to me." 

Sherlock could not understand that. John had left him over and over again. He'd been alone for so long. He'd begged and pleaded, he'd gone to stand in John's place only to have John's hate in return. His composure broke as he tried to get a handle on John's words. 

"B-But...y-you always...always l-leave....y-you don't l-like m-m-me...I'm...I h-hurt y-you and you l-l-leave and...and n-now I-" he covered his face, horrifically confused, "I'm-m s-sorry, please d-don't y-yell! I'm t-r-rying to do wh-at you w-want!" 

"I won't yell," John whispered. "I won't. I promise. Now, listen, Sherlock, I just...I never meant to...I mean, you left first. You died. Two years. You were dead. Absolutely dead. I had no hope that you would come back. Then, we had another...two years? Two years and it was nice. Just us. Then I went to Africa. It wasn't anything personal. I was going to miss you. I just really, really wanted to go. And now...the last few times I left, I didn't mean to. I was pulled away in panic. But look, I'm not panicking. I have more control. That means Greg won't take me away. It means I get to choose, and I choose to stay." 

Sherlock sobbed into his hands. "Y-You are n-n-never going to f-forgive me," he wept, "I d-did that to k-k-keep you s-safe! He w-was going to sh-oot you and-" his hand sank into his own hair as he pulled viciously, "I h-heard y-you every d-day...I m-missed you m-more than...I n-never w-wanted to l-leave! I-" he whimpered and shook his head. 

It was all too much, they were never going to heal. John was never going to forgive him and he'd never be happy with Sherlock. Those days were gone. 

"I d-don't know h-h-how to n-not m-make you p-p-panic! I j-just _breathe_ and it's wr-rong! I- pl-lease I'm- I m-miss you and-" he could not carry on, hating that he let himself have water, suddenly very hopeful that he'd sick it up. 

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed slowly. 

"Sherlock, I forgive you. From this moment on, I hold no resentment for anything you have ever done. What you did was brave. It's fine, really." 

John could not find another way to show his appreciation, and so he gently lifted Sherlock and held him to his chest, just as Greg always did when he was grieving.

Sherlock leaned against John, wishing he could still trust John's words. Despite that, he allowed himself to relax slightly, partially disbelieving that John was with him at all. Regardless, this was _wonderful_ , and he took to listening to John's heart beating and his lungs breathing, something he'd wanted from the moment he'd been faced with the horrific choice of letting them shoot John or dragging a blade across John's arm. 

With his fingers in his mouth, he closed his eyes, leaving a slowly growing damp mark on John's jumper as some of the tension eased out of his muscles. 

John hummed slowly and rocked Sherlock. He felt woefully inadequate. "I'm sorry I am unable to help you further. I've got you. I've got you. Let's relax for now. Is it alright if we try and sleep? Let's just sleep."

Sherlock cracked a small, brittle little sob as John apologized to him. It was nearly vicious how he constantly accused Sherlock of not finding John to be enough. He just nodded, fine with not needing to speak any longer.

Perhaps if he was silent, he could keep this for a few minutes more. 

John fell silent. He had nothing else to say. Instead of speaking, he nuzzled on Sherlock again and settled down to sleep. 

He felt woefully small and worthless, but couldn't say so. In fact, this was the most wretched he'd felt since the first two weeks of leaving Sherlock alone. But he could not show it. He smiled gently and pressed his face into Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock managed to drift off to sleep rather quickly, exhausted and stressed. His fingers hand tangled in the fabric of John's jumper and he slowly relaxed down against him, breathing deep and easy, sleeping harder and more calmly than he had done in months. 

Greg stepped forward when Sherlock was clearly down, intimately knowing John's moods. This wasn't going well for him at all. 

"How long are we staying," he whispered, knowing not to suggest they leave. It had to be John's idea. 

John first pretended to be asleep when Greg spoke, but after a moment he looked over. "As long as I need to. I won't be leaving in a bad note today. And we need to get Mrs. Hudson on the line today."

Greg nodded, accepting that for what it was. He looked to Mycroft and spoke softly. "He's been wanting her for months and months, but she hasn't come. Have you spoken with her?" 

"She wants to see him, but the last time I spoke with her, she broke down in tears. I don't know if it would be a good idea if he thinks he caused her pain." Mycroft took out his phone and text her anyway. 

"Let's have her meet with John first to see how she handles it."

Greg shook his head and immediately put his hand on Mycroft's phone to stop him, leaning in and whispering softly. "No. John is suffering right now, look at him. He's not a guinea pig. No. If she can't handle it, then she can't handle it. Best to not bring her round at all. Maybe later."

"I'll see her after I leave," John interrupted. "I will. I'll be emotional. It will be perfect. If she can't handle me, then she won't be able to handle him. I'll be a test dummy. I don't care. That's fine. If anything, I would just like to see her. I miss her. She's nice." 

Greg glared at Mycroft, furious for his treatment of John. He turned and walked away, boiling, and stood beside John. 

"You are not a test dummy and _I_ sodding care. We will stay until Sherlock wakes up, you'll tell him you'll see him again soon, and we are going home. That's all you need to do." 

John shook his head and shrank away from Greg's anger. "I'm sorry," he squeaked, and held tighter to Sherlock.   
"I don't want to leave so soon and I think it's a good idea for me to see her first. It won't hurt me to see her, and I want to. Why not? I'm sorry...I'll drop it if you want." 

Greg closed his eyes and gave himself a moment to breathe, wanting to drag Mycroft out of the room and put his fist through his teeth for that. He took a few minutes to calm himself down, ashamed at his behavior to John. 

"I'm sorry, I'm not upset with you. You are more than a test dummy and it makes me scared to hear you back down in that mindset," he turned a furious gaze to Mycroft before intentionally and forcibly gentling his expression before turning his face back to John. 

"If you want to see her, we will try and see her. None of this means you have to hurt in the process." 

John smiled wearily to Greg and reached out one hand to his. "It's alright, love. I'm okay. I know you're mad at Mycroft, not me." 

He glanced at the man in question for a moment, who looked thoroughly chastised and a little defensive. "I'd like to see Mrs. Hudson anyway, but it will be even better if Sherlock benefits from it.

Greg took John's hand and held onto it, keeping his mouth shut. He very gently reached forward and brushed a curl off of Sherlock's face before carding his fingers through John's hair. If John wanted to see her, that was a good step, but he loathed when John offered to do something like that at his own detriment. 

John hummed in contentment. It made him happy to see Greg being kind to Sherlock, as it gave him hope that someday things would be much easier for all of them. 

"I wonder if he'd come live with us, and we could be happy. That would be nice. I mean, our home is our home, but...I don't think I would mind. I'd like to have him be happy with us." 

He looked up to Mycroft and explained. "I still have flashbacks and nightmares and have a hard time with the things Paul says, but it used to be that I was all sad in between the hard parts, and now I'm happy between the hard parts, so it's easier. Yeah, I sometimes get scared, and sometimes I get sad, but after things get much better really quickly, because we're happy. And Sherlock can be happy with us."

Greg looked down at Sherlock and then to John. They had stairs, and Sherlock would be a strange third wheel, and he wasn't sure he had it in him to keep Sherlock happy when all of his energy went to keeping John safe and calm. 

"Maybe," he answered without any commitment, worried over the idea of that. Even John's use of 'our home is _our_ home,' made him doubt John's offer. He could see them visiting Sherlock every now and again, but living together? That he doubted.

"Okay. Good. Good. I'll work on it, my love. I promise." John kissed Greg's hand then released it. "In the meantime, something needs to be done about Sherlock. You need to insist he drinks. I know you have. Try harder. Use my name. I don't care how you do it. He is wasting away. If you can't get him to eat, give him larger meals through the tube. And for God's sake, do something about his fingers."

Mycroft looked ready to strangle John, but he kept his voice soft. "You have been gone for six months," he reminded John in a flat tone. "In that time I have done literally everything I was capable of doing. He simply responds better to you."  
Greg put a hand on John's shoulder. "Easy. Look around, John. They've not been neglecting him. They are trying." 

He wanted to get John out of there. Sherlock was sleeping and he was ready to kill Mycroft, but he did not want John attacking the man either. It was simply a difficult situation all the way around. 

John took a long breath and pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder. "Fine. I'm fine. I'll just take care of him myself. I'll make sure he's okay. Mycroft, please keep him drinking. He's trying not to. He wants to die. Keep telling him that I am coming."

Mycroft bristled, but nodded.

Greg was ready to rip his hair out. He began to pace beside the bed before making himself sit down. "We will likely come back the day after tomorrow, right John?" he asked by way of trying to find a time to get John out of there. 

"Right. Every other day. But eventually, we'll switch, because Sherlock will be a happy thing." 

John gave Greg a small smile. "Relax, love. It's okay. Truly. I'm just a little stressed, but not because of this. I'm just worried about him. It's a productive emotion, I think. I'll be alright. I'm just going to stay with him until he wakes up, then organize the next day I'll be here, as well as explain that I'm going to meet with Mrs. Hudson and bring her with me next time."

Greg nodded, holding his tongue for a moment before leaning forward and whispering, "Don't tell him something you aren't sure of. She might not be able to do this. If he sees her crying, he's going to blame himself." 

Otherwise he ran gentle fingers along the side of John's face and then leaned back, just allowing time to pass without his input. John was doing remarkably well and he wasn't going to mess with it. 

Sherlock slept for a solid hour before slowly coming awake. It took a moment to realize he was not with Mycroft, crying out and going very stiff as he covered his head, not able to instantly recognize John any longer. 

"Shhh..Sherlock, it's okay. I'm here. It's John." He scooted back a little to give Sherlock space. "I'm here. John. Your friend. Do you remember that I've been here for a while? It's okay. I've got you."

Relief crashed over him like a wave and Sherlock whimpered as he reached out and grabbed hold of John, almost crawling him in disbelief. John was _still there_ and he wasn't screaming. 

"John!" he whispered in a shocked rush, clinging to him and holding tight, "y-you're here." 

"Yeah, Sherlock, of course. I'm here. Right here." John smiled happily at Sherlock and kissed his forehead. "How are you feeling? You slept for a long time. Peacefully too! I'm glad. Would you like some more water?"

Sherlock recalled how upset he'd been with himself for drinking water, and shook his head. "N-No...th-thank you," he whispered, tucking his fingers back to his lips. 

John still being there was wonderful, but it also meant the fallout had yet to be endured. He held on to John's jumper and allowed silence to fall, deeply unsure of himself or what he was allowed to do or say.   
"Okay. You don't need to. That's okay. I'm still really happy you drank some earlier! That was wonderful!" 

He added excitement and joy into his voice, as it had always encouraged him when Greg sounded pleased with his development. "You're _brilliant_."

Sherlock relaxed slightly when John didn't shout at him, or start to cry out of not being enough. "Ok-kay," he said quietly, a bit of relief in his tone. He was still very wary of John, but wanted terribly to stay with him. He nuzzled down against John's chest, hoping it would be alright to do so. 

"I-Is y-your dog...is h-he h-here?"

John held his hand over Sherlock's head and pressed it to his chest to show him that it was alright for him to be there. "We didn't bring him today. We were sort of in a rush. If you want, we can bring him next time."

"He's fast too! And strong. Smart. I love him. I'll bring him the day after tomorrow. That's when I'm coming back. Tomorrow, I have to get some work done with my progress, but I've got the next day off, so I can visit." 

He was intentionally telling it backwards, as he wanted Sherlock to know he didn't view this as work, even if he did. "And he's really friendly too. He'll sleep curled up next to you, and you can use him as a pillow."

Sherlock just nodded, clinging to John desperately. It was a nice lie, a very nice lie, and he would take it for what it was. Tears slowly slid down his cheeks and he tried to focus on John's beating heart, and not his own rising panic. 

"H-He s-s-sounds-" his voice broke and he lost hold of another sob, pressing his face down to John's chest, trying to hold his breath to keep from breaking down, "l-like a v-very g-good dog," he wept, his knuckles blanched in his grip on John's jumper, already starting to shake. 

"You're worried about me leaving," John said softly. "And for that I am sorry. But I am working so very hard. I've done so well in the past six months, and I am going to be working harder still. That means that I can make my own decisions. Mycroft and Greg can't tell me not to see you anymore."

For a moment, Sherlock honestly thought someone had doused him in ice. His breathing stopped and he went perfectly still, ears snapping to a shrill ring. 

In the next moment, his world went into supernova, the weight crushing in on itself until collapse and suddenly everything exploded, scattering his mind to oblivion, leaving him screaming against John's chest as he clung to him. His _brother_ , his _only trusted person_ had been forcibly keeping John away? 

He could not trust John, and now he could not trust Mycroft, and the games were _killing him_. 

"NO!" he wailed in agony, his voice cracking with the force of his screaming, "NO! _NO!_ " he couldn't. 

He simply couldn't. Mycroft had been stopping John from coming? All the _lies_ , all the coaxing and manipulating and they'd stopped him from killing himself so many times and for _what?_ That small sentence had suddenly torn away Sherlock's only sense of safety. He let go of John, sinking his fingers into his hair, honestly trying to rip it from its roots, heart aching too much for him to handle, seeking physical pain to settle it. 

"Shit!" John reached out and wrapped himself around Sherlock. "I'm sorry! What did I-? I'm sorry!" John had been watching his words so carefully that he had been completely blindsided by Sherlock's break down. "You're safe, you're safe. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here." He gave Greg a helpless look, then caught Mycroft's eye. 

He looked furious.

Greg held up a hand to Mycroft to keep him from escalating the situation. Sherlock carried on screaming far too loud to be spoken over. Greg got up and moved to John's side, pressing a comforting hand between his shoulder blades as he reached over and carefully took Sherlock's fingers from his hair with one hand. 

"Sherlock. _Sherlock!_ " he called loudly, trying to get the man's attention. Sherlock was like ice to the touch, shivering and so tense he seemed made of stone. He opened his bloodshot eyes and looked up at Greg, still sobbing despite himself. Greg spoke very softly to him then, still holding his cold fingers. 

"Mate, that isn't how it sounded. Mycroft has been making sure we were ready to come see you before letting us here. John has had to work through things that are not your fault, and he wasn't ready to be here. That's all John meant. Mycroft hasn't been telling John not to come here." 

Sherlock tore his hand away from Greg and again resumed pulling his own hair, shuddering as he lay in his bed, not at all sure if he could trust any of them. 

" _N-No_ ," he breathed, shaking his head, "pl-l-lease st-t-top I _can't_! Pl-l-l-lease I can't!" 

"I'm sorry!" John wrapped himself around Sherlock and held his face in his hands. 

"I only meant that he and Greg said I wasn't ready to see you yet. I'm ready now. That part is over. We're alright now. Oh, God, please, let's just take some deep breaths." John breathed slowly to demonstrate and rocked Sherlock slowly. 

"It's alright, I promise. It's okay." 

Sherlock swallowed several times, watching John with panicked, wet eyes. He slowly began the process of trying to follow John's breathing, at first gulping down sharp breaths of air, whimpering as he held his breath, releasing and repeating, tears flooding down his ashen face. 

It took a long time, but eventually he was breathing somewhat close to John's pattern, much less crazed in his effort to breathe. 

"Thank you," John breathed and pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "That was amazing. You did so well. That was amazing. Brilliant. You calmed down from screaming to this so fast! I'm so proud of you." He nuzzled Sherlock's neck and cuddled him closer. 

"I'm here. I love you. I'm here. I've healed now. I'll be coming more frequently." 

Sherlock forced himself not to give into grief and panic at the knowledge that John was about to leave. He'd made John happy twice in one visit, and that had never happened before. John had thanked him, seemed happy with him, and Sherlock deeply hoped that wasn't an act. 

"Okay," he whispered, wanting so badly to believe that, "I- I w-will...s-see...see y-you...s-soon," he finished, not really believing that, but glad to have them parting without either of them in hysterics. 

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm not leaving yet." John was as affectionate as he could be and drew the covers up around them. "It's safe. It's safe."

Sherlock clung to John then, keeping his head tucked down against John's shoulder, breathing still a bit too fast and a bit too shallow, but much calmer than he'd been more than half an hour before when his world imploded on itself. He didn't know what to say to John, resisting the urge to beg him to stay, forcing himself to be quiet in his fear. 

Six months. Nearly the duration of John's time in captivity. He'd left him for a solid six months. How the fuck was he still _alive_ after all that effort to die? For a moment, rage at his brother shot through his gut. He should have been allowed to die. John had the option, why couldn't he? John was happy and had a life, all Sherlock would do was drag it down. Why were they doing this to him? 

He realized he'd been flexing his grip a bit too hard on John's jumper and slowly released it. Six months...six months. 

"I love you," John said simply. "I know I do. I know I did. I know that even though we haven't seen each other in six months, I still thought of you every day. I can't move on. I can't. I will not. I won't move on. I want to bring you into my happiness so you are happy." 

Sherlock's heart rolled over in his chest and he was not sure how long he could endure this. John had made so many promises before, and while he seemed better, much better, Sherlock still did not trust that this would last. He chose his words very carefully. 

"I'm-m glad y-you are..are h-happy," he whispered honestly, even though his voice broke, "I o-only w-wanted that...only e-ever that." 

"And now I honestly want to be here. Before, I wanted to because I wanted to help and I love you, but now I am here because...well...I missed you." John ran his fingers lovingly through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as John ran his fingers through his hair, lip trembling, John's words so desperately wanted that he just took them as truth for the moment. With John's heartbeat in one ear and his soft voice in the other, Sherlock simply allowed himself to rest in the imaginary peace of it all. 

"I d-don't know wh-what you c-could p-possibly m-miss, but I'm...I...I m-miss y-you c-constantly," he confessed, grief heavy in his voice. 

"I have a deep sentimental attachment to you." John tried to put it in a way that Sherlock would understand, then waited for his use of the word 'sentiment' to be scoffed or ridiculed.

Sherlock huffed a laugh through his tears, pulling John slightly closer. "I'm-m s-s-self-fishly glad to h-hear that," he managed, so terribly wanting that to be the truth. 

John beamed at him and let out a genuine, gleeful laugh. "I just had to remember! It got all buried under the bad stuff. But now I remember. I know. I have such a deep attachment to you that it did not get severed by the hell Moriarty put me through. That means something."

That was true, if John's words and intentions were honest, that had to mean something. Guilt struck through him and he was suddenly begging John's forgiveness, "It...it w-wasn't m-me...b-but I'm...I'm still s-so sorry, s-so g-guilty f-for what...what h-happened. I'm s-so sorry. I sh-h-hould h-have...h-have..." 

_You should have known! Isn't that what you do? You should have known where I was, what was happening! You should have come for me but you never did!_

He groaned in anguish and dragged in a sharp breath, his voice octaves higher than normal, "I sh-should h-have _seen_ and n-not been s-s-so afraid! I sh-should have d-done m-more, you w-were r-r-right and it w-was m-my f-f-fault-t and I- I am r-respons-sible, I sh-hould h-have d-done s-someth-ing!" 

John countered without hesitation. 

"I should have known that you cared but couldn't express it. I thought you knew how much you meant to me. I thought...I don't know why I never told you. I thought it was unspoken. I will be more open with you now. It's ah...it's not always been easy for me to be open about my emotions. I left assuming you knew I cared about you, but I was wrong. I failed as a friend. I should have known I was hurting you, and for that I am truly sorry. I want you to know that I care so much about you Sherlock, and you are worth more than the sum of your intelligence and use." 

Sherlock kept hold of John's jumper, dumbstruck by John's words. They seemed so clear and honest, but he was terrified to accept them. It would be crushing to hear John scream at him again, or watch his face shutter in hate once he realized to whom he was speaking. 

"I-" it wasn't forgiveness for Sherlock's failure, but it was something, "I d-don't deserve y-your r-r-regard," he stammered, deeply and honestly feeling that way, "I w-was a child and y-you...I f-f-fail-led y-you and-" he shook his head, hiding his face in John's jumper, still surprised to find that he wasn't severely underweight any longer. 

It was such a deep relief that John was slowly beginning to thrive that he'd at least die a bit more comfortable knowing he'd not been a complete failure, though every ounce of John's healing was to Greg's credit. 

John shook his head sadly. "No. No, that's not it at all. You are worth so much to me. And to Mycroft. And to Greg. And you mean so much to me, and I just can not fathom how you do not see that." 

John took Sherlock's hands and kissed them. "Sherlock Holmes, you are a wonderful, brilliant and deeply caring man. I am glad I met you. I want to stay with you." 

Sherlock was struggling to understand. This was much more in-depth than John had previously done, more calm and articulated and oh _god_ was Sherlock afraid to trust it. He looked from John to Greg, and then to Mycroft, finally returning his gaze to John. 

"I- I d-don't un-n-derst-tand," he whispered, slowly starting to tense again. 

He'd spent the last year convinced that John loathed him, convinced that all of this was his fault and his fault alone, constantly the focus of John's anger and disappointment and then, out of the blue, just as he was successfully beginning to die John _was glad to know him_? 

His breathing picked up, scanning the room for Moran, eyes watering, "Ple-ease I- I d-don't understand." 

"I'll be more simple, then." John stated simply and spoke simply. "I am here for you. I love you. I remember how much I love you now. I remember that you are a wonderful man. You are a kind, loving man, with a great heart and a brilliant mind." 

Sherlock pressed a shaking hand to his eyes, trying to absorb this sudden shift. Perhaps it wasn't sudden, six months had gone by since he last saw the man. "I...y-you l-love m-me?" 

He sounded like a complete idiot, he knew, but it was so much to take in, so very difficult to believe. 

"Yes, Sherlock. Even when I thought you were the one torturing me, I couldn't shoot you, and I wanted you to be safe. Then, even when I was afraid, I wanted to help you. I love you. And now, even though I might not be able to help you, I still want to be here with you. Because I love you." John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I really do."

Sherlock just held on to John, shoulders shaking, not understanding where this shift had come from but long ago learning to just take calm moments as he could. So he kept his head on John's chest, tears slowly sliding down his face for a complicated mix of reasons, focusing on his breathing so that he could be calm for John, as John had asked him to do. 

"Does that make it any easier?" John slowly tangled his legs up with Sherlock's and relaxed. "I love you. That's the main point." 

Sherlock wondered what the 'it' could be, but he nodded anyhow, not wanting to upset John. He'd literally say anything at this point not to upset him. 

"Y-Yes," he whispered, clinging to John's jumper, hoping he was doing right. 

"Thank you, Sherlock. This has been lovely. So lovely." John let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes. "I love you. I'm glad I came today. I'll come again the day after tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded, gnawing on the inside of his lip as he looked down at his fingers and forced them to release John's jumper, heart starting to hammer in his ears again. He was putting all his energy into keeping his lip from trembling, wet-eyed as he drew himself away from John. 

He opened his mouth to say something, only to close it again as his throat swelled up painfully. Instead, he tried to give John something of a smile, taking in his appearance as swiftly as he could and trying to save it for his memory, wanting this image instead of the others. He had no faith whatsoever that John would ever be back. 

John decided that it was as good a time as any to go. "Okay, Sherlock. I'm going to go home now. I'm going to come back the day after tomorrow. I give you my word." 

John got up out of bed and leaned over to give him another chaste kiss to the head. "I love you. I'll be back, you brilliant man."

Sherlock could not help himself when he reached out, catching John by the sleeve in shredding panic. He was actively fighting tears, hand shaking where he'd caught John. 

"B-Bye, J-John," he managed, tears slipping down his face, just wanting a last look as panic screamed at him that he'd not get another chance. He let go with a choked sob, pulling his fingers to his lips, staring at John with rapt focus. 

How could he leave? How could he walk away? He knew he was supposed to. But he didn't want to. He wanted to stay. 

"I...I don't want to leave," John said in a childlike voice and looked to Greg. 

It was the use of the childlike voice that made Greg wrap his arm around John's shoulders and usher him out, giving Sherlock the most gentle smile he could. He closed the door quietly behind them and began to move John swiftly down the hall in case he began to cry, not wanting to upset Sherlock any more than he already was. 

"You did so well, John. I mean, god, you got him to drink so much water, you calmed him down so well. That was incredible, really incredible." 

"I don't...I don't want to leave him," John said in a confused, subdued voice. He waved goodbye to Sherlock as he left and clung to Greg as soon as the door was closed. "I want to stay, or take him with us! Greg, please."

Greg took John down to the guest room. He wasn't going to force John out, but he was going to reason with him first. He sat John down on the bed and settled down beside him, speaking gently. 

"We can't take him with us. You saw him, he's not stable enough to move and you'd have to accept a whole staff of people into our little flat. You did _so well_ in there John, but now you sound very taxed, like that took quite a bit out of you. If we stay, and you burn out, it will be much worse." 

John felt very small, and he sat cross-legged on the bed with his arms crossed. "I _want_ to stay with him! I just do! Why can't...I'll come back tomorrow too. I just got back with him."

Greg pulled John to him. "I'm not saying you can't, John," he said very gently, "I'm not saying that at all. You get to make this choice, I'm just trying to help you understand what you're getting into. I think it's _wonderful_ that you want to stay, that's really, really good, John. I just...I don't want you to take this at a run. He's...very easily confused. You got him calmed back down really well, it was impressive, but he's...not often lucid and there may be times it takes more energy than that. If you want to come tomorrow, then we come tomorrow." 

John had tears in his eyes very suddenly and he wrapped himself up in Greg's arms. "I'm confused! I used to hate being around him, and now I want to go back. And I'm just so worried! He's hurting so much. Let's just...let's go home and we can come back tomorrow." 

Greg took a few minutes to calm John down, giving him two more of his pills and holding him for the next fifteen minutes before asking if he was ready to go. There was a car waiting for them, and Greg hoped that was a sign that Mycroft was not angry with John and would allow them back. 

John began to cry abruptly as soon as they were ok the car, and continued on until they were back home. Even then, he was exhausted and sad.

Mycroft bundled Sherlock up as soon as John left the room. "Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay."  
Sherlock wept in his brother's arms, chewing his fingers as he carried on staring at the door. He did not have words, shuddering as he lay there, thirst and pain returning with a vengeance in John's absence. He wished quite suddenly that he'd asked for John's jumper, turning and pressing his face to Mycroft's chest as he fell apart. He was overwhelmed with both the relief of knowing John did not despise him, and the wrenching loss of the man who looked so much like his friend. 

Mycroft was boiling over with anger towards John, but this was also the most he'd gotten out of Sherlock in months. "Little 'Lock?" Mycroft's voice was cautious. "Will...will you talk with me, too?"

Sherlock nodded, though he could not make himself speak for a very long time. He clung to Mycroft's shirt, sobbing until his head pounded, shoulders shaking and voice hoarse once more. 

"I kn-n-now he w-w-on't c-come b-back," he wept, no doubt at all in his tone, "it w-w-was a...k-kind goodb-bye." 

Mycroft didn't want to push it. "Yes, it was very kind. Thank you for speaking to me. It makes me very happy." He bitterly wished that it meant as much when he said it as it did when John said the same. 

Sherlock shook his head against his brother's chest, aching for the man to simply give him an overdose then and there and let him die in his brother's arms. "I m-make y-you sad. I m-make him s-sad, too. I d-don't m-m-mean to m-make y-you s-sad," he added, sobbing out the words, feeling his pacemaker forcing his heart to keep moving. 

"Moriarty is what made us sad. Never you. This isn't your fault! You never hurt me. You're just sad, and I emphasize with you. I promise, if you work at it instead of trying to die, things will get easier." 

They simply had to. 

Sherlock pulled at Mycroft's shirt, sobbing bitterly as he spoke. "Work-k at _wh-hat_? What is th-there t-to w-work w-with?" 

He was trying to pull himself onto Mycroft's lap, shuddering in the wake of loss, tucking his face under Mycroft's chin as he exhausted himself trying to move. 

Mycroft helped Sherlock into his lap and pressed on. 

"Drink a little cup of water a day. Maybe have some juice. I will not let you die, so please, stop trying to kill yourself and make an attempt at bettering your life. I'm going to make it as easy as I can for you." 

Sherlock immediately drew back a bit from his brother, fear in his eyes. His brother was making an open and direct threat, right after John had told him that Mycroft had been blocking him from visiting. His voice wavered as he drew in on himself. 

"M-My?" 

"Sherlock, I only mean to say that I'd like you to recover. I want you to be happy again. I'll call John and we can arrange for him to come over again. I'll give you anything you want, I just ask that you live." 

Mycroft's tone was broken and pleading by this point. He had no more pride. "I just want you to get better."

Sherlock stared in confusion at his brother. "I'm-m h-hurting y-you," he wept, talking around his fingers, "h-he isn't g-going to c-c-ome b-back...y-you...you're s-so...l-look-k what I'm...I n-n-need to g-go, My! I- th-i-is...is h-hurting e-every-one I- pl-lease! I'm s-so conf-fused, I don't und-derst-tand!" 

"We love you! We all love you and want you to get better! That is what this is. That's all. This is all of us trying to keep someone we love from dying." Mycroft kept tears from his eyes by sheer will. "Please don't die."

Sherlock could not stand the anguish in Mycroft's voice, tempted to crawl back into his mind and find John and the little pretend life he'd carved out of the wreckage. 

But...drinking water had made John seem so happy...maybe it would calm his brother down as well. He pulled lightly on Mycroft's shirt, completely exhausted again but speaking very softly. 

"I...I'll dr-rink s-s-some w-water if-f...do y-you want m-me to dr-rink s-some w-water?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock in shock. 

"Yes, yes, I'll get you water! Thank you so much!" He leaned over to the bedside table and got one of the little cups Sherlock hadn't managed yet and helped him hold it. 

"Thank you so much!"

Sherlock again wrapped shaking hands around the cup. He nearly brought it to his lips before doubt grabbed hold of him. "M-My....w-would y-you al-l-low h-him....b-back if-f he..." 

John wouldn't come back, but Sherlock had to know anyhow.

"I will call him personally and ask him to come back." Mycroft moved the cup closer to Sherlock's lips and tried not to feel so incredibly small. John had accomplished in three hours what he's been trying to do in six months. 

Sherlock looked back to the water and then to Mycroft, taking a small sip before dissolving into tears, sobbing as he tried to choke the water down.

Mycroft slowed Sherlock down a bit, then got him another cup. "Thank you so much!" He tried to use as much enthusiasm as John had. "I am so glad you're drinking! That helps me so much.”

Sherlock took the second cup, shuddering as he managed to get that one down as well. He stopped then, resting on Mycroft's chest, so terribly confused he simply gave up trying to understand how his drinking water helped anyone. It wasn't nearly enough water to reverse the damage he was doing to himself, but it was incredibly comforting to take in, anyhow. 

"D-Don't c-c-call h-him," he whispered, holding his fingers back to his lips, "it w-was a n-n-nice goodbye...I w-won't e-ever g-g-get that ag-g-gain I almost r-ruined the one I g-got. L-Let me...let m-me pr-ret-tend it w-was r-real. Please." 

Mycroft had been pleased with the outcome of today, minus the explosion. He was happy with John for the most part. 

He'd had hope. 

"Sherlock...he said he wants to come back. He was happy to be with you. Maybe...I won't call him. I won't ask him to come. And if he comes anyway, it will be because he wanted to."

Sherlock nodded, relaxing a bit more. He turned his face so that he could hear his brother's heartbeat, speaking very softly as random tremors raced across his shoulders. 

"Pl-lease st-tay," he asked quietly, holding tight to Mycroft's shirt. The idea of being left alone was intolerable, and he would _beg_ if Mycroft tried to go. "j-just until I f-fall asl-l-leep? Pl-lease." 

"I'll stay for the rest of the day, and sleep here tonight." Mycroft bent down and kissed Sherlock's forehead before making a show of settling down to stay. "You were very brave today."

Sherlock wrapped himself around Mycroft, plastering to his brother like a frightened child, dropping off to sleep in record time. He'd hardly stopped shifting when he passed out from exertion, fingers clinging desperately to the material of Mycroft's shirt, listening to his brother's comforting heartbeat. 

Mycroft retreated deep into his mind, a luxury he hadn't had in weeks. He began to tidy things, straighten them out, and make an attempt to climb to a level of objectivity. 

Three hours later, he had straightened out many of the kinks in his machine and could see things a bit easier. Sherlock and John's roles were nearly reversed. While John was still shaky, he had become the strong one, and Sherlock was the broken one. John would have to either come regularly, or not at all. 

Sherlock came up in screaming hysterics at the fourth hour, too weak to do much but shoving hard back against the body at his side, screaming for his brother. 

"MY! _MY!_ " he clawed at his face, trying to get the tube out, breathing in shuddering, wrecked panic. 

Mycroft knew the drill. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's hands and tapped them while speaking. "I've got you. I'm here. It's alright. Everything's alright. It's My. I'm here." 

Sherlock went very still as Mycroft spoke to him, blinking in confusion before focusing on Mycroft's hands. He shuddered and then exhaled slowly, whimpering as the fear slowly left him. 

"M-My," he whispered quietly, tucking his head back down against his brother's chest and closing his eyes. 

Mycroft nodded happily. "Yes, it's me. I'm here. You're safe, and I've got you. How are you feeling? Do you want any water?"

Sherlock simply wept as he stared at their hands. "Y-You...you w-want m-m-me to l-live...e-even if...if th-this is all m-my life w-will ever be," he whispered. 

"If I thought this was all your life would ever be, I wouldn't have made you live. No, I think your life will get better. That is why I insist you live on." 

Mycroft was hopeful now after six months of dejection. John was doing well. He would come back. He had to come back.

Sherlock did not even consider John. In his mind, John was permanently gone. There was no chance of him coming back. 

"B-but...this...th-is is all...I'll j-just drain y-your r-resources...I'll...I'll j-just t-take up y-your t-time..." he was stroking Mycroft's thumb with his own. "I'm...this is...this is i-it, M-My...I'm j-just th-i-is." 

"And if this is all you can be, I'll be alright with that. I don't need you to be useful. I just want you to be happy. I know you think me a cold man..." 

Mycroft had shame clear on his face. 

"But I am not. I kept myself safe by limiting my sentimental attachments, along with the fact that I find it hard to love goldfish, but you? You're my brother, and I am not going to give up on you."

Sherlock tucked his head back down, aching with thirst. "I h-have no...n-no point....I n-need a p-point...a r-reason to e-exist or y-you're...you're g-going to h-have to k-k-keep m-me...keep m-me h-high. I'm s-sorry...I don't...I-" he paused then, looking around the room and then thinking back over the fuzzy memory he had of the last few months. "is...d-did J-Jared l-leave, too?"

"No, Jared is still here. So is his cello. He is just downstairs. Do you want to see him?" If they could transfer Sherlock's attention to Jared, then that was even better than healing John. It would remove the baggage. He could pay Jared to do whatever he liked.

Sherlock shook his head. He could not recall seeing the man recently. "I...I j-just don't...r-remember h-him being..." he swallowed and glanced back to the little empty cup of water, "h-here...anymore." 

He looked back to Mycroft, his tone shifting to something more frightened and apologetic. "I...I can t-trust y-you, c-can't I?"

That was truly devastating to hear. Mycroft had devoted the past two years of his life exclusively to Sherlock, and beyond that he had cared for him as a child, watched over him as a teen, and been a discouraged guardian as a man. "Yes, 'Lock. You can trust me."

Sherlock watched as he harmed his brother unintentionally. "I'm s-sorry," he breathed, reaching up and taking Mycroft's face in his hands, fingers cold and shaking, "I...I'm s-sorry....I....I g-got c-confused and....oh...pl-lease f-forg-give...forgive m-me, M-My...I'm j-just sc-cared..." 

"And I shouldn't bruise so easily," Mycroft whispered. "I love you. I won't ever hurt you. Everything I do I do to help you. Yes, you can trust me. I'll do a better job of keeping you safe."

Sherlock carried on touching his brother's face, mapping the bone structure and following his hairline. "Y-You h-haven't f-failed to k-keep m-me s-safe," he whispered, completely unsure of himself and what he could possibly do to stop hurting Mycroft. "I...I'm....I m-make y-you so s-sad...I don't m-mean to...I don't." 

Mycroft gentled his expression. "I should just keep myself more....I should understand your intentions better. I promise, I am never upset with you. Can I put on some music, or get you more water? Is there anything you need?"

Sherlock let Mycroft go, ashamed of himself. "W-Would....w-would you r-read....to m-me? And c-could...m-maybe I could h-have s-some....some i-ice?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" Mycroft sent a text for the ice and fumbled to find something to read. "Thank you, thank you. Thank you for staying with me."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips, trying not to whimper in distress as he realized what he'd been doing to his brother. "I...I th-thought it w-w-was b-better f-for you..if I w-wasn't h-here," he tried to explain very quietly, I'm-m s-so sorry, My. I'm s-s-so sorry." 

"No, no, god no! It's so much better with you here. I...I've been so worried and it only took John a few hours to do what I couldn't do in six months. I'm sorry. I did try. I tried every day, I swear. I'll learn what he does. I will get better at this." 

Mycroft's tone was honest and heartfelt. "Please, just don't go away again."

Sherlock did whimper then, tears rolling slowly down his face as his heart squeezed painfully. 

"I d-don't know h-h-how to e-explain...it's n-not...it...I _k-killed h-him!_ I...I- the th-things I d-did to h-h-him and....and...it's n-not that he is...I- I d-destroyed h-him and I-" he shook his head and covered his face, unsure how to proceed, needing Mycroft to understand and not knowing the words to make that happen. 

"Ple-ease I- he- I c-couldn't- it w-w-was my f-f-fault and-" he pulled at his hair, shivering terribly, "it's not as y-you s-s-say." 

"Hey, hey, shhh...It's okay. You didn't destroy him or kill him. He's alright. John is safe. He's safe and you're safe and I've got you. I'm here. Please, Sherlock, I love you and just want you to stay with me. That is all I want." 

Mycroft brushed the tears from Sherlock's face. "That will make things okay. Just stay present."

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, holding so tight to Mycroft's shirt it was making his arm shake. "Ok-k-kay, I...I w-won't g-go away ag-gain...I'm s-s-sorry," he wept, feeling so ashamed of himself he could scarcely stand it. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock and pressed his face into his shoulder. "Thank you," he gasped in a voice choked with tears. "I-I'll do better. I'll stay with you more. I'll do better."

Sherlock wrapped a trembling hand around the back of Mycroft's head. "I'm s-sorry, I'm so sorry. You d-didn't do...a-anything wr-r-ong...I'm s-s-sorry..."

Mycroft couldn't help the sob that escaped him. He'd tried for _six months _, then John just walks in and fixes it all.__

__"I-I'll never be as important as John," he whispered into Sherlock's shoulder. It was terribly selfish of him, and he knew it, but Sherlock was his entire life now, and he was quickly realizing where he stood in Sherlock's._ _

__Sherlock's heart caved in on itself, crushing his lungs, collapsing his chest in. What Mycroft was saying was patently not true, but it was so exhausting to try and explain._ _

__"M-My," he wept pathetically, "n-no that's...th-that's n-not _true_." _ _

__Mycroft shook his head and lost himself to his grief._ _

__"I-I've always failed you," he cried. "I l-left you alone when you were a child, and I-I was always s-so harsh and m-mean, and never loving, never good to you, and now...now I can't even...I-I took too long to get you back, and...I t-tried for _months_ and John just...Just says the right things and you're back again and I-I just...I'm...I'm sorry, I shouldn't be bothering you with these things." _ _

__Mycroft withdrew one hand and brushed tears from his eyes. "I'll j-just do better. N-No point in apologizing. Just d-do better."_ _

__Sherlock bitterly despised himself. He tucked his fingers to his lips and searched for something as he chewed at his fingertips._ _

__"B-but....b-but J-John...h-hates m-me...he...h-he sc-reams at m-me and...ab-b-bandon-ned...m-me and..." he'd stopped crying out for John months and months ago, scared to be with John when his brother wasn't there, and still...still he was failing his brother and- "g-god I'm s-s-sor-r-ry I-" he tugged at Mycroft, smothered in guilt._ _

__Mycroft saw the effect he was having on his brother and just _shut the hell up_. He went silent and simply pet Sherlock's hair gently while humming another one of their mother's old songs._ _

__Sherlock fell asleep not long after, the request for ice forgotten, too tired and defeated to carry on in the waking space. He wasn't allowed to retreat any longer, and it was very difficult to be present and awake._ _

__Miller came in with a gentle knock, holding a new bag of yellow-tinged fluids in his hand. "I just need to hang this, very sorry for the intrusion. His kidneys need a bit of help."_ _

__Mycroft released Sherlock and sat up. His eyes were ringed with red from crying, and he looked up to Miller sadly. "Okay." He had nothing else to say, and trudged into the bathroom to wash his face and take a quick shower._ _

__Miller hung the bag, looking at Mycroft oddly for a moment before changing out Sherlock's line. He was very delicately handling Sherlock, but Sherlock had been so attuned to his brother that he woke without a sound, turning his head left and then right, looking for Mycroft. He'd only been down for ten minutes, but he had no awareness of how much time had passed._ _

__He looked up at Miller like a lost child and burst into tears._ _

__"Is h-h-he c-coming b-b-back," he wept, struggling to sit himself up despite how weak he was. He was shaking as he looked over the room, trying to find signs of the brother he'd run off. Before Miller could answer, Sherlock dropped his face into his hands, leaning forward with his back rounded, rocking and deeply afraid, "w-what did I d-d-do? What did I d-o? Oh g-god, M-My..."_ _

__He pulled at his hair, screaming as his heart shattered, absolutely sure that he'd just lost his brother as well._ _

__Mycroft was pulling his dirty clothes back on the second he heard the scream. He came back out, his buttons done wrong and the collar folded in, and dropped by Sherlock's side. "Right here. Right here. I'm here. I love you. I love you so much. I'm My. I'm My. You're safe."_ _

__Sherlock nearly fell out of the bed as he threw his arms around Mycroft and grit his teeth, shouting through them._ _

__"D-DON'T L-LEAVE ME!" He was utterly terrified that he'd also driven his brother away, "PLEASE! I'm _s-s-sor-r-ry_ you are s-so imp-portant pl-l-lease d-don't l-leav-ve m-m-me! Please!" _ _

__Mycroft picked Sherlock up out of bed and stood with him cradled like a child. "Just went to the lav! That's all! I'm here. I was only a couple meters away. I was in the lav, just right there. I never left you. I would never leave you."_ _

__Sherlock clutched to Mycroft as he shuddered, tucking his face to Mycroft's neck, feeling incredibly insecure. He sobbed pathetically against his brother's chest, muttering in a mix of French and English in an attempt for forgiveness._ _

__"Pl-l-lease, I'm s-s-so af-fraid, please! Please!" He didn't know how to make it right, how to fix what he'd done. "I'm s-s-sorry!"_ _

__What could he say? He'd been the cause of this. He'd opened up for thirty seconds and done this. "It's okay. John will be back to fix it. It'll all be okay. I've got you. I've got you."_ _

__He stayed standing and rocked Sherlock back and forth._ _

__"I d-d-don't w-w-ant-t J-John," he sobbed, clutching tighter to Mycroft's neck. John would come back and scream at him, if he came back at all. John's words were empty, John always left him, John hated him. He was nearly climbing Mycroft, "M-My! _PL-LE-EASE_!"_ _

__"O-Okay," Mycroft stammered and rocked Sherlock. "Then I-I won't call him. I'll stay with you! I will! I'll be here for you! No John, just My. Is that what you want?"_ _

__Sherlock felt trapped with every single thing he said. "I w-want..y-you r-right n-ow, pl-lease c-can...I'll j-just go to sl-leep and y-you can go back t-to the lav I didn't m-mean to..to i-inerrupt y-you."_ _

__"It's okay. I'll stay. I don't really need a shower anyway." Mycroft got back in the bed and held Sherlock in his lap. "I'm sorry you got scared. You can always call for me."_ _

__Sherlock rest his head against Mycroft again, sniffling as he tried to calm down. "I k-keep ups-s-setting y-you," he whispered, "it's...I w-wish I could e-explain..I...I sh-should have g-gone, I should have _gone_." _ _

__"No, no, I don't think so. I don't want you to leave. I love you. Please, stay with me. Please?" Mycroft swept the dark curls off his forehead and kissed the spot kindly. "I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."_ _

__Sherlock felt anything but, though he relaxed slightly against Mycroft and closed his eyes. "I'm-m r-r-right h-here," he whispered, though he was exhausted, "r-right here."_ _

__"Thanks, 'Lock. Thanks." Mycroft closed his eyes and slowly relaxed. "I'm so glad you're ere. You can sleep. You can sleep."_ _

__Sherlock quietly drifted off to sleep, holding on tight to Mycroft's hand this time, in lieu of his shirt. His fingers relaxed when he slipped unconscious again, but he did not let go._ _

__Mycroft let out a sad sigh when Sherlock drifted off, and slowly lowered him down. He searched out Miller and spoke briefly to him. "Pump him with as much water and calories as you can. Start giving him fluids through the tubes as well, if you aren't already. I'm certain he's turning the drip off."_ _

__Miller nodded, "Yes, there isn't another explanation. I'm doing what I can to reverse the damage. Good news is that he isn't in irreversible harm yet. He's on a tremendous amount of calories already, we can't up it. He's just given up, or at least he had given up."_ _

__He ran a hand through his hair, "Do you think John will actually come back?"_ _

__Mycroft gave a small smile. "I think he will. I interviewed him before, and he seemed very determined. He did well. A few mistakes, but we'll speak of them later. I think he'll come back."_ _

__Miller nodded, "I wouldn't expect consistency from Sherlock. I've warned Paul of that, not that he particularly needed, but still. Sherlock is not stable, and while today was good, it might not always be like that."_ _

__"I know. I know. But still, it was a good day. I'll try and replicate it, but will not expect it." Mycroft turned then and went back to take his shower and hopefully get some work done._ _


	21. Chapter 21

Greg had taken John directly to bed when they got home, curling up with him and getting comfortable. "Hey," he whispered softly, trailing his fingers through John's hair, "talk to me." 

"I'm confused," John muttered and crossed his arms over Greg's chest, where he rested his chin. "I actually wanted to stay that time. It's stressful, but I just want to stay with him. He's so lost." 

Greg nodded. "He's...yeah, lost is a good way to put it. Mycroft looks at the end of what he can endure. You did really well with Sherlock. What has you confused?" 

"All of it." John pressed his face down on Greg's chest and let out a slow sigh. "I used to not like him, and now I really want to be his friend, but I feel like I'm hurting him by being there."

Now that surprised Greg. "You feel like you're hurting him? John...John you did him so much good. What makes you think you were hurting him?"

"No, not hurting him, but... Stressing. He's so scared that I'm going to leave the entire time. I just wish I could find a way to not stress him." John looked up and gave a small smile. "Don't worry. I'm okay."

Greg swiftly returned the smile, very glad to have gotten one. He gathered John in and cuddled him close. 

"You are brilliant. Strong, amazing John, I'll never stop watching you with awe. It's incredible, you've overcome such hell. I know you're still working on it but really, John...to think back to where you were when Sherlock first called me...you are amazing." 

John thought back to that day. 

_"Sherlock's coming, my beautiful little pet." Moriarty purred and John went into full hysterics. He was dutifully mute as he thrashed and shook his head, but about an hour later, after Moriarty commanding it, he had slowly grown still. "Now, he's going to come and hurt you, and- hush your whimpering! It's lovely, but I'm speaking, pet. He is going to come take you back, and play a game with you. He will hurt you, but only once you believe he is your friend. If you can hold out, he won't hurt you, and I'll be pleased. Now hush, Pavlov, I'm calling him."_

_John was on the floor, where he grabbed on to Moriarty's pant leg and silently begged him not to give him to Sherlock by shaking his head._

John tightened his hold on Greg. "That was a particularly bad day for me. Haven't thought about it in a while." 

Greg inhaled slowly and slid his fingers through John's hair. "I am sorry, I did not mean to call up something so painful. That was stupid. I'm just so impressed with how strong you are, I mean, I knew you were a strong bloke but this...this is a whole new level." 

"I'm just being re-trained." John said it with a casual nature and shrugged. 

"Old behaviors replacing new ones. The brain adapting to keep itself out of pain. I slip into the old way of thinking, Moriarty's way, when I'm stressed because stress and fear goes deeper than logic. So I'll always have panic attacks and get lost and triggered. But I'm learning more and more new behaviors, which is good."

John's words stung. That wasn't what Greg wanted for him at all, but if that's what it was doing, he supposed there was little he could do about it. He did not respond, hating that it was still 'training' and not 'healing.' Two steps forward, five steps back. Eventually he spoke as he rubbed John's back. 

"I'm sorry that it feels that way, John. I truly am." 

"It's not a bad thing," John continued. "Healing, I suppose, is just re-learning old behaviors you had before trauma. It's just fixing the way you think. Before the trauma, every time I would drink water, it would be fine. I learned over my life that drinking water was good. Then, with Moriarty, every time I drank water it was very bad. I learned that water was painful. Now, when I drink, I am trying to re-train my mind not to associate the pain I was put through with the water, by drinking and seeing that it does not hurt. Just...it's healing, but it's...it's also like programming." 

John shrugged and rolled onto his back with his head on Greg's shoulder. "And I'm getting better at it. The way I'm thinking now doesn't hurt as much. I like that."

Greg shifted so that John would be more comfortable. 

"Good. That's...that's very good. I'm glad to hear it doesn't hurt so much anymore. It- you've been through so much, and you seem happier now. We have good days, loads of them, and it's brilliant. Just brilliant. I've...it's been a relief for me as well, to see you healing." 

John hummed happily and let the silence hang for another few minutes before speaking in a small, cautious voice. "Uhm...Greg?" He had a question in mind, and was already fearing the answer.

John fidgeted and fought down a wave of nervousness. "I...Ah...For the past few months, I've been trying to..." He took Greg's arm and ran his fingers over the long scar. 

"I've been trying to make things better for you and...I mean...You said you were useless, and I tried to show that you weren't and...I don't know...I just...Is it better now? Life with me? Have I made things at all easier?"

Greg pulled John close to him, kissing him gently. "Yes, absolutely. You've stayed with me...we've...I just need _you_. I was alone...it wasn't you, John, it wasn't. I love you, and life has become...god, so much better, yes." 

The tension left John in a rush and he let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, thank God! I've been so worried." John wrapped Greg in a tight embrace and his face was glowing with joy. "I love it here."

Greg swiftly relaxed, deeply relieved that he was not going to have to battle this out with John. "I'm so glad that you do. I love having you here. It feels right." 

John was happy now, very much so. He was filled with joy at having helped Greg, at having improved his life. "Thank you, love." He was grinning ear to ear with his eyes crinkled around the edges and his chin tilted up. "I love being here."

Greg hummed with a rich smile and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of John's mouth. "Want to watch something easy tonight before we go to sleep? You've just done amazing, simply amazing. And we can have such a calm day tomorrow." 

He snuggled John to him, relaxed and at ease.   
John slowly got up out of bed and stretched his arms over his head. "I've still got a little time, and we didn't work on much today. I could practice with the sink or bowl of water again before bed. Or we can just start our easy day early."

Greg got up with him, standing in front of John and looking down at him as he helped him stretch his arms up. It was a position they'd been working diligently on and one that enabled him to actually exercise. "You've earned whatever you want to do, John. So if you feel like working with the water today, we will, and if not, then it's an early start to the easy day." 

John pressed his lips into a line, as he usually did when thinking. "Maybe we can just fill a bowl with water and watch a movie, and I'll work on it every once in awhile just to practice."

Greg smiled and traced the side of John's face before going and getting the clear bowl, filling it with water. It occurred to him then that perhaps adding a bit of scented oil to the bowl would help, and so he did, along with a colorful sponge just to make the whole affair look a bit more cheerful. He set it at the dresser by the door, viewable from the bed but not unavoidable. 

John started a movie he'd seen a dozen times, one that was still funny and he could relax to. He walked by the bowl of water, casually picked up the sponge, ran it over the backs of his hands, then put it back. That much he could do. He'd practiced for months. It didn't cause as much stress as he did before, but he quickly wiped his hands off and got back in bed. 

Greg smiled and made no mention of it, pulling John into his arms and getting them comfortable as they watched the screen. He inhaled and then exhaled slowly, deeply pleased and settled. "This...god this is nice." 

John smelled his hands and grinned at Greg. "Smells nice. I like it. Everything is so peaceful now. I just can't get over how wonderful this is. If I had seen this when I was with Moriarty, it would have made things so much easier." 

Greg shuffled them down a bit more until John was as he typically enjoyed laying, watching the screen as he thought on John's words. "Yeah...I...I would have been a lot calmer through all this as well if I'd seen this, too. It's not the same, but I understand. When you're in the dark for so long, even the _idea_ of light becomes difficult to understand or even believe." 

"If things ever get bad again, we'll just remember that we can get through it, and we can get to this." 

John was calmed by this period of peace and he loved every second of it. "I'm so glad you came to help me when I was in the mental hospital. I'm so grateful for you."

Greg smiled and nodded to John. "We'll remember that we can get to this, yeah. It will help. It will."

John ended up drifting off to sleep on Greg's shoulder, a pleasant smile on his face and thoughts of his happy life drifting about in his head. 

Greg remained awake much longer than John had. He took the time to text with Mycroft, needing to know if the anger had settled yet or not. 

_Are you and Sherlock alright?_

Mycroft was showered and sitting on the other edge of the bed working on his laptop when he answered. 

_He's asleep. Had a rough time, but he drank some and stayed aware. It's more than I've had in months._

Greg felt more than a little guilty that he and John had go on to have such a nice night. 

_I'm sorry John made that mistake, it was an honest one. Sometimes in stress, he regresses a bit and doesn't see what he's saying. I felt like it was a good visit. What were your impressions?_

Mycroft’s text was a bit delayed. 

_Good visit. Good progress. Sherlock has asked not to see John. Do not tell him that. I will not ask him to come again, but I expect it anyway. When will you next come?_

Greg had to read the text several times, his heart plummeting. 

_He doesn't want to see John again? Why? It looked like he didn't want John to leave. We were planning day after tomorrow. What has he said?_

Greg held his breath until the next reply came. 

_He wants it to have been a happy goodbye. He has said he does not want to see John again. That doesn't mean it's how he feels. Day after tomorrow. I'll remember._

Greg shook his head, still not understanding. 

_But why a goodbye? I don't understand. He wanted John all this time does he suddenly not? Did John hurt him?_

Mycroft’s reply was not very helpful. 

_I don't know. I'm just repeating what he said. He doesn't think John is returning, I think. And I believe he is still upset that John shouted last time. It's still fresh for him._

Greg ran a hand over his head and nodded. 

_I am sure he is, that was...very traumatic for him. I don't think I've ever seen him so afraid. John very much wants to return. He honestly did not want to leave today._

When Mycroft’s reply came, Greg sighed in relief. 

_That is encouraging. I look forward to your visit. Sherlock could benefit from it, I am certain.  
_

Greg took a deep breath and sent one last text to Mycroft. 

_Try to sleep. I know this all seems...overwhelming, but we are going to get them sorted. We are. See you the day after tomorrow. Rest well._

He then set the phone aside, wrapped his arms around John, and held him to his chest as he drifted off to sleep. 

Mycroft set his phone down and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. After a moment, he clicked off the light and turned over in bed, right on the edge. It wasn't that he disliked holding Sherlock while he slept, but he preferred to sleep on his own.

And, since Sherlock was already asleep, he couldn't know the difference.

Sherlock woke somewhere around three in the morning, which was typical for him. In the dim light from the bathroom, he could make out shapes around him. His brother's soft breathing at his side let him know that Mycroft was there. He slowly turned his head to look at Mycroft, realizing that there existed a gap between them that was rather sizable, Mycroft facing away, nearly ready to fall off the bed. 

Sherlock's lip trembled as his throat began to swell, taking in Mycroft's body language. 

Mycroft wanted to be alone. He did not want to be in the bed with him, or near him. He was clearly exhausted and worn out, and how could Sherlock blame him? 

Sherlock watched his brother as he tried to decide what the right course of action was. He'd said goodbye to John. Mycroft had been so upset that he'd spoken to John at all. He'd begged Sherlock to stay and yet did not want to be with Sherlock. 

Silently he began to cry, terribly conflicted and very alone. For a moment he deeply wished that John would come and get him, take him home and help him learn how to do this. But that was never going to happen. He looked away from Mycroft, starting to seriously debate which method would be the least traumatic for his brother, what he could possibly manage to do to remove himself from a frightening situation where he was hurting everyone around him. 

Mycroft, turned away as he was in an attempt to get some heavy sleep, was still very attuned to Sherlock. He stirred when Sherlock did, and the selective hearing he'd developed over the year caught Sherlock's breathing. 

"M here," Mycroft slurred blearily and rolled over to Sherlock. "It's My. My is here. It's alright."

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he whispered back, "sl-leep."

He was doing what he could to keep calm and quiet, not wanting to alert his brother to his distress while he attempted to assemble a plan of action. 

Mycroft wrapped Sherlock up in his arms and tried to soothe him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I've got you. I'm here. You can rest."

Sherlock tensed and nearly moved away. "I...I th-think you sh-should s-send me t-to the other r-room," he whispered, forcibly keeping his voice steady, "I can sl-leep there." 

"Absolutely not. No. Why would you say that? You want to stay with me, right? Well I want what is best for you. I love you. I'm going to stay here." Mycroft cuddled next to Sherlock and closed his eyes. "I'm staying."

Sherlock felt tears slowly roll down the sides of his face, staring up at the ceiling. Mycroft didn't want this. He was just doing what he thought Sherlock wanted, and that was wildly painful. "I- I w-want to st-tay in your h-h-home and s-see you when you f-feel like v-visiting but..." his voice clipped off as his throat closed. 

"And what I want is for you to stay in my room and see you whenever I'm not working to keep four people and a full staff supported." Mycroft kissed Sherlock's hand and breathed a slow sigh. "I'm so sorry you think I don't want to stay with you."

Sherlock closed his eyes as he wrestled with the urge to weep. This was horrible, both wanting to be with Mycroft and to give the man his privacy. He'd never woken to Mycroft so withdrawn from him. In Sherlock's mind, his brother was exhausted and done, and all of this was an act. An act that Mycroft honestly wished he meant. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't sleeping near you," Mycroft said and chastised himself for the minor slip. "I was just worried about waking you up. I never wanted to hurt you. I was just trying to sleep without waking you. I was worried that if I moved around I'd wake you. You seemed peaceful."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips and said nothing, merely nodding slightly in the dark. He did not pull away from Mycroft, but he was not secure enough to lean into him again. 

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer to him and laid his head back. "I love you," he whispered and closed his eyes. "Let's sleep, okay? It's the middle of the night."

Sherlock said nothing, keeping still and letting Mycroft do what he wanted. After an hour of silence, he found himself slipping back into his mind, seeking out Mrs. Hudson. 

_She stood at the stove, the scent of cinnamon in the air as she hummed off-key to herself, making something nice, he was sure. She looked up from her pot, apron on, and gave him a warm smile. "Oh, do sit down, dear. Making a bit of tea. I'll get you something to eat, you're too thin."_

_He moved without further guidance, settling down at her table and just watching her work. Her home was exactly as he remembered it, not dark and abandoned as it was._

_"I wish I hadn't run you off," he said to her quietly, though she did not seem to hear. He carried on, speaking to her back as she fussed at the stove. "You were the first person outside of my family I let myself love. I cannot bear that I've lost you as well."_

_He covered his face with his hands, chest caving in grief, and when he opened them he was standing in the middle of a very early Christmas gathering with John, Molly, Greg, and she, all of them staring at him after he'd made a complete arse of himself over Molly's gift._

_"You were right to leave me. All of you. You were right. I miss you terribly. I should have said...countless things to you all instead of behaving so childishly. I was afraid. I was afraid."_

Outwardly, several hours had passed, leaving him on his back and sobbing without awareness of anything around him. 

Mycroft had dressed and gone to work in the morning, despite his hesitation to leave Sherlock. The man was unresponsive, and even when Mycroft came back a couple hours later, he still did not seem very aware. It was, however, very clear that he was grieving. 

Mycroft had left his things in his office and took off his coat. "'Lock? Can you hear me?"

_He'd been following Molly around the lab for hours. "Please, Molly. Please just speak to me. You never speak to me anymore and I miss you."_

_She turned finally and he stopped up short at the hate in her eyes. "Shall I put on a bit of lipstick first? Are they too thin? Perhaps you'd like to make a fool of me and tell me how you like your coffee? Or I could help you fake your death? Then you could go get high to repay me for all my work, and mock my boyfriend, and drag me about London in an effort to replace John? Or should we make snide remarks about my tears over his dead little girl? What are we doing today, Sherlock?"_

_He took several shocked steps back, the air seizing in his lungs as Molly Hooper let him have it, as he deserved. He could not speak, standing there with tears on his face as she turned around again, waving a hand in the air. "Go away, Sherlock. We're done."_

His breathing held and then suddenly shifted, keening in his grief. One by one they were all leaving, and the walls were starting to close in again. 

Mycroft dropped to his knees beside the bed. "Sherlock? I'm here, it's My. I've got you. You're safe." 

The worst aspect of grief compared to panic was that it was calm. Mycroft could not calm Sherlock down off his grief, he could not explain where he was to reassure him. No, grief was aware, and simply hated the world it knew. 

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft whispered. "I'm sorry. Please, come back to me."

Sherlock drew in a sharp, frightened breath and abruptly turned to look at Mycroft, heartbreak clear on his face. He held tight to Mycroft's hand before looking back up at the ceiling. 

"E-Everyone else....is...is g-gone," he managed before gritting his teeth and beginning to cry. 

"Mrs. Hudson isn't," Mycroft retorted in a calm manner. "I could call her up any time you wanted. Your choice." He sent a quick text to Greg. 

_Have John talk to Mrs. Hudson._

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, sobbing out his heart. "Sh-h-he doesn't e-even l-l-live there anym-more," he wept in agony, so homesick he swore he could taste it. 

"Legally, she still owns it. She never wanted to rent it out after...all this. Another reason I need to keep going to work." Mycroft bent over and brushed Sherlock's hair off his face. "Would you like to see her?"

Mycroft's retort about work flooded shame across Sherlock's mind and he looked sharply away. It took him several minutes before he could whisper, "Yhe- q-question is...d-does sh-h-he w-want to s-see m-me. We know th-the answer t-to that," he whispered, tears sliding down his face. "G-Get r-r-rid of B-Baker S-Street, t-tell her to r-rent it. It's o-over."

"I rent it," Mycroft said gently. "She has no need to. She lives elsewhere, as it was safer for her to do so when we were worried about attacks. You're safe now. I could ask her if she would see you. Would it make you happy for her to come over?"

It would be nice to have a proper goodbye, but he wasn't sure he could manage it. "I...I f-fright-ten her...you s-said I f-frighten...frighten h-her. N-No. D-Don't a-ask...if-f she'd w-wanted..." he had called her several times, but it did always leave her upset. "D-Don't c-c-call any of th-e-em. If they....had w-wanted to see m-me..." 

_How many times did he fall out the window?_

_I lost count_. 

He'd loved her like a mother, and his voice broke on a sob that was physically painful as it pulled out of his throat. He shook his head again, chin quivering. He'd had such good things before, and he'd ruined it all.

"I think she would like to see you," Mycroft insisted. "She never had any of her own children. I think she would have adopted you, if you weren't in your twenties with a real mother and father." 

Mycroft felt a pang of guilt then. They had no idea. He'd sent them updates, met with them once, video chatted them, and _lied._

Sherlock's breathing choked off in his throat. His parents were not something he wanted to talk about. They'd not once called, or come, and he was so convinced that they were just waiting for him to die that he felt a rush of guilt for carrying on breathing. 

"N-Not e-even they w-want me," he stammered, loathing himself bitterly. 

"Yes, they do! They've been wanting to see you for months! I've had to lie to them this entire time just to keep them from showing up unannounced. They want to see you. They love you. They just...Currently, they think you've returned to the way you were when John lived with you. And god, I wish it were true. But please, don't ever think they don't want you." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hands and gave them a light squeeze. "Because they do."

Sherlock pulled his hands back to cover his face, terribly confused. "I'm s-s-sorry," he wept into his palms. He was too much trouble, too much work, and had nothing to give in return, "I'm sor-ry!" 

What would he tell them now that John was gone? What would he say to explain that Sherlock had driven everyone away? "M-M-oth-ther will b-be...s-so d-disap-point-t-ted with....m-me," he whispered, hardly audible. 

"No, no she won't. She'll be furious with me." Mycroft felt an impending sense of dread. "You don't need to see her," he said hastily. Mother Holmes would absolutely murder him. He could hear it now. 

_How could you let this happen?_

_You're supposed to protect him!_

_Why didn't you take better care of my baby?_

Mycroft pressed his face down on Sherlock's shoulder. "I...You're still talking to me! Thank you. Thank you. You're so wonderful. You're so strong."

Sherlock looked to his brother as though he were mad. "Y-You asked...m-me to st-a-ay," he whispered, "I'm t-r-rying to stay."

"Thank you so much," Mycroft said happily and settled back down. "Are you thirsty? I can get you some water, or juice, or a smoothie. Maybe you'd like a warm shower, or to play a game?"

Sherlock lost hold of himself, sobbing in apology. "C-can I have a shower? I'm s-sorry, I'm s-s-sorry M-My."

"Of course! Always!" Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and placed him in the wheelchair. "I'll go get it ready."

Sherlock grit his teeth as he was moved, finding any shift in position painful. He tightened his fists and hung his head as he sat in the chair, gripping the handles with all the strength he had. Tears slowly trailed down his face and he put his entire focus to breathing, shoulders shaking with exertion. 

Mycroft had Sherlock in the warm shower a few moments later. "It's alright," he said softly, knowing that the transition was always difficult. 

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's neck, wheezing through the pain of it as they settled into the heat.  
"M-My," he wept, hurting so badly he could not source it.

Mycroft kept up his routine of rocking and comforting his brother while still managing to get his basic cleaning over with. He washed his face gently with a cloth and smiled in an attempt of happiness. "Feel better?"

Sherlock tried to nod, though he was drowning in pain. He kept his face as closely tucked against Mycroft as possible, shaking as though the water was freezing.

Eventually, after nearly an hour, Mycroft stepped out of the shower and turned on the space heater to make sure Sherlock wouldn't be cold when they got out. He scooped him up and set him gently down in front of it while he helped him dress. 

"You're doing very well today. I'm proud. Do you think maybe you could try a smoothie? Or are you going to sleep for a bit?"

Sherlock shook his head, nearly green as Mycroft dressed him. He found ever movement to be incredibly painful and just wanted oblivion after all of this. He held on to the side of the wheelchair, shuddering, breathing through his clenched teeth and unable to answer. 

He wanted back in the shower or morphine or _anything_ to help him stop feeling so miserable. 

Mycroft got Sherlock dressed, bundled up in blankets, and back in bed. 

"I'm sorry you're in pain," he whispered. "Maybe tomorrow we can give you something stronger and you can work on moving your arms a bit."

 

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's neck, tears rolling down his face. Tomorrow was the day that he'd prove to himself it was done with John. Tomorrow was going to be hell. 

"I- I don't w-want to th-think about t-t-omorrow," he sobbed, clutching at Mycroft's shirt. 

"Alright," Mycroft said calmly and curled up next to Sherlock in bed. He planned on going to exercise once Sherlock was asleep in an attempt to interrupt the endless chain of sitting at meetings and lying in bed. 

"We don't have to think about it."

Sherlock fell asleep in tears, fingers caught between his teeth, curled in tight on himself. He wanted to stop thinking about John, about the home he'd lost, but his mind would give him no rest.

John, who had been sleeping peaceful, slowly began to toss in his sleep. 

_John reached out and brushed Sherlock's hair off his face. The man was crying horribly, and John had done everything in his ability to console him. "It's alright! It's-" John's voice turned to stone in his throat when he saw the deep, open gash over Sherlock's chest. He reeled back as Sherlock began to scream, and looked down at the knife in his hand. It clattered to the ground and John jumped back in surprise as he saw the blood covering his hands._

_As his eyes locked back on Sherlock, John counted numerous gashes on his now bleeding skin. "I didn't! I-I-"  
"Of course you did," Moriarty said softly and put his hand on John's shoulder. "It was always you. You do this to everyone you love, Pavlov. I didn't make you who you are. I only helped you realize it." John began to cry, shaking his head and trying desperately to wipe the blood off his face. _

_"It's all your fault," a voice said again. It was Greg's now, and John found himself in his bed, curled up next to his love._

_"N-No it's not," John protested weakly. "I-I didn't do this!"_

_"Yes, you did. Everything bad that has ever happened was your fault. You were traumatized by the war. It's your fault for joining. That boy that died? Hardly a man? The enemy didn't kill him. You did. You didn't move fast enough. Sherlock fell. If you had been a better man, he would have confided in you. Then...oh, your lovely wife and rosy little child."_

_Greg shook his head in a very Moriarty-like way as John stared in in horror._

_"First, you chose a former agent as a wife. That betrayal was your fault, too. Then, you weren't there for them when they needed you, and they died. Poor little baby girl, dead on the pavement. You're to blame. Then...oh, then you left Sherlock. You failed to see what you meant to him, how much he needed you, and you left him."_

_John let out a choked sob and covered his mouth with his hands. "N-No, I-I didn't... I didn't know!"_

_"Of course you didn't know! Stupid John! You had no idea that he was hurting. Then you were so weak in your capture that you snapped to bits. Do you know how damaging it was for Sherlock to find you like that? And you didn't heal, and he went back to heroin, and got captured, and even then you didn't want him."_

_John continued to shake his head as his failures were listed out for him by someone he loved. He scooted away on the bed to try and hide himself, when an arm wrapped around his waist and yanked him back._

_"You worthless piece of shit," Greg said harshly and pinned John roughly on his back. "Useless. You do nothing to help anyone!"_

_John, immediately stressed about being on his back, began to struggle against Greg's arms. "Stop it! STOP IT!"_

_Greg snarled and grabbed the hem of John's pants. "Do you want me to stay?"_

_John froze, and slowly nodded._

_"You don't want me to leave you, do you? You can't even fucking wash yourself. Do you want me to stay?"_

_Again, John nodded, but tears flowed down his face. "I-I want you to stay, but I-I don't want this. Not this. I-I can't. I can't! I love y-you, but, but..."_

_"Then stop fucking struggling," the strange, warped dream version of Greg snapped._

In his mind, John made a halfhearted attempt at struggling, but in reality, he was thrashing and screaming. 

Greg was off the bed, hands out, down on his knees and only close enough to keep John from falling to the floor. He'd been trying to wake him for more than twenty minutes now. 

"JOHN," he called out again, heart in his throat, "JOHN WAKE UP!" He knew his raised voice might scare the man, but he had to get him out of _this_. "Love! Please open your eyes! You're safe, John! You're safe!"

John transitioned seamlessly from his dream to real life and his eyes snapped open. He saw Greg with his hands out and immediately grabbed the hem of his trousers.

"I-I c-can't," he sobbed, "I-I don't w-want y-you to leave b-but I-I can't! I-I l-love you b-but I-I-I-" John let out another heartbroken, guttural cry and slowly laid back down. 

He stayed as still as he could possibly make himself be, and released the hem of his trousers. With his arms crossed in an X over his chest, he wept. 

"D-Don't want y-you to leave me," he whimpered. "P-Please, I-I can't! I....d-don't leave. I-I'll b-be still l-like y-you want I-" He was overtaken with sobs so powerful they shook his whole body despite his attempts at being still. 

It took Greg a moment to puzzle out what John was talking about. He followed John's hand to the panicked grip he had on his trousers, heart sinking. He fell backwards and crawled as far away from John as possible, clear to the other side of the room near the telly. 

"Y-You were dreaming," he gasped, "I would never- I- John you were dreaming! I'm- I don't want _that_ from you! I'm not leaving you! I'm- I would never hurt you! John please, it was a dream, oh god, John...no, I-" John had lay back, relenting to what he thought Greg wanted from him, terrified but...

John was willing to allow Greg to- 

"John," he breathed, tears sliding down his face, incredibly sensitive to this sort of thing. "John I- I would n-never- John I love you. I'm sorry this is happening. It was a dream."  
John was trembling hard, but the horrible thing in his mind remained. The more afraid he was, the more he needed and depended on Greg. Right now, he was terrified, lost and confused. He kept his knees pressed tightly together and looked over at Greg with tears streaming down his face. 

"L-L-Lo-Love y-y-you," he stammered through tears, which released another wave of guttural sobbing. 

"I-I d-don't w-wa-want this," he stammered and looked back up at the ceiling. He couldn't bear seeing Greg come to hurt him. John squeezed his eyes shut and wailed in absolute mental torment. 

"A-Anything! I-I'll b-be more useful and-and-and- not this! PLEASE!"

Greg got up slowly and moved to John's side, unable to keep away. He crawled onto the bed and dared to reach out, taking John up into his lap in a cradled position, dragging the blankets up to John's neck. 

"That's not going to happen," he said quietly as he began to rock John, "you are keeping your trousers on. Tie your knot, John. Tie it so you know. Keep your trousers on, I'm not going to touch you like that. I love you. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to touch you like that. Come back to me, John. You were having a terrible dream. That's all, love, just a terrible dream." 

John's heart tripped over itself when Greg reached out for him, and for a moment he was absolutely certain that he was going to be raped. Hastily he tied the knot on his trousers, which he hadn't done for ages, and flung his arms around Greg's neck. He was caught fast between fleeing and denying Greg what he'd demanded, and clinging to him for dear life. 

Eventually, the real Greg, the one who loved him, got through the veil of terror. 

"Dr-Dream? What, I? I..?" Even then, he pressed his face into Greg's shoulder and held tightly to him. "P-Please d-don't m-make me," he whimpered. "a-and p-please d-don't leave. I'm sorry!"

Greg shook his head. "I'm not going to make you do anything. I don't want anything from you. I'm not leaving. You were having a dream, love. You were dreaming. We were asleep, and then you became upset. We were not talking. We were sleeping." 

He lifted John with a bit of difficulty now that he'd gotten his weight back up to something better, tucking the blankets so that none of John below the shoulder was touching Greg. 

He was crushed to hear that John still believed him a monster deep down in the core of his mind. All this time, he'd never have John's trust. 

"You were dreaming," he repeated sadly, "it was a dream."

It came back to John very slowly, and he spent the next three minutes in silence before puzzling it out. 

He'd been with Greg for months, and nothing like that had ever happened. Greg had been nothing but kind to him. 

"Greg?" John's voice wavered. "D-Did you...you didn't say those...those things, right? Mary and the baby...that's not...that wasn't..." John turned his face away and rocked himself. "M-My fault," he choked out, "a-and Sherlock too, and that b-boy, James, and...I-I just...I'm s-sorry!"

Greg turned John's face to him as soon as he started speaking of his dead wife and child. "John Watson, you _listen to me_ ," he whispered roughly, forcing John to look him in the face, " _none_ of those things are your fault. Not one of them. No. _No_. We were sleeping, I wasn't saying anything to you, but I am now. You are _not_ to blame for those things. I love you. You are a good man. Do not allow those thoughts to grow, stop it, right now. No. That is not true, and you are safe. You are not responsible for any of it."

John closed his eyes and wept. The tendrils of the dream were leaving him now and he could tell that Greg would never have said those words. 

"I-I am... w-w-worthless," he whimpered. "W-Worthless. I thought....Oh God, I thought you were g-going to...I thought..." John let out another mournful cry and pressed his face into Greg's shoulder. "Y-You would n-never... I-I know. I know. Y-You're good to m-me. I-I...God, I...M-My fault."

Greg shook his head again, holding John's cheek to his chest and rocking him slowly. "It's not your fault, it's not. You just had a terrible dream, John. You are not worthless. You know those are lies," oh, he could not do this again, he could not go through this again, not all the way back to this level. 

"Please, John listen to me. It was a bad dream, a terrible dream, but you're awake now and we are home. I love you. I think you are wonderful. You have worth to me, so you cannot possibly be worthless. Listen to me, John, just me, not your mind. Everything is okay. We are okay. Breathe for me, love. It's okay, everything's okay."

Was he supposed to talk to Greg about his dream? How could he? "I...I was w-with Sherlock, and...and I h-had a knife, and then, he was bleeding...and I..." John whimpered again. "And then y-you were saying things. I-I don't...James and...And Sherlock, and M-Mary and our child, and...and I-I hurt you...I d-don't f-feel good."

Greg rocked John very slowly, running his fingers through John's hair. 

"You've not harmed any of us. You did not harm your wife. You did not harm me. You did not harm your daughter. These...these things have been done to you, John. You did not do them. I love you. You never harmed Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry your mind gave you that dream. It wasn't real. Listen...listen to my heart, focus on where you are. We are home, and all is settled. Everything is okay, love. Breathe and try to relax."

John nuzzled the side of Greg's face. 

"I thought I was here, and you were hurting me, and...I just...I thought you were going to leave me and..." John was utterly disgusted with himself and he slowly crawled out of Greg's arms. 

"I'm sorry," he repeated over and over as he removed himself. 

"I...I thought...I thought you were going t-to make me do that and...I just...I stayed still..." _Jesus, I'm disgusting._

John dropped his head into his hands and bit back a sob.

Greg's bruised chest spoke otherwise to that. "No, you didn't. You didn't stay still at all. Why are you leaving? If you don't want me near you, I understand, but...but I don't want you to go. I'm sorry you had that dream. I can't...John I can't control what your mind does. Please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, John. Why are you leaving?"  
"I'm just... I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you. I'm n-not mad at you. I just w-want a moment to think."

_Disgusting._

"I wanted you to stay and I panicked and...I panicked! I need you to stay with me. Please. I can't live on my own. I would die, I would...I would go insane. D-Don't ever ask m-me to make that choice. Please."

Greg hung his head, knees bent up in front of him, forearms resting atop them. He had to swallow several times, glad the light was too dim for John to see him go pale. 

"I would never- that's not a choice you'd ever have to make," he breathed, tears burning at his eyes that a totally present, lucid John would feel the need to voice such a thing at this point. 

John gave a small nod and slowly his breathing slowed. The dream still had illogical panic wrapped tight about his mind, and he began to cry again at the weight of what he'd done, what the dream had said, and the choices he'd made in it even after waking. 

"I don't know how you can love me," John said quietly. He knew full well that Greg did. That was clear. But the reasoning, even after all this time, came into doubt. John crawled forward and settled his head in Greg's lap so he could look up at him. 

The next two days passed in a quiet blur, until John found himself loading back up for Sherlock’s. 

John wiped his palms on his pants and stepped up to Sherlock's door. He was anxious, but absolutely determined to get this done. He cracked the door and peered inside. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock had been distant all morning, falling to react to Mycroft for the last twelve hours. He did not respond, remaining dazed and distant, simply assuming John was a bit of his imagination.

John strode forward with less hesitation than ever and sat down on a chair beside Sherlock. "Are you doing okay today? I'm here to talk to, if you want to."

Sherlock remained as he was, eyes unfocused, locked up in his mind where he'd chosen to spend the day.

John gave a short nod. "Alright, then." He stood up and sat down in the bed directly next to Sherlock. "Now, Sherlock, I know you're scarred, but I am real, and you are safe. Just look up at me, yeah?"

Sherlock startled slightly as the bed shifted, suddenly looking up at John. He stared at him for a moment before his eyes began to focus, though he said nothing, fear settling in gut. John wasn't supposed to be there.

John saw the reaction and slowly took Sherlock's hand. "I'm here. It's okay." John smiled at Sherlock with his eyes and brought his mangled hand up to his lips. "It's alright."

Sherlock started at John for a few moments more before blinking, watching him in disbelief.

"Y-you...why....why are you...I thought...I-" he began to tear up, fingers squeezing down on John's hand, "you're h-here."

John grinned at him. "Yes! I am! I'm right here. Every other day, just like I said. Could I ask you something, really?"

Sherlock clenched down on John's hand and held his breath, still in shock that John had come back. He remembered to nod, keeping his eyes locked to John's.

John leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "Can you maybe think of something I could do to help you?"

 

Sherlock blinked up at John, the question absurd to him. "H-Help me," he whispered in disbelief, "you...y-you want...to help m-me?"

John let out a small laugh and bent down to kiss his forehead again. "Of course. I'm here for you. Want to play a games or do something pleasant?"

Sherlock nodded numbly, mostly out of never wanting to tell John no. He had no idea if he'd be able to or not, but if John wanted him to play a game, then he would.

He struggled to sit up, arms shaking, failing to do so. Pain flared across his body and he quietly lay back down, sure not to look at John's face, exhaling slowly as he tried to shift to his side instead.

John gently helped Sherlock sit up and piled pillows behind him. "There you go, love. You're alright. It's okay. How are you feeling today?"

Sherlock carefully eased back against the pillows, trying to absorb John's use of 'love,' blinking at him before trying to find Mycroft, feeling as though he were missing some vital bit of information.

"I...I'm..." He did not have a good answer. He was in pain, incredibly thirsty, and already exhausted from just their small interaction. "F-fine...I'm....I'm fine," he whispered.

John was eager to help, and set straight to work. "How was your day yesterday? Did you did anything nice?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor. "I...h-had a shower...a-and...a b-bit of w-water. My...r-read to me." Oh, he sounded so hateful, like a child. John had been in hell so much longer than Sherlock had. It was inexcusable that Sherlock still needed so much help. He kept his eyes down, burning with shame.

John, remembering what had helped him with his progress, abruptly wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!" Pure elation sang in his voice and he laughed happily. 

"I'm so glad you had water. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock could not help how he leaned into John, very cautiously settling a hand on John's back, forcibly resisting the urge to cling to him and bury his face against John's jumper. It was still difficult to believe John was even there.

Very quietly he whispered to John, hoping no one else could hear it. 

"I've h-hurt My. He's...I've hurt h-him." 

There was an urgency to his tone, shame and panic, bit sure why he was telling John that at all.

"I hurt Greg a lot too." 

John put his head down on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"But they love us. They really do. And we aren't hurting them as much as we think we are. We're not. And you aren't hurting My. It's Moriarty's fault. It's okay. I'm here for you." 

Sherlock leaned against John, hoping to hell he was right. In the background, Greg moved closer to Mycroft.

"How are you holding up?" He whispered, far from the men.

Mycroft leaned closer so he wouldn't be too loud. "Holding up as best I can. It's been.... This past half year has been hell." 

How Greg agreed with that, nodding as he gently squeezed Mycroft's shoulder. "He drank water for you?"

"He drank water for John," Mycroft said bitterly. "And I resent John for it. I shouldn't. But I do."

Greg nodded, not understanding, but empathizing. "Your brother loves you very much, don't let yourself forget that."

"I know." Mycroft closed his eyes and John tended to Sherlock tenderly. "He responds to him so much better." 

Greg nodded, keeping a close eye on his John. "He wasn't made to believe he raped you," Greg whispered bluntly, though his tone was gentle. 

"He's in love with John, this is good for him." Maybe not for John, but Sherlock looked as though he'd stumbled upon billions as he buried himself slowly against John, clearly dumbstruck that the man was there.

Mycroft kept his breathing even and forced himself to be happy for Sherlock. John was doing quite well of it, and he had no right to be upset with that. "Sherlock is never this calm. I tried to be everything he would need, but as it turns out he still needs John. Should we expect you regularly?"

Greg shrugged. "Perhaps, I'm..we had a bad night last night. He wants Sherlock to be able to trust his word." He looked to John and Sherlock, but exactly seeing calm. Sherlock was shaking, still looking very afraid.

"Bad night concerning Sherlock, or personal matters?" 

Mycroft was already uneasy, and though John was doing a model job, he cast frequent and nervous glances over at them.

Greg whispered back, keeping his eyes on John. "It's guilt, Mycroft. It's not fear, it's guilt."

"Guilt that he's not enough?" Mycroft's words had a bite to them. "That set him back months. He's been basically catatonic for half a year."

Greg nodded, recognizing the thin ice they were on.   
"I've never seen Sherlock so...so terrified. I'm...Mycroft I- I know that was horrific. I wish I had an answer. He..it wasn't about Sherlock. That fixes nothing, I know, but it's not about Sherlock. He was taught...He's so scared, Mycroft, but he won't leave him behind. He won't. Let that count, look how he's trying to help him. Please. I'm so...god Mycroft you have no idea how sorry I am that you're hurting. Please...I know I have no room to talk but, distance yourself. He loves you, he's not stopped looking for you but...he doesn't see you."

Mycroft didn't respond. He'd heard every word and taken them all to heart and mind, but he couldn't speak. He was watching John get overly excited again at something simple Sherlock had done. "Does that work? What he's doing?"

Greg nodded, "For John, yes. But John...they taught John....it was different for him. He needs to know he's good. Sherlock...Sherlock might need something different. I haven't been around him enough. John has to see that he has good in him. 'I will not hurt Sherlock,' was his saving grace. They made him believe...god what they made him believe..his family...god, Mycroft, I know you are angry but what they did to John..."

"I am only angry at him in the same way I was angry at you for shoving Sherlock off John. Some things just happen. I do not blame either of you." Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John for a moment. "What did they make him believe about his family?"

Greg tried to get Mycroft to stop looking at John. "His fault. They taught him that every...everything is his doing. He...He blames himself for all of it. He fights so hard, he fights so hard."

Mycroft hummed and moved his eyes to Sherlock. "That is quite a shame," he said in a distracted voice. "Must be hard for the both of you. How do you rouse John when he is catatonic?"

Greg shook his head. "I don't," he whispered sadly, "I...I wait. I read to him or...or I beg him, but...but I never bring him back. Not ever."

"Neither do I."

Mycroft walked over and sat down in the chair next to the bed. He didn't belong in that bed, even if it was his own. It was for Sherlock and John now. John would always come first, and while Mycroft understood it, and knew he shouldn't be bruised about it, it stung him deeply.

Sherlock's trembling hand reached out for his brother as he dissolved into tears, seeing the pain his sibling was trying to mask.

"I- I'm," his voice choked off, all his mistakes presenting at once, "I'm s-so sorry, I'm so s-sorry. S-So sorry," he wept, speaking to all in his company, feeling microscopic and horrible. 

Mycroft didn't want to interrupt John's time with Sherlock, but he couldn't resist reaching out to take Sherlock's hand. "I'm alright," he said with as much cheer he could manage. "I'm glad that you're up and talking. It makes me happy."

Sherlock was stiff with fear as Mycroft reluctantly took his hand, whimpering against John's chest. John was putting on an act, as was his brother, and Sherlock could not understand what was happening other than that.

He let go or Mycroft and began to withdraw back into his mind, his grip on John going progressively weaker.

"Hey," John said a bit loudly, "stay here with me. It's okay. I know you're worried. You're in pain. You're safe with the three people who love you most. I love you. I want you to stay with me." 

Sherlock was running as fast as he could, tearing away from consciousness, racing for the door. He could control a bit of what happened in his mind, at least. He held tight to his own shirt as he'd taken to doing when afraid, still holding to John with the other hand, unable to force himself to let go. 

He got to the door and stopped, dropping down on the steps, watching reality through a little window and not yet entirely cut off from the world. 

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders. "Come back," he pleaded gently. "Come to me. I'm here. John is here." 

Sherlock audibly whimpered in distress, pressing his back to the door. There was an air of duplicity in the room that was terribly frightening to him. For several minutes he failed to respond. 

Finally he reached for his brother, the only consistent person in his life, blinking back into focus as he tried to get Mycroft's attention. Mycroft was upset. So upset that he was doing a horrible job of keeping it secret, openly struggling just below the surface. He turned his entire body to be closer to his brother, though still had a hand on John. 

"M-My," he whispered in tears.

John shrank back and let Mycroft work. 

The worried older brother scooped Sherlock into his arms, with one looped under his knees and the other supporting his head and neck. "I've got you, 'Lock. Everything is alright. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Sherlock clung to his brother, whispering in panicked French. "What's wrong? M-My, what's wrong? Is th-that J-John? What's wrong, M-My?"

"Yes, it is John. And no, nothing is wrong. You're safe. We're all just a bit stressed because things have been difficult. It's okay now though. It's okay." 

Mycroft spoke honestly. It was okay. Things were getting better. 

Sherlock held tight to Mycroft, daring to look over to John. This was too hard. Mycroft was upset that John was there, John was upset that Sherlock wasn't well.

He began to withdraw again, afraid and exhausted, running back into his mind where at least nothing was expected to make sense.

Mycroft looked helplessly to John for a moment, and the man nodded him on. 

"'Lock, I'm going to ask you to do something very, very hard. I know you're hurting, but I need you to stay with me, and I need you to let go of the idea of dying. John is here, and he wants you to stay. You're not hurting anyone, except for when you go away. As long as you're with us, we're happy." 

Mycroft looked to John for backup, and he happily supplied it. 

"Sherlock, we need you here. I need you. I need you as a friend, and someone who understands what it's like. I need someone who understands how awful being cold and tired can be. And I want you as a friend, as my best friend. I need you. I want you to stay with me. Please? You'll need to be brave and selfless, but I know you're strong enough. You're a good man." 

John's words and his brother's plea were scalding. Sherlock tucked his fingers into his mouth and pulled his hair, giving himself back out of his mind.

"I-" what was he supposed to say? Everything he did upset someone. He stared across the room, though he was intensely present, fully aware of what was going on

"It's okay," John said softly and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We love you, and we only want what is best for you. You aren't hurting us. I have an outside view, and I wouldn't lie to you. I thought I was hurting Greg for a really long time. Sometimes, that feeling comes back. But you have to see that it is not your fault, and you're doing wonderfully."

Sherlock looked up to John, abruptly speaking hushed and fast. 

"H-How are you h-h-here? You m-must be disgusted w-with me. I h-hurt you. I am… _l-look at me!_ You- you were th-there s-s-o much l-longer and-" he swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, self-loathing pushing the words from him. 

"I'm n-not...not y-your friend. Y-You f-force yourself to be h-here and I don't know why! You'll l-leave when y-you remember what I am. I'm h-hurting _everything_. I- I'm n-not worth anyone's t-time!"

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and spoke in a low, hushed whisper. "Yeah. Yeah, I was in there longer. But it doesn't matter. Moriarty literally shaped me into something that would hurt people. That was the entire point of me. I was sculpted to hurt people. Believe me, I know how you are feeling right now and I know how much you want to die.

I got better because I had a goal. I needed to help you. You need a goal, and I need you as my friend. I need someone who understands. Please, Sherlock, heal. If not for yourself, then do what I did and heal for those you love."

That was exactly counter to what was good for the people he cared about. Mycroft was under some form of delusion, John...he needed purpose and had oddly put it to Sherlock. The rest were already gone. 

But how could he refuse? If John wanted him to heal, to feel the pain of this longer, then that's what he'd do. He cast his eyes down and gave John a slight nod. 

A bright, brilliant grin lit up John's face. It was his old grin, the slightly bemused, thrilled face he'd used to make when Sherlock did something impossibly brilliant. "Thank you!" He exclaimed and flung his arms around Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock felt none of John's joy, though a pang of homesickness tore through him at the expression on John's face. He leaned slightly into John's arms, eyes closed, terribly confused and conflicted. 

Mycroft was going to yell at him later for responding to John. He was going to be so upset, but if Sherlock didn't respond, he would not be paying his debt back.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't sure what the debt was. He knew he owed John for the terrible things he'd done, but he could not quite place what those had been. What had he done? He held his breath for a moment, racing back through his mind, looking for it. When he was unable to source his guilt, what exactly he'd done to John, he simply shrugged it off and reminded himself that he had to pay for this. So he'd heal. He'd do what they asked him to do, and he'd live out whatever life he was going to be subjected to, and that would be the end of it. 

John leaned back and saw the conflict on Sherlock's face. "What is it? You're doing so brilliantly. Part of healing is telling people what is wrong. It's a hard part. Especially if it's in your mind. But it helps. I promise."

Sherlock searched out John's face, so very afraid. It took him a while to find his voice, and when he spoke it was hardly above a whisper. 

"I...I don't know wh-what..." he swallowed hard and looked away, ashamed of himself. He stared down at his hands, "I d-don't know what...m-my crime is and I c-c-can't remember wh-what I've d-done...Healing f-f-feels wr-r-rong and....and...." he sank his hands into his hair, too conflicted to accurately get the words out. 

"I- I don't...I'm g-going to be...so alone," he trailed off, his voice small and childlike. 

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered in a heartbroken tone. He wrapped the man in his arms once more and pressed his face down against his shoulder. 

"No, no, no crime. You were made to think you were guilty. That's the trick, the game he played. Never your fault. Healing is a good thing. I know when I was in the hospital, I thought it was pointless. But my life is good now, and I won't let you be alone. I've healed. It's been six months, and I am eager to be here."

The words slipped away from him before he could grab them back, "Y-You've s-s-said that a lot," he sobbed, finally losing tears as he reached out and clutched at John, scared that his words would drive John away, "I- I'm t-t-trying to b-believe you, I'm s-s-sorry." 

"You don't deserve this. You don't. You never deserved pain, and you have no crime. You are innocent and wonderful in my mind, regardless of the image you hold in your own. I love you. I will help you see that you have no crime. It only feels that way." 

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair tenderly and kissed his forehead. "You are innocent. No crime. You deserve to live and be happy."

Sherlock just held on to John, unsure what to do with himself other than hope that he would not abruptly abandon him again. "I...I am s-so scared y-you're going t-to leave ag-gain. I...I am d-destroying m-my brother. St-r-rangers are p-paid to s-sit with m-me so that I d-don't-" he could not finish that statement. 

It had been obvious Mycroft had caught on to his efforts to kill himself, depriving himself from water and hydration despite the pain of it, "I...it f-f-feels l-like it w-would be better...for...for e-everyone if-f I died. I'm sc-cared...John I'm...I'm scared." 

"I know you're scared," John whispered and held Sherlock in a tight grip. "I know. I remember being afraid. But what will help with that is healing. You need to heal. I know it's hard. I'm so sorry I left in the past. I truly feel terrible about it. But I won't leave again for long. I swear. I don't want to die anymore, I'm not afraid of you, and I'm not angry with you. I just want my friend to be feeling better. Will you let me help you? Will you let me lead you somewhere safe?"  
That was far more reassuring. Sherlock nodded as he clung to John, wanting to the core of his being for all that to be true.

Six months was a very long time. John could walk out the door for the next year and still his word would be true, but the help would be lost. He tried to focus on John's want to help him instead of the glaring semantics of the promise. 

"I'll lead you through this, alright? I can lead you through it. I've been where you are. I've been scared. I got like this...oh...about five months in to Moriarty's work. And for a while after. I know how this is. I can take you out of it, if you will follow me." 

John brushed Sherlock's hair off his face and smiled at him. "Life will get better. It doesn't seem like it now, but it will. I even exercise now. I can lead you to a better life." John held out his hand for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock pressed his cheek harder against Mycroft's chest, though he reached out and took John's hand. What John was proposing sounded like lies. He wasn't the short of man who deserves help. 

"I....I'll b-be able t-to see y-you again," he asked, watching John's face closely.

"Of course," John breathed and nodded vigorously. "And I am going to lead you out of this. Just watch. I've gotten stronger. I can go outside and play with my dog. Will you do that with me someday?"

"Gl-ladstone," Sherlock whispered, looking to John. "You...you a-are fortunate to...h-have him," he whispered, trying to imagine a day that he'd be able to go out of doors with John simply to enjoy it.

"They...I've...they t-tell m-me I won't walk. I...I can't go w-with you, I'm sorry," and god, was he honestly sorry for that. Part of the fear of healing was to face what was forever gone from him. He'd not allowed himself to properly consider life as disabled.

He looked down, wringing his hands as he honestly thought on it. "I...I don't know h-how..How am I...h-how...I'm...I l-lost...I've lost m-my..." 

He could not say it, tears rolling down his cheeks as he considered his miserable future.

"Then I'll push you in a chair," John said without skipping a beat. "And we'll go outside, and you can see Gladstone run. You would love it. He's like lightning! He can jump, too. I threw the ball over a bench, thinking it would be some sort of obstacle. Didn't slow him down in the least. He ran right up it. You'll see it someday. Maybe when you're a bit more healed and it won't hurt you to be outside."

Sherlock nodded, failing to find any excitement with John. He was focused on being confined to a chair, of all things. John did not find it to be a negative thing, but it was only in that moment properly sinking in that if he allowed himself to live he'd be so very different than he had been.

He shifted his leg on the bed, staring at them. Useless and painful. That's all they were now.

"Okay, Sherlock. We're going to start healing." John shifted Sherlock again so he was sitting up better, then sat down next to him. "Can you reach up and take my hands?" He held his hands about level with his chest.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before trying to comply. He really reached with his left, but his right have him trouble. He grit his teeth and forced his arm up, still reeling from being shifted at all. He managed to wrap his fingers around John's hands, breathing a bit faster than normal.

John smiled like he'd won the lottery and brought Sherlock's hands up the rest of the way to kiss them. "Wonderful. Good job. I know that hurt, but it's good to work on it. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock was desperately thirsty, sapped of energy, and deeply wanting to lay down and rest. His arms were screaming and he was breathing through his teeth, but John was happy.

"I- I'm g-glad that...that was good." Perhaps he could make John happy enough to come back.

"Yes, yes it was!" John was beaming at Sherlock and stooped over to give him a proper hug. "And you and I will keep working on it, every other day, until you and I can go outside and play with Gladstone."

Every other day. Every other day…

Sherlock focused on that, finding it a bit...specific. Every other day.

"Ok-kay," he whispered, dropping his eyes and looking to the floor. "That...that's..." He swallowed, deeply unsettled and unsure why, "what w-we'll do."

John breathed a happy sigh of relief and nuzzled down on Sherlock. "Hard part is over. Let's just watch a movie or telly. Do you want to hold me, or should I hold you?"

Sherlock looked back to John in open surprise. "I...y-you're not leaving?" 

He'd fully expected John to get up and go nite that they'd had a moment and Sherlock had agreed to try.

"You're...you'll st-tay with m-me?"

"Yeah, of course. I don't want to leave. Sometimes when I get stressed, I have to leave to protect you, but look!" 

John smiled and settled down next to Sherlock in bed. "I'm calm."

Sherlock kept himself firmly seated on Mycroft's lap, watching John carefully.

"C-Calm...yes...you're...you're calm," he breathed, instantly thinking back to the early days he say watching John through the glass, unable to reach him through his terror. 

He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing them along the side of John's face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, speaking more to the man strapped screaming to his hospital bed than the John that was right before him, "I...I t-tried...I tried, John."

John clearly leaned into the touch and turned so Sherlock's fingers were in his hair. He loved having people run their fingers through his hair, an found it incredibly comforting. "You did so well. You saved me from Moran."

Sherlock watched John with open wonder. "I s-saved you a b-bit," he whispered, sliding his fingers through John's longer, grey-tinged locks. He should have done more, he'd never atone, but John was with him and he'd take that.

"I'd...I'd have...there w-was no way...n-not any way that...th-that he'd...get his h-hands on y-you again. No. Not...not e-ever. Not ever."

He pulled John very carefully closer. "I...it was...w-was...when you..." He could not articulate the hell he'd been in before Moran even took him. "Did...did it help when I...I played f-for you on...on camera?" 

He had to know if his last times with his beloved violin had done his John any good. "I...I didn't...know what e-else to do f-for you. I was...w-was always with y-you, always, until it w-was better f-for you f-for me...to l-leave. You were n-never alone, e-even if it...s-seemed that w-way."

John turned his head this way and that as Sherlock played with his hair in obvious enjoyment. 

"It helped so much. You sounded beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. It helped me calm, and helped me remember our old times together. And...Thank you for saving me from Moran. Thank you so much. I couldn't have handled....Jesus, what he did to you...I am so sorry. I had hoped you would never know such pain."

Sherlock was calming as John assured him the playing had helped. He was allowing the tension to go out if his muscles until John spoke of what Moran did with him, fingers stilling in John's hair. He went very quiet, losing a bit of his color.

After several minutes he squeaked out a soft, "Y-You're...welcome."

"And I still play the tapes every day on a loop. When I first heard you play, it reminded me of who you were. And then, since I started to remember, you became less frightening, and I started to see how sad you were." 

John nuzzled the top of Sherlock's head as affectionately as any past lover. 

"And you helped me with the tapping. That was my gateway to the rest of communication. And..." John thought back again to find another instance where Sherlock had helped. 

"And...Oh! I remember now! You weren't in that room to hurt me! You _tackled_ that doctor who was hurting me! Good job with that one, mate. He was awful."

Sherlock's throat had swollen closed on him, though he nodded to John that he understood. It was a relief to hear that he'd done a bit of good. Sherlock had nearly killed that man, but they'd pulled him off and made him leave instead.

He pressed his face to John's chest, heartbroken that he'd never play for John again when it so clearly soothed him. That was the worst of it, losing his hands. Tears flowed slowly down his face in an odd mix of sharp grief and warm peace. At least John now understood that he'd been trying to help him.

John responded warmly. "I listen to the tapes every day. That one song that you used to play when thinking about an interesting case makes me happy. Excited. I just love it. Really. You ought to come over and listen to it with me some time."

Sherlock nodded against John's chest, breathing as slowly as he could. It was odd that he'd recorded himself, but he was glad he'd done so. At least John would have his music and could remember what Sherlock had one been.

"I'll...I'll try," he said roughly, not particularly wanting to hear the recordings, but going along with it anyhow.

"Or you could just come over and I could show you the flat." 

John was careful not to say 'our' flat, as his friendship with Greg was upsetting to Sherlock. "I would _really_ like to have you over. Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a kid asking for a play date."

Sherlock knew Greg's flat, though he supposed it was much different with John there now. Their flat was honestly something Sherlock never wanted to see. He knew his home was gone now, but seeing John settled with Greg would just solidify that fact.

"I'll...I'll t-try," he whispered, eyes burning. He would do anything John wanted.

"Great!" John settled happily and looked to the telly. "Greg, could you put something happy on?"

Greg watched Sherlock closely before turning his attention to the telly, finding some easy show he and John enjoyed.

Sherlock leaned against John, holding on to him and breathing slowly, eyes closed and swiftly drifting off to sleep minutes later.

John breathed a slow sigh of relief and looked to Greg. "Was that alright? Did I do alright?"

Greg nodded and sat down beside the bed next to John, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple.

"I'd say so. Mycroft...what do you think?"

Mycroft nodded and walked over to John. "You did very well. I'm sure he will be feeling better."

John gave a small smile and extracted himself from Sherlock's arms. "I'm glad I could help him. I think that went very well. Should I leave now, or stay a little longer?"

Greg saw the exhaustion in John's eyes, speaking softly. "You did so well. We can go home, love. We can go home."

"Wait," John said and looked around the room. "Could I write a letter for when he wakes up?"

Greg looked to Mycroft, hoping that would be allowed. "It's fine with me," he said with a soft smile.

John found writing utensils and a pad of paper and quickly wrote a note. It was sloppy, as his handwriting had never fully recovered, but it was heartfelt. 

_Dear Sherlock,  
It's me, John. I just wanted to let you know that I had a great time with you today. I will be back the day after tomorrow. You can call me if you like. That would be nice. _

_-John H. Watson_

Greg helped John up, handing Mycroft the note. He held John close to his side, beaming with pride. "Are you ready," he asked softly, intent on taking John home and taking care of him, "that note is perfect, you did so well." 

John was proud of himself, and it shone on his face. "Yeah, let's go home. We can work on some water or with Paul. We did good today. Sherlock made progress too."

 

Sherlock slept for the next ten hours, not so much as moving a muscle, resting harder and deeper than he had in quite some time. When he came awake, he had no idea how much time had passed, speaking before opening his dry eyes. 

"Th-hank y-you, J-John," he whispered, shifting and sliding his hand to try and find John's. 

Mycroft saw what was happening and panicked briefly. "Hey, Sherlock," he said and took his hand so he wouldn't be left with nothing. 

"John had to go home for a bit, but he'll be back day after tomorrow. He left a note."

Sherlock curled his fingers around Mycroft's hand, tears burning at the backs of his eyes though he wasn't sure why. John would come back, surely. He'd just been confused. It wasn't John's fault that he'd thought John was still with him. He kept his eyes closed, wishing like hell that he could read the note. 

"Oh," he whispered, feeling like a fool. He kept his eyes closed, no longer interested in waking up. Perhaps he could get himself to go back to sleep. 

"I can read it to you, if you want." Mycroft's voice was kept very soft and gentle. "It is a very kind note."

Sherlock nodded, holding on to Mycroft's hand, nearly delirious with thirst. "Please," he whispered, hating that he needed to be read to at all. He pulled Mycroft's hand closer, feeling off-balanced in the loss of John there with him. There was something particularly upsetting about believing John there, only to find him gone. 

Mycroft sat down next to him and pulled out the letter. He read it slowly, happily, in a way he hoped Sherlock would absorb. 

Sherlock listened closely, paying attention to everything that was said and struggling to puzzle out if there was anything left unsaid. He was quiet and contemplative as Mycroft spoke. 

"See? He's coming right back! It'll be so soon. We can have a nice time until then." Mycroft folded the letter and tucked it into Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock held on to it, staring at the letter before closing his eyes again. 

"E-Every...every o-o-other d-day," he breathed, brows knitting as he spoke, "he's...every o-other day...that's...he's b-building endurance." 

John was practicing. Just as one worked muscle groups, John was handling difficult tasks with a day of rest between. Sherlock closed his eyes, desperately trying not to feel hurt by that. At least John was trying. He had to remember that. John was trying. 

"I'm...I'm p-painful to-" he swallowed, dry throat closing on him.

"Do you want water?" Mycroft watched Sherlock's throat and grew worried. "And he is working very hard. He's less stressed every time. There were no tears this time."

Sherlock nodded with great reluctance. He had said that he would try to heal, which meant he had to abandon his effort to dehydrate to death. He looked to his brother, hesitant to release his hand. Again he tried to speak, but he could not manage it properly with his throat so parched. 

Mycroft got Sherlock a bottle of water and tipped it just a bit so he wouldn't choke. "Thank you for deciding to heal. You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

Sherlock could hardly contain himself, once again at the mercy of his body as he began to gulp the water down, desperate for it, finding it more soothing than morphine in his veins. He grabbed hold of Mycroft's wrist in a blond, thoughtless move that was intended to keep him there least he pull the water away, though his logical mind knew My would never do anything so cruel to him. He groaned as his throat loosened, ignoring his stomach and the feel of the tube at the back of his throat as he swallowed as fast as he could. 

When the bottle was empty Sherlock finally let Mycroft go, breathing heavy to catch his breath back. 

"I...I'm p-painful to him," he whispered, very sad, "I hurt him still...he...he is...he's h-having to..." he shook his head, breathing in deep, "e-every oth-other d-day...he's h-having to b-build up t-to me. Every...every other d-day.”

"Yes, he is. But that's okay. We'll be alright. We can have a nice time without him, right?" 

Mycroft put his arms around Sherlock and settled to wait. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, shifting and trying to sit up. 

"Y-You do n-not care for....f-for him to be here," he stated without question, watching Mycroft carefully, "you r-resent him...and m-my...my response t-to him." 

He looked down at his hands and then back to his brother, more calm and lucid than he'd been in ages, "I....I w-want to h-have this c-conversation w-with you now. Will you speak to m-me about th-this?"

Mycroft breathed a slow sigh and dropped his head. "I am ashamed that I am feeling that way. But...yes, I am resentful that he has succeeded in two days what I tried for six months to do. Please don't be upset with me. I'm fine with you being with him. I'm happier when he is here, because you are happier." 

Sherlock shook his head, "Th-that is not what...what I am talking about," he shifted uncomfortably and tried to get himself up higher, "I'm...I am finding it difficult t-to...to e-explain..." he pulled at Mycroft's sleeve, needing his brother to hear him. He could see the damage he'd done to Mycroft as clear as day. 

"Pl-lease...My, listen t-to me?"

Mycroft breathed a slow sigh and nodded. "Okay. Alright. I'm sorry. I'll listen." He kept his face calm and relaxed, even though he was highly stressed. 

Sherlock could feel the tension rolling of Mycroft, focusing on his brother as he tried to find words that Mycroft could appreciate. 

"Y-You believe...th-that John m-matters more to me than you," he whispered, trying to place what was going on. 

Mycroft let out a short gasp and shook his head, even though it was remarkably true. "I...I'm sorry, I... It is weak of me to think that way, but it's true. You care more about him than me. I'll never be enough." 

Sherlock was silent as he watched his brother's reaction. How was he to counter this, to convince Mycroft that it was not true? Mycroft did not care for people, he would not be able to empathize with Sherlock's differing and complex feelings towards John. 

"M-My," he whispered quietly, keeping hold of Mycroft's sleeve as he studied his broken down brother. He licked his lip and then tried to get closer to it. "W-What d-data...what data in y-your mind s-supports th-this?"

Mycroft listed it off. "You and him are in love. I am just your brother. He pulled you out of a catatonic state when I failed to. He makes you smile, and I make you cry."

Sherlock was reeling. How could Mycroft believe...

"H-He is _not_... in-n l-love with...with me, brother. Y-You know that...you know that..." and oh, did it hurt for that to be the truth of it, but it was.

"I...I l-loved him once...b-but it...e-everything is d-different now." 

He shifted uncomfortably, in pain, needing his medication. "I- he d-did not pull me out of an-anything. He...h-he...he..." how to explain? 

He pulled his hand back from Mycroft, feeling as though he did not deserve to touch him. 

"You are m-my brother," he whispered, tears brimming despite his efforts, "you...n-never...never leave me anymore. You...you're h-h-here and you… _J-John_ m-makes me s-sad. You don't do it. J-John...he...h-he lies to m-me...he l-leaves and I- I n-never know if..." he raked a hand over his hair, trying to calm down. 

"I- I l-love you, My...I love y-you. I don't know h-how to...I...I would...you're my..." he dragged in a shaking breath and held his own hands, greatly distressed. "I...I owe John however..h-however l-long he w-wants me to hurt, then I...I h-have to do that. He...he won't allow m-me to live with them. He...he's n-never going to c-come home. He doesn't forgive m-me what I- all the harm I did to him...he...he n-needs m-me to live with what I've d-done." 

Sherlock did not at all want to carry on living, but it was a debt owed and John wanted it paid in full. 

"You...you're a-all I have, My," he whispered as tears rolled down his face, "you're th-the only person alive who...who w-wants me. Y-You give me water when I...I don't deserve it. You l-let me have m-medicine when y-you should...should...l-let m-me s-suffer." 

Mycroft saw the pain he was causing Sherlock, and he stopped. Pain stirred in his chest. His eyes burned. He could feel his shoulders slouching. But he wanted to be strong for Sherlock, and he calmed. "I love you. I won't leave you. I'm sorry John causes you pain. If you don't want to see him anymore, you don't have to. I will always be here for you." 

Perhaps that's what he needed to do, perhaps he had to stop seeing John for Mycroft's benefit? Mycroft was still in such terrible distress. 

"M-Maybe it...would be for...for the best if...if n-none of y-you saw m-me anymore," he said through the swelling in his throat, honestly meaning it. 

"I...I h-have a d-debt to p-pay...and I sh-should n-not be h-happy...I...I'll k-keep eating and...and I'll do wh-what the staff tell me to do. You...I'm h-hurting you s-so terribly, M-My." 

Panic stirred in his belly as he realized how sound the idea was. He would heal to whatever extent was possible, his brother would get on with his life, and John could know that Sherlock had not gotten off easily. 

"I- I think y-you should stop coming t-to see me." 

"You have no debt! No debt at all! I need you, and so does John." Mycroft scooped Sherlock up into his arms. "Please. I need you. I love you. You're my little brother, and I can't let you suffer."

Sherlock grabbed his brother's shoulder as pain tore through his body while he was shifted. He sobbed, pressing his forehead to Mycroft's chest as it ripped through him. He shook his head as he began to come back down from the pain of it. 

"N-No one needs me. No one. No one. I...I h-hurt. You th-think y-you don't matter and...and J-John is...John h-has been hurting himself to c-come here and-" he chewed at his lip, seeking the pain of it. 

"N-No, you should...sh-should just return to your life and now John to his and...and I'll do as asked a-and h-heal so that...that I...c-can pay the d-debt in f-full."

"Sherlock, why do you think we do this? Why do you think we all work so hard to keep you healthy and safe? Because you matter, and we love you. Because you are worth more than the sum of your abilities. Because John Watson, Greg Lestrade and I all love you dearly." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed his forehead like a parent with a injured child. "I love you. You matter."

Sherlock shook his head. "O-Only you c-care if I am s-safe...if I am h-healthy. John...I do n-not underst-tand John. Greg is doing wh-what he thinks b-best for John. Y-You are the only one wh-who has b-bothered with m-me. I don't understand John, he...he s-says things h-he does n-not mean. I don't underst-tand him." 

"B-But that's not what m-matters. I'm h-hurting you. I'm hurting you and...and I d-don't know h-how to st-t-op, My...I don't know how to stop."

"No. No you aren't hurting me. I'm just being an ass." Mycroft reached out and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "You're just confused. You were tortured into thinking that you are something less than what you are."

Sherlock shook his head, refusing that. "N-No. I...I know what I am. Everything p-points to the truth of it. I...am c-causing you s-such...John- I r-reacted to John b-because I hurt him and I have to! I...I had to and...and I do l-love him but...but he only loves me here," he tapped the side of his head, "I...I killed him. I k-killed him and I h-hurt him and h-he came here and...and..." 

He whimpered pathetically and shook his head again, unable to explain the desire to be near John and the deep fear of it as well. "Pl-lease...I c-can't be this. Please d-don't m-make me be th-this." 

Mycroft continued rocking and soothing Sherlock. "All evidence points to people who love you and are grieving. We are sad because you are sad. Reexamine the evidence. This is not pain inflicted on us by you. This is empathy. We are come back to you because you matter. Can you try and see it that way?"

Sherlock put his hand on Mycroft's chest to still the rocking, which was shifting his pained body too much. He bit at his lip, struggling to see it the way Mycroft wanted him to. 

"H-He abandons m-me over and o-over. E-Everyone e-else is gone. John g-grieves that I am st-till here to b-be d-dealt w-with." He clung to Mycroft's chest, "a-and you b-believe you d-don't m-matter, that I d-don't l-love you." 

"I know you love me. I just...I'm so sorry. I messed up. I love you. If you will just try to heal, things will get better for you. I swear." Mycroft was at the end of his rope with things to try.

"I...I alr-ready s-said I would," he whispered, confused. He'd drank water, he'd stayed out of his mind even though that was the only place he felt remotely safe. "Y-You didn't mess up. You didn't m-mess up. You a-are hurting and I'm d-doing it." 

"Nope, no, I'm not being hurt by you. I am experiencing empathy. You hurt, so I hurt. It's just how it goes sometimes." 

Mycroft slowly laid Sherlock back down so he could be comfortable and used the utmost care in arranging him.

Sherlock grit his teeth as he was moved, head beginning to pound with his body.

"Can...could I...s-something f-for pain?"

"Of course," Mycroft breathed. "It's good of you to ask. Here." He watched Sherlock's face carefully as he gave the medication. 

Sherlock relaxed back against the bed, some of the tension easing from his face. He breathed slowly, letting it take some of his pain away, starting up at the ceiling, quiet with his conflicted thoughts.

Mycroft relaxed with Sherlock and smiled. "You are amazing, Sherlock. I'm constantly in awe with you."

Sherlock was quiet for a very long time, speaking when he became very thirsty and asking for water again. When he'd finished the water, he again went quiet, obviously lost in his thoughts.

Mycroft waited until Sherlock was down, gave him a mild sedative to keep him down, then retreated into a spare room, where he broke down and wept into the pillows.

Mycroft was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "Come in," he said in a voice too small and a tone too flat. 

Miller opened the door and closed it quietly behind him, picking up a chair and setting it in front of Mycroft before sitting himself down. He did not speak for a moment, taking in Mycroft's state. 

"I'm not Paul, but I can listen. Please speak freely and share what is on your mind, Mycroft."

Mycroft knew the value of venting his thoughts, but still wanted to stay guarded. "I'm conflicted. I am making mistakes concerning Sherlock. I resent John for his ability to communicate effectively with Sherlock, even when I am the one who's been by his side, waiting on him for nearly a year. I'm the one who's taken care of him, and yet, all it takes is a suggestion from John and he's making progress. It is not fair. I am also very grateful to John for what he is doing. But the resentment is there."

Miller nodded, "Of course, that is completely understandable," he said quietly, keeping his face open and honest. "That's completely understandable to feel that way. Your perception is a bit off, but what you are feeling is valid." 

He took in Mycroft's appearance and then pressed on. "You need a break." 

"I know I need a break. I need a place where I can go other than my backyard and work. I need recreation, as horrible as it sounds. But this is an instrumental time. Once John is more regular, I'll take a break." 

Mycroft stood up and stretched. "Much as I hate it, he needs someone he loves to be around him, and it can't always be me."

Miller shook his head, "I have to disagree with you in that regard, Mycroft. I think Sherlock may need to be alone for a time, but I'll leave that to you." He stood up as well, recognizing that Mycroft was ready to dismiss him. 

"Do be sure to eat something."

"When he is alone, he sulks, and just...I fear what is in his mind. I don't want him to be left alone with it." Mycroft straightened himself and watched Miller carefully. "John won't be in today, but Jared will. I need to get outside for a bit."

"Alright. Does this mean you do not wish to keep him sedated?" He'd been surprised to find Sherlock medicated to keep him down, though he figured Mycroft was just that exhausted, which led Miller to seek him out in the first place. 

Mycroft shook his head. "I only meant to keep him down while I walked around. I just...I need air. I need time."

"I'm going for a drive," Mycroft said calmly and left the room. He strode down the hall in bitter dejection to his carport, got in, and drove away. He didn't know where he was going, but he needed to get away. 

It was another hour before Sherlock woke up. He peeled his eyes open and slid them around the room, finding Jared and no one else. He gave a slow nod and sat himself up despite the pain. 

"I n-need water," he whispered to Jared, keeping his eyes down.   
Jared fetched him the water and gently handed it to him. "Are you feeling alright? It's okay. Everything is safe."

Sherlock drank the water down as he had taken to doing, as though there would be no more for him later, like his only chance. He set the cup down and looked at his hands, speaking slowly. 

"I'm required to heal. I don't kn-now where t-to begin. G-Give me instr-ruction and I w-will follow it," he said very quietly, voice heavy and resigned. 

Jared raised an eyebrow at that. Two days with John had truly done it, then. "Let's start with you telling me what's going on in your mind right now, or what happens when you go away into it."

Sherlock spoke without any inflection in his voice, closed off and resigned to his misery. 

"I am required to h-heal," he repeated softly, "I am p-paying...p-pay-ying a d-debt owed." His vision blurred as he spoke, though he managed to keep tears from falling. 

"I'm n-not permitted t-to go into m-my mind any l-longer, s-so what h-happens there is irrelevant." 

"That is very kind of you, to heal. Very brave." Jared took his seat by Sherlock's bed and slowly helped Sherlock sit up. "Maybe you can try and use your arms a bit today."

So Jared felt the same way. Sherlock felt a tear strike down his face, ignoring it, accepting what his reality was now.

He nodded, keeping his eyes to his lap, waiting for instruction.

Jared got out one of the little weighted stress balls for Sherlock and handed it to him. "Whatever you can do would help."

Just the weight of it was painful to his wrist. For several minutes, Sherlock simply held onto it, allowing the pain that shot clear up his arm to become something he could adapt to. Slowly he closed his fingers around the material and attempted to squeeze, abruptly gasping at the sharp pain of it, like glass digging into his muscles. 

Immediate anger and self-loathing had him abruptly using all his strength to squeeze the little ball, furious and savoring the dizzying pain. This was what they wanted from him, this was the debt owed. He did not give himself mercy, squeezing back down after his fingers spasmodically released the ball in an effort to stop the pain of it. 

Jared grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and took the ball away. "Easy, Sherlock. Easy. It's okay. You did well. You're alright. That's enough for today."

Sherlock nearly grabbed the ball back, a flash of panic as his wrist was grabbed, but he went still and quiet as he stared down at his lap, shivering as he breathed through the pain of it all. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing he'd done wrong but not sure why. He brought his arms in close, tears sliding down his face, waiting for his next instruction. 

Jared put the ball away slowly and smiled kindly. "You've done well. Let's do about...five squeezes a day, and you'll make improvement."

Sherlock nodded, "Okay," he whispered, keeping his eyes down. He wanted to request a move out of his brother's room, but he was in no position to make requests. He went quiet and waited until something was wanted of him. 

"I'll give you another painkiller for your hands," Jared said gently. "And then maybe we can play chess, or I can play cello."

Sherlock shook his head, not wanting anything for pain. That was exactly against the point of this. "N-No, I don't w-want anything," he whispered, unable to properly project his voice. 

"There...th-there is a r-room upstairs...w-would you ask the st-taff to p-prepare it?"

Jared gave him pain medication anyway. "Healing is not hurting. You need to heal, Sherlock. It will help if you don't have pain."

Sherlock cried out in sharp frustration, turning his back to Jared and laying back down and tucking his fingers to his lips. Rage boiled just below the surface as tears rolled down his face, leaving him with his belly locked up tight, mind racing too fast for him to grab a proper thought. 

Jared put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and shook his head. "It's alright. I'm supposed to look after Mycroft as well, which means taking care of you even if you don't want me to."

Sherlock shoved Jared's hand off of him, glaring over his shoulder. "I AM SUPPOSED TO H-HURT!" he _screamed_ at Jared with tears streaking down his face. 

"No. No, I don't buy it. If you want me to believe that you are supposed to hurt, you'll need to convince me of that." Jared sat back and crossed his arms. 

Sherlock held tight to his own hands, breathing tight and fast. "I am-m to s-survive so that I m-might repay...my d-debt. John w-wants me t-to heal. This is the o-only answer."

"Did you perhaps think that maybe he wants you to heal so you feel better?" Jared wanted Sherlock to come to the conclusion on his own. 

Sherlock grit his teeth and shook his head, ruthlessly tramping down on that hope. John had taught him over and over again that he wanted nothing more from Sherlock than suffering.

"John...J-John..." anger cracked away, leaving his hands shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks. "John w-won't ever...He...He won't ever...ever be...he's n-not a friend of m-mine anymore."

"Do you think that perhaps if you worked on it, you could be his friend again?" Jared kept his tone questioning.

Sherlock shook his head very slowly, blinking to try and clear his vision. "Not...n-not in this l-life," he whispered, opening and closing his hands, "he n-needs me s-suffering, and so...so that's...wh-what I'm...I'm g-going to do. John...John is c-coming here to ensure I..." again his voice broke, heart aching terribly. "And my brother...I...I c-can't be...I need...the r-room upstairs."  
"No, Sherlock. You're okay. John doesn't want you suffering. Why don't you ask him?" Jared was making careful note of everything Sherlock said to relay to Paul. 

"He'll l-lie," he wept, starting down at his hands, "h-he always l-lies. He'll...y-you wait, you'll s-see. He'll b-be gone s-soon and he won't c-come back."

Jared was very quiet for a moment. "Okay. Well, then if you are determined to suffer, I suppose I'll just have to keep you safe. I think I know what John wants a bit better than you. You're too emotionally involved to see clearly."

Sherlock nearly chewed out a biting retort, but Jared's words were so cutting that he just gave up, holding on to his own hands and starting across the room. Perhaps John had befriended Jared, and ultimately turned the man against Sherlock as well.

"I...I agreed t-to h-heal," he whispered very quietly, disheartened that it wasn't good enough, "I'm doing e-everything a-asked of m-me. Why...why is...are all of y-you still-" he could not voice the question. He'd woken up reaching for John that morning and lost his brother by that afternoon.

Sherlock covered his face, trying to breathe through the panic.

"Because this is part of your healing. You need to know that these people love you. Your negative self image is a result of your torture. Partly. It's something you need to overcome." 

Jared leaned back and wondered how Sherlock would take that. 

Sherlock was so very tempted to try and throw Jared out. If he'd had any hope it would work, he would have.

"J-John does not l-love me," he shouted, furious that this conversation was happening, "he w-will leave m-me again, and again, he...I d-don't know why he b-bothers to come! He hates being h-here, he...I'm his bad day! Me. I am wh-what he endures! He will l-leave!"

"I don't believe that," Jared said quietly. "I don't mean to offend you, but I just do not believe you." 

Sherlock bit furiously at his fingers, shaking and nauseated. He said nothing else, given no instructions and forbidden from hiding. How any of them could believe that John meant what hee said was beyond him.

"Will you at l-least move m-me so I d-don't see Mycroft again," he snapped, feeling microscopic and helpless.

"I actually like Mycroft," Jared said kindly. "I wouldn't do that to him without talking to him about it first."

"If...if you l-like him then...do h-him this k-kindness. I l-love him...I'm t-trying to sp-pare-"

He looked back at Jared then, realization dawning on his face. How had he been so stupid? His throat closed, wounded much deeper than he'd ever expected.

"I...I s-see...I....u-understand."

"What do you see?" Jared leaned forward and folded his hands. "I'm only trying to help both of you." 

Sherlock had his hands to his chest, guarding himself. "I...I'd thought...but....of c-course...my brother p-pays you to b-be here.. stupid of m-me, stupid."

His heart was in his throat, sick and dizzy. He'd believed...believed he could trust Jared, that perhaps he could have a friend in him. But Jared _actually_ liked Mycroft, and endured Sherlock whom he was charged to care for. Obligated to care for. 

_Alone_ struck him hard in the chest yet again. No matter how many times the lesson was taught, he never learned.

"No, no, that's not it at all." Jared shook his head sadly and let his emotions show clearly on his face. "Why don't you want to be with Mycroft? He wants to see you. He wants to be with you."

Sherlock was hitting nowhere. "I t-told you...I'm h-hurting h-him...you know I am, b-but you are...you don't...c-care. He will be a-angry and s-so you w-won't help m-me."

He tucked his fingers into his mouth, stomach twisting. Jared was not going to help, and he was likely to tell Mycroft, and Mycroft would hurt more, and the cycle would go on.

Sherlock ached for John, the man who used to care for him, his old friend. The only person who had ever steered him right.

A sob choked out of his throat and he covered his face again. If John wanted him hurting, he'd succeeded.

"You are taxing Mycroft. I will be honest with you. I will be very honest with you because I believe you deserve it." Jared leaned forward and spoke calmly. 

"You are making him tired, and he is unused to this level of emotion, but it will hurt him more if you draw away from him. You are not causing him any pain, he is only distressed at your condition. Honestly, I think he feels hopeless. If you were to make progress...No, if you just said you wanted to start even looking in that direction, he would be happy."

Sherlock's heart squeezed to tight to beat properly. There was no solution. He needed to die, why would none of them let him die?

He curled on his side, burying his fingers in his hair. "I am h-harming him n-now! Everything I do h-hurts him!" He sobbed before shutting himself up, so distraught he could hardly breathe.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down a little. Breathe. I appreciate you talking to me." Jared was gentle with his words and tone.

"Leave m-me," Sherlock managed to get out, roughly sobbing as his voice cracked, oddly feeling betrayal from a man who was never his friend.

"Hey, Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I'm being honest with you. We are making good progress right now, which will help Mycroft, John, Greg, and yourself."

Sherlock was holding his breath for as long as possible before taking a sharp breath and holding it again. There was no answer. He tore at his hair, panic tearing through his mind as he searched for any bit of foundation to work with.

"Sherlock, stop! Calm down for a moment! You know me! I'm Jared! I won't hurt you." He dropped to his knees beside the bed. "Please, just breathe."

Sherlock looked at Jared, more open than he had ever, ever been. "Please....pl-l-lease d-don't...d-don't play m-me, Jared, god pl-l-lease, please. I...I'm t-trying...I...I would d-die...die to m-make....make this b-better for them....pl-l-lease...please Jared, don't tell M-My please, I'm..." He clutched at his chest, wheezing in panic, "please!"

"I won't play you, I won't coddle you, and I will not lie to you. It would be easier for Mycroft emotionally if you made some progress. Hell, if you just tried he'd be happier." Jared decided not to make any false pretenses. Sherlock needed to change his behavior.

Sherlock went very still and very quiet, heart sinking. He'd not done enough. He'd tried, been lucid, spoken as clearly with Mycroft as he could, drank water, and followed instructions.  
But it still wasn't enough.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shifted, keeping as far away from Jared as possible, having no response to that. He just wasn't enough, and that was all there was to it. 

"Ok-kay," he whispered as his voice trembled and tears slowly slid down his face.

"What you've done the past two days is working. That is what he needs. It doesn't matter how slow your progress is, or if you actually make any, so long as you're tyring. You've been doing beautifully." Jared scooted back to give Sherlock space. 

Sherlock did not respond to Jared. He lay on his side, staring at his hands, feeling horribly trapped and useless. If he'd been doing so 'beautifully,' he'd not have put Mycroft in tears, he wouldn't be hearing this from Jared, he wouldn't have woken to a damned letter from John instead of the man himself.

Highly suspicious of Jared, Sherlock simply kept quiet.

Jared didn't see anything else he could do when Sherlock was in this state. "Just...Just keep doing what you're doing, and things will get better."

Sherlock grit his teeth and ground out his words, "I th-hought y-you s-said..." He shook his head, giving up. He had wanted to do what they wanted if him, but apparently he could not.

"What is it?" Jared inquired and kept his expression open. 

 

Sherlock kept his back to Jared, despite how difficult that was to do, skin crawling with fear. He no longer wanted to speak to him, knowing now that there was no friendship or even companionship to be had.  
"N-Nothing," he whispered, quietly thinking of what he was going to have to do so that Mycroft didn't need to care for him any longer.

Eating and drinking were the obvious start. Then mobility and self care. Once those were handled, Mycroft could go about his life and john would stay away and he would just...be. death was much kinder, but he wasn't allowed that. He forced himself to let go of the comforting idea of relief. 

"I n-need water a-and food," he said flatly, honestly mourning the loss of this man as well, doing what he could not to sound it.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Jared exclaimed. "Mycroft will be so happy. Can I go get him? He'll be proud and excited to hear this. If you don't want, I won't. It's up to you."

Sherlock glared at Jared, "Do n-not bother y-your employer o-over something s-so trivial," he snapped, outraged at how absurd the suggestion was and the false effort at pride Jared was showing him. 

His stomach was in knots over trying to eat, the very last thing he needed to see was disappointment on Mycroft's face if he started to sick up.

"Okay. I'll get something. Do you want smoothies and milkshakes, or something more solid?" 

Sherlock didn't want anything. "Whatever I'm s-supposed to h-have," he whispered, nearly in tears as he realized what he was about to do to himself.

Jared disappeared for a moment, then came back with a tall fruit smoothie as well as a high-calorie chocolate milkshake and some toast. "Now I don't expect you to eat all this. Just wanted to give you some options."

Sherlock sat up carefully and blindly reached for the glass, hardly tasting it as he suddenly put it down as fast as possible, being through half of it before he gagged with the straw in his mouth, letting it go and breathing wildly. He set it down before he dropped it, tears rolling down his face.

It took him a moment to get himself back together enough to finish it off, sweating and shaking. With a choked sob he went for the toast, only managing a few bites before his stomach began to seriously threaten him.

Jared was worried with Sherlock. He was making progress and going in the right direction, but it was clearly for self-punishment, not improvement. 

"Okay. That's enough. Good job, Sherlock. Really, good job." He took the food and set it to the side. "I can give you something for nausea, if you need it."

Sherlock cried out as Jared took the did away. He'd not done enough. Mycroft would be sad. John, disappointed. 

"W-Wait," he tried to explain, reaching back for the food, "I'll do it...p-please....I'm t-trying PLEASE, j-just give m-me a m-moment!" 

His heart was racing as he stated at how very much food was left waiting for him, tears streaming down his face.

Jared took Sherlock hands and hushed him gently. "You've done well! If you take more now, you might be sick. Give yourself another few minutes before you try again, okay? I'll tell Mycroft you are and he'll be proud."

 

Sherlock pulled his hands back, but trusting Jared. What else did he need to do?  
Self care.  
"I'll...I can...I. ." He dropped his face into his hands, fingers curling ruthlessly in his hair. He could not do anything at the moment. Getting out of bed would require Jared to carry him. He wept into his hands, trying to accept that.

"The...if-f you...the l-lav...I'll ch-change clothes a-and w-wash," he murmured desperately.

"Okay. I'll bring you." This was not the sort of progress Jared wanted Sherlock to be making, but he decided that if Sherlock got up on his own feet a little, it would sort things out regardless. 

He brought over a chair and waited for Sherlock to show he was ready. 

Sherlock's hand trembled on the bed rail as he tried to drop his legs over the side. His body was too weak, and the sharp pain of it washed him pale and left him on his back, staring up at the ceiling breathing fast and nauseated.

"I- I-" he shook his head, unable to voice it. His mouth watered as his stomach bucked, but he grabbed the rail and tried again, very nearly making it before his elbow gave out, crashing him hard down in his side.  
He covered his face, washed in defeat.

Jared slowly slid his arms under Sherlock and helped him into the chair before stepping away. "You've done enough for today, if you want to be done. They'll be proud of you."

Sherlock gripped the talks of the chair until his knuckles blanched, dizzy and sick. He had to breathe for several moments, swallowing rapidly.

"I...I need new...clothes, pl-lease," he whispered, swallowing hard again, trying to keep the food down. It wasn't about making anyone proud, he was trying to free them from obligation.

He'd severely taxed himself already, entire body shuddering as he tried to move himself in the chair, shagging his head a moment later as pain tore up his arms when he flexed them to move forward to the bathroom.

"Let me, Sherlock," Jared said softly and pushed him towards the bathroom. He grabbed some fresh clothing from the drawer on the way over. "Do you want me to help you dress?"

Sherlock shook his head, taking the clothes in a trembling hand and keeping his eyes down. "P-Privacy...if-f you will," he whispered, just wanting to be alone. 

"Sherlock..." Jared did not wish to be in the room while Sherlock changed, but he was not allowed to leave him alone for any reason. That was a very strict order from Mycroft. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Sherlock was very still for a moment as he registered that yet another request was being denied. He had no friend here, just Mycroft's paid assistant. May as well be Anthea for all it mattered. 

His chin dipped for a moment, furious with himself for allowing any measure of closeness to develop in his mind toward this hateful man, nodding slowly. "I s-see," he whispered, shame tearing through him that he'd not even be allowed this. 

For a full minute he simply sat there, clutching his clothes, trying to accept that he was going to make a spectacle of himself with an audience. He finally set the pile aside and, noting that a fresh shirt lay atop the pile, took the hem of his own and very carefully began the slow and excruciating process of attempting to get his own shirt off. It took him almost ten minutes, leaving him shivering in a cold sweat, fist between his teeth and tears on his face, but he'd managed it. He sat in his chair, bare chested, breathing fast as he gagged around the pain of it, but damn it he'd managed the thing. 

His fingers were freezing as he grabbed the new shirt of the stack, staring down at it as though putting it on would be like climbing Everest. 

Jared loathed that he was losing Sherlock's trust. He'd tried so hard to become his friend In John's absence, but he had to keep Sherlock moving forward. 

He kept his back respectfully turned and his hands clasped behind him where Sherlock could see. 

Sherlock tried several times to get the shirt on, but his strength was so taxed that he was slouching in the chair, listing to the side and nearly in danger of falling forward out of it. 

"J-Jared," he whispered, hot with shame, "I c-can't do this." He spoke as though he'd allowed a man to die, utterly crushed that he'd failed even the simplest task. He looked up, finding the man's back turned and looking back down again, tears sliding down his cheeks in destroyed humiliation. 

"Pl-lease...w-would y-you...h-help m-me?"

Jared turned and dropped to his knees beside the chair. He worked in such a way that he wouldn't move Sherlock's body for him, but held the short open and moved it so Sherlock would still have a small sense of independence. Hopefully. 

Sherlock got his shirt on with Jared's help, and then leaned back, eyes closed, breathing labored. He had not been so exhausted in months. He still needed to handle his pants and trousers, clean his face, and brush his teeth at the least. 

"I- I c-can't...th-the trousers I-" he wasn't even sure he'd be able to keep himself upright in the chair any longer, trembling with exertion. His will was obliterated under the crushing weight of reality and he no longer wanted to try anymore. It was going to take ages before he could escape John and Mycroft. His stomach rolled and he abruptly leaned forward, stars bursting along his vision, very nearly losing his lunch. 

"Sherlock, I think it might be a bit stressful for you if I did it, so I'm going to suggest you brush your teeth, then we go back to your bed." Jared had the trousers in his hand anyway, just in case Sherlock did indeed decide he needed help. 

Shame tore across Sherlock's mind and he looked away, swallowing hard and trying to keep himself from crying. Jared wasn't going to help him. He nodded slowly and shifted as much as he could forward, leaning hard on the sink, quaking fingers struggling to grasp the toothbrush. 

He was in a full-blown panic by the time he was rinsing his mouth, actively fighting to keep from screaming for Mycroft. Exhaustion, pain, and confusion paired with his new knowledge that he could not depend on Jared, either, and he was struggling to keep his head above the proverbial water. 

"Okay, Sherlock, that's enough. You've done really well." Jared hated this. He didn't think that Sherlock would handle it well if he had to take off his trousers and pants in front of another man, but he had clearly been disheartened by it. Jared picked Sherlock up out of the chair and brought him straight back to Mycroft's bed. 

Sherlock held his breath until he was back in bed, where he lay shaking and exhausted. Over and over he nearly asked for Mycroft, heart in his throat, ashamed of himself. He pressed his face to the blankets and tried to slow his panicked breathing.

Jared pulled the covers up over Sherlock's shoulders and arranged the pillows for him. "You did so well," he said over and over. "They'll be proud."

Sherlock was using all his energy to remind himself that he was safe. His body was screaming at him, aching muscles trembling, the scent of smoke and blood in the air but it couldn't be real, he couldn't be there. He reached out blindindly and grabbed Mycroft's pillow, pulling it to his face and slowly inhaling in an attempt to keep Mycroft near him. 

He had to be stronger than this. He had to be. There was still toast waiting and another cup of something or other to be consumed, and he'd not yet changed his trousers or pants. He could not see any of the work he'd done, only what he still needed to do. 

His breathing took on a more labored, wheezing quality as panic squeezed his chest, making him whimper on exhale. He pinched his eyes shut and was tempted to run to his version of John for comfort, but that wasn't allowed anymore. His lips parted to ask Jared for help, but Jared would just tell him no. 

Jared drew up a painkiller and pushed it before Sherlock could argue. "It's safe. It's safe. It's okay. You're alright. Do you need Mycroft?"

Sherlock shook his head, quietly sobbing into Mycroft's pillow. He was not going to ask for his brother, he just wasn't. 

Half an hour after the painkiller kicked in, he forced himself to sit up, nearly screaming with the pain of it, and reached to the foot of the bed for clean trousers and pants. He spent another half hour struggling, ignoring Jared, working as hard as he possibly could to get his legs -which he'd not had a proper look at until now- into the damned cotton. When he'd pitched his dirty things to the ground, he pointed to the remainder of the food. "I...I'll e-eat that," he whispered, ignoring the slow-forming but very corporeal image of Moran in the corner, laughing at his efforts. He'd not seen him properly in months, not outside of his mind, but he wasn't going to pay attention. Not today. 

Jared felt very trapped by the situation, but didn't want to halt it if progress was being made. He took the dirty things away and sat down, holding the tall, plastic, cup of milkshake. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock did not answer, reaching out and taking the cup. Slowly he began to drink, though his stomach was not at all happy with him. He kept his eyes from Jared, refusing every urge to seek out reassurance and help. 

When he'd managed half, he was actively gagging around the straw. In defeat, he let the thing go and closed his eyes, trying to breathe through it. "I...I c-can't," he whispered, deeply ashamed, "Pl-lease don't...don't t-tell My." 

Jared took the cup away and smiled broadly. "You have done so well! Very good, Sherlock. I won't tell Mycroft if you don't want. I could just tell him that you did well."

Sherlock watched Jared as he turned a light shade of green, openly suspicious of him. He dropped his eyes away before asking quietly, "H-How l-long until...until h-he comes b-back?" 

"He'll probably be back soon. Very soon. He was just getting some air." Jared took a few steps back. "Don't you want to see him?"

Sherlock was chewing on the inside of his lip. God yes how he wanted to see his brother. His eyes flicked over to Moran and back, "If-f...if h-he has th-the t-time and...and he's n-not...I'm n-not hurting h-him," he whispered, settling back down on his side and clutching the pillow to him. 

"M-Maybe it w-would be b-best t-to tell him I'm s-sleeping. Then h-he'll r-rest." 

"He won't rest. He'll come check on you. Always does. Every day. Every time he gets back." Jared texted Mycroft briefly. 

"He's on his way. Said he was planning on it."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, leaving him feeling both relieved and incredibly anxious. 

"H-he...t-tell me h-how to a-act so...so that h-he isn't...so that I d-don't..." he looked to Jared with liquid, frightened eyes, so overwhelmed with just existing that he could hardly stand it. 

"T-Tell me wh-hat t-to b-be around h-him? M-Maybe I sh-should j-just pretend t-to sleep?" 

"As much as I think that it is a poor idea for you to do that, I'll go with what you want. You can be scared, and need affection. That's fine. But try and keep the part where this is about hurting yourself quiet. That's just my advice." 

Jared was stuck between doing what he knew was best for Sherlock, and doing what the man wanted. 

Sherlock looked down at his hands before pinching his eyes closed, dreading Mycroft's visit. What if he stayed? What if he _left_? He clutched the pillow to his chest, struggling to breathe properly. Mycroft had been the one person he could speak to, but he'd lost that now. 

He was well and properly afraid of Jared at this point, seeing him just as another instructor, another guide through things that would simply hurt and hurt, with no end in sight. The man that had been so kind to him had been a front, and now that Sherlock was shown to be a failure, Jared was gone from him as well. 

He swallowed hard and gave in, just for a few moments, to the temptation to slip into his mind. 

_He ran at a full force, screaming in terror for John as he tore through the remnants of his house. "JOHN! JOHN!" his voice echoed through the halls, even as he tripped over his own feet and hit the floor, "PLEASE!"_

Ten minutes later, he drew back out into cold reality, openly sobbing and utterly alone. 

Mycroft came to the room fifteen minutes later and rushed straight to Sherlock. "I heard you were eating!" He exclaimed happily. Jared had removed the unfinished food. "I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock nodded, afraid to speak. He kept in his same curled position and did not argue, nor did he say anything else, aggressively fighting the desire to climb up onto his brother's lap and hide. That was over for him now, he didn't deserve it any longer. He kept a tight hold on Mycroft's pillow, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest.   
Mycroft saw Sherlock's distress and crawled into bed with him. "It's okay. You've done so well. I'm so proud. Could you talk to me a little? I'd like to see how you're feeling." 

Sherlock was stiff as Mycroft came closer to him. "I'm...I'm-m f-f-f-" he swallowed, holding tight to Mycroft's pillow still, "f-fine, I'm...g-good, f-feeling...g-g-ood." 

"Alright," Mycroft whispered and ran his fingers through his brother's hair. "I'm glad. Jesus, I'm proud of you. You're a wonderful man."

Sherlock was completely miserable. He stayed quiet, not daring to hold on to Mycroft, keeping his death-grip on the pillow and breathing as slow as he could manage. At least he seemed to not be hurting Mycroft. 

"I can not even begin to tell you how happy this has made me," Mycroft said and finally felt the twinges of hope in his heart. Finally, Sherlock was going to try. "Thank you! Oh, Sherlock, thank you."

Sherlock nodded, hating to hear that his suffering was what was making Mycroft happy, but accepting that it was as things were meant to be now. He kept tight hold of the pillow, wanting to curl around his brother but not allowing himself to do so. He did not know where he stood with his brother or with anyone else for that matter, and so kept quiet, hoping it was enough. 

"I...I l-love you," he whispered as his heart tried to seize up on him, desperate for reassurance and stability, feeling none of it.

"I love you too, little 'Lock." Mycroft opened his arms. He could sense something was wrong, and decided he would talk to Jared about it after. "Could you...Can I hold you? You look stressed."

Sherlock could not resist the offer and moved swiftly into his brother's arms, though he kept hold of the pillow, not allowing himself to cling to Mycroft as he wanted. This was already more than he deserved by far. He was enormously stressed, nearly frantic over what would and would not upset Mycroft. 

Would he be angry now that Sherlock had a day of activity after seeing John? He couldn't speak, Jared had made it clear that he was doing the wrong thing, Mycroft had confessed to how upset Sherlock made him, John was gone again and would only come back if he knew Sherlock was hurting himself. 

He choked on a sob and then shook his head, swallowing his grief back down and clearing his throat, ruthlessly schooling himself. 

He was fine. 

He was fine. 

He had to be fine. 

"Sherlock, I am so happy." Mycroft had tears running down his face and he wrapped Sherlock up tightly in his arms. "Thank you," he insisted, "thank you for eating. I just....thank you so much."

Sherlock pressed his face to Mycroft's shoulder, wrapped around the pillow, doing his best not to fall apart. He silently nodded again, though fear had hooked its talons in.

"You can relax now. You've done so well. Everything is going to be alright. I've got you." Mycroft was honestly relieved that Sherlock had eaten, and didn't give a damn why. 

Sherlock kept a vicious grip on the pillow as he tried to follow Mycroft's instruction, keeping his eyes closed as he kept leaning against his brother. Mycroft did not yet seem angry, so that was...good.  
He settled slowly, some of the exhausting tension ebbing out of him. He opened his mouth tho speak a few times, though held silent at the end.

Mycroft settled next to Sherlock and held him as close as he could. "Thank you," he whispered again. "I'm so proud of you.'thank you. Thank you."

Sherlock wanted so terribly to sleep. Each time he began to drift down, he'd startle himself awake, eyes wide and breathing catching until he was sure Mycroft was there.

Mycroft didn't sleep, but he did rest. He soothed Sherlock, and rested in the knowledge that he'd at least eaten something.

Sherlock finally spoke, very quiet in his fear.

"Y-you...c-can go get s-some sleep if...you d-don't have t-to stay," tears slowly rolled down his face, afraid Mycroft would leave him.

"I think I'll sleep here, if you'll let me," Mycroft said in return. "I don't want to leave you. I love you."

Sherlock tried to relax, speaking into the pillow he was holding. "I'm...y-you'll be...be..." his voice broke on a sob as tugged at his hair, "it w-won't h-hurt you? To b-be h-here?"

"No, no, not at all!" Mycroft gathered Sherlock closer and smiled at him. "To hear that you were eating and trying to make improvement is the best news I've heard in years. You've made me very happy."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, putting that in his mind. He'd earned Mycroft's company, then. That was alright, he could focus on earning this.

Hurt during the day for comfort at night. It wasn't the worst trade-off.

"Ok-kay," he whispered, keeping his heartache from his voice.

"Okay. You just get some sleep, and I will too. You've done beautifully today." He wanted to suggest that tomorrow he would be there, but decided to talk to Jared first to see what had caused this dramatic shift.

Sherlock dared to let a corner of the pillow go, reaching for Mycroft's hand with damp, icy fingers. He held tight to Mycroft, tears on his cheeks, and finally gave in to a restless, uncomfortable sleep.

Mycroft brought Sherlock's hand to his face and held it there. He wasn't particularly tired, but he didn't have work to do, and decided he could sleep now and do other things during the night.

Sherlock snapped awake two hours later, a scream dying on his lips, eyes unfocused and terribly afraid. He looked wildly about the room in the dark, wheezing with each breath, clinging hard to his pillow.

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft's chest, sobbing in relief that he was not alone. His entire body ached with exertion and he needed the lav terribly.

"My," he sobbed, pulling at his brother as his heart thundered in his ears, "I'm sorry My! I'm s-sorry!"

"Don't be sorry, 'Lock. You've done everything right. I'm very happy with you. It's okay. You've done so well." Mycroft actively held Sherlock to his chest to help him feel wanted.

Sherlock shook his head, openly in panic. "I'm n-not s-supposed t-to upset y-you! I didn't m-mean to wake y-you up! I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry, pl-l-lease....please st-tay!"

"You didn't upset me. It's okay. You're alright." Mycroft hugged Sherlock again and brushed his hair off his forehead. "I'm not upset. I'm happy."

Sherlock tried to call himself down. This was miserable, knowing he could lose his brother with the wrong behavior. He tucked his forehead to Mycroft's chest, quietly sobbing as he held to him. He resisted the urge to beg, though only narrowly.

"I'm right here with you. It's okay. I'm here. You're doing just fine. I'm so proud of you." Mycroft held Sherlock's hands to his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm very proud of you."

"I'm not doing f-fine," Sherlock lamented, still holding to his brother. He bit his lips, ruthlessly silencing himself. He wasn't supposed to talk. "I l-love you," he whispered, broken and resigned, "th-thank you f-for staying."

"Are you doing alright? Is there anything you need to talk to me about?" Mycroft kept his face open and calm.

Sherlock shook his head rapidly, nearly the instant he was asked. "N-no," he breathed, clearly afraid, "you c-can sleep."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Sherlock...you are not inconveniencing me." 

Sherlock clung to Mycroft's shirt, too insecure to speak any further, John's words mixing with Jared's and Mycroft's, Moran's laugh echoing in his head.

"You're safe," Mycroft whispered, "And I am not leaving you. It's okay. If you need to talk to me about anything, I would be happy to listen."

Sherlock did his best to simply go back to sleep, holding tight to his brother in fear. Eventually he was able to manage it, though his body ached and his mind was a mess.

"You're alright," he whispered. "It's okay. I love you. You can sleep. Do you need any help with anything?"

"Okay," Mycroft said softly and tightened his grip on Sherlock. "I'll get you a painkiller first."

Sherlock nodded, grateful for that over. "Ok-kay," he whispered, liking up with an openly grateful expression. "Thank y-you."

Jared brought a painkiller over, and Mycroft gave it to him. "I'm here. You're okay." 

Sherlock flicked his eyes to Jared before burrowing back to Mycroft's chest, holding tight. He kept himself tucked away, giving in to the want to seek safety from Mycroft.

Mycroft lifted Sherlock up and brought him into the bathroom without the chair. "Do you want me to help you with your trousers?"

Sherlock was loath to be pulled away from Mycroft. He shook his head, thinking he could manage it himself. "N-No..I...I c-can do it."

He drew in slow, deep breaths, feeling quite pushed away by his brother and doing what he could to accept that.

Mycroft set Sherlock up in the bathroom, but only moved away far enough so he could remove his own trousers. Otherwise, he hovered directly beside, waiting patiently. Mycroft gathered Sherlock up into his arms and brought him straight back to bed when he was done. 

"You've done so well today. I'm so happy."

Sherlock held on to his brother, swallowing his heart back down, doing what he could to endure. The last day had felt so much longer than the months before, and he was left feeling as though he'd lost the last of what good things he had left.

"Anything you want, Sherlock. Anything. Is ther anything at all I can do to help you? Anything I can get? John is going to be so pleased with you. I know I am. I'm so happy you're awake and trying." Mycroft spoke honestly and from the heart.

Sherlock shook his head, exhausted and ready to go back to sleep. "A-Are...y-you going t-to...to t-tell him?" He slurred, keeping his face to Mycroft's neck.

"I'll tell him that you did a wonderful job working towards getting back on your feet," Mycroft said cheerily, though he did catch the tone in Sherlock's voice. "It will be a good thing and he'll be glad to hear it."

Sherlock nodded sadly, tucking his face down, feeling far too exposed and unprotected. Maybe he'd earn another visit from John, maybe not. He was just lucky Mycroft was still dealing with him.

"Okay." Mycroft was quiet then and simply hummed in quiet contentment. "We can rest the rest of the day."

Sherlock swiftly looked up in surprise. "I c-can't," he said in a panicked rush, talking to Mycroft as though Mycroft had no control over what his brother chose to do, "I'm n-not supposed...that....I- I c-can't do that!"

"Sherlock, I give you permission to sleep, and rest, and be happy. If you are happy, I am happy. If you rest, I rest. It's good for me when you are happy." Perhaps that would work.

Sherlock started at his brother, not understanding how that could be allowed. "B-But...if y-you tell...tell J-John...I'm...why would...b-but the point of this..." his breathing hitched as he searched Mycroft's face.

"The point is that if you are working to get better at these things, then it makes us happy. When you eat, and do these things, it makes us happy. John and I like being happy, especially when you are happy with us."

Sherlock flinched and then a moment later, gave his brother a resigned nod. He pushed himself back and then struggled with all he had to sit up. "Th-then I...I c-can't r-rest."

"Ah, see, Sherlock, that is where you're wrong." Mycroft settled down to get some sleep. "It's good for you to rest, because if you're tired tomorrow, you won't be able to stay awake for John. It will be much better if you get some sleep. I'll wake you when John gets here."

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, looking at the morning sun and loathing that there was still an entire day. At the same time, a day was not nearly enough. John would either be happy to see him suffering, or upset to find him resting. There was no way to win this.

He wondered how upset Jared was going to be with him when Mycroft left.

Slowly he lay back down, sweating even from the small exertion. "He...he'll b-be so upset," Sherlock suddenly sobbed off so many people, "s-so upset."

"No, he won't! He won't be upset. He'll be proud. I bet you anything he'll be proud." Mycroft smiled happily and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "It'll be okay."

Sherlock clutched to Mycroft's chest, honestly too worn it to argue and desperate for that truth to be real. He chose not to look at Jared, afraid that he'd be in trouble when left alone with him, just clinging to Mycroft instead.

Mycroft settled down and was silent. He did not sleep, but he was quiet and relaxed. Sherlock was making progress. It was clearly stressful for him, and perhaps for the wrong reasons, but damnit, it was something.

Sherlock slept deep and dreamless, completely taxed and exhausted. He did not wake in his own, even as Miller came up and tended to him several times.


	22. Chapter 22

John was restless in the early hours of the morning when he generally slept soundly. He awoke and stared at Greg with tenderness and love. He thought about the world he had here, how Greg had been his shelter for so very long. He thought about how bringing Sherlock into his home would change everything. It would change the happy days where he and Greg took walks and cuddled on the telly. It would change the way he was comforted when he was frightened, and it would change his workdays drastically. How would Sherlock handle him breaking into hysterics while trying to drink water? How would he handle watching John struggle to stay in the kitchen when the kettle was on? 

John knew he wanted what he saw on the tapes. Not the cases, not the action, but the friendship. He wanted that back.

But Sherlock hated watching him and Greg be affectionate. How would life change? 

John breathed a slow sigh and brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek lovingly. Whatever happened, he would be alright.

Greg smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners before he opened them and smiled. "You're up early," Greg said gently, resting his hand over John's.

John returned the smile and the sheer bliss of his life left him once again in awe. "And you look particularly wonderful today."

Greg watched John's face, always amazed to see life shining back at him when John was feeling well. "Not so bad yourself," he said with sleep-heavy warmth. Greg stretched and then pulled John to him, snuggling John to his chest.

John nuzzled down on Greg's chest and hummed softly. "You know, today is a supposed to be a hard day, but going to help Sherlock isn't really difficult. And _this_ is wonderful." John looked up and kissed Greg softly on the lips. 

"I can help with breakfast today, I think. I can get the things. Maybe I'll be able to wash up today."

Greg was glad to hear that from John, stretching again. "Sounds good," he said warmly, sitting up after squeezing John. "What a great morning already."

John beamed at Greg in sleepy contentment and stretched his arms over his head. He rotated his wrists around and flexed his hands back, as he'd been working on doing. The damage in his forearms made it difficult, but he was managing. 

John stood up by the bed and leaned over to give Greg another chaste kiss. "They're all good mornings now."

The mornings were typically good now, much to Greg's relief. He'd been at the end of what he could tolerate, to say the least. His newly formed scars were an embarrassing testament to that.

But now things were on a more consistent upswing, and he was typically happy to open his eyes. He got himself up and dressed and soon he and John were well into their morning.

All the while, Greg was struggling to imagine fitting Sherlock into their home. Where would he sit? Who would be there in the night? What would he do when John was having one of those days when all he wanted was to be held?

Greg tried but to think about it as he watched John. This has seemed impossible at one point as well.

John took Greg's hands and helped him up. "I'm getting stronger," he said with a pleased expression. 

He had a bit of apprehension about the day. It was a hard day, a work day, where both Greg and himself would push him just a bit to make sure he kept on with progress. John was often the most adamant about it. 

"I'll help wash up today. Cold water though."

Greg nodded and they set off to make breakfast. Greg was quiet and contemplative as he ate. Given Sherlock's shockingly poor state, they had several months, at least, before they would need to consider what to do with him. He focused on his plate, not particularly hungry, before realizing the time.

"It's getting on. Let me wash up with you?"

"Yes, please." John was nervous. Running water was particularly stressful, and while he knew there were no more rags in the kitchen, he hated the feeling of water on any part of his body. John took his plate and fork, and stood in front of the sink. 

"I hate water."

Greg stood beside John, watching the water run. He set his dishes down and then took John's, before leaving their fingers together and holding on to him.

"Water is good," he said quietly as he moved them closer, still holding John's hands. The water was cool, not uncomfortably cold, "it's soft, and clean, bit refreshing, really."

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to John's lips as he brought their hands under the taps.

John went stiff and rigid as he always did, but while his heart rate sped up, he did not jerk away. He trusted Greg. 

He took shallow breaths for a moment, then deepened them. "I'm okay," he forced, "just washing up. Nothing painful." 

With a great effort of will, John turned and looked back at his hand under the running water. The sight made him nauseous and he looked away for a moment. "Jesus...he...it used to be hot water. I saw that. I've seen that." 

But this was cold water. It would not hurt him. Again, John forced himself to look. He held tighter to Greg's hand and tried to come to peace with it. 

Greg ran his thumbs gently over the backs of John's hands. "Nothing painful, just washing up," he agreed, immensely proud of John, "you are doing wonderfully. Let's add soap, yeah? Bubbles might help." He kissed John's temple, holding gently to him, "I love you."

John forced his breath to slow. "Just washing up. Nothing wrong with that." John reached out with his other hand and got the dirty plate. He set it under the spray and withdrew his hands from the sink. "I could always just wear rubber gloves. But I guess that would be against the point, wouldn't it?"  
Greg nodded, working his hands over John's as they washed the plate. "This is good, is really good, John. I'm so proud of you. Let's just get done here so we can do other things. You are safe."

"Yeah. Yeah." John took the sponge and started washing his plate carefully as if he would break it. "I'm scared," he whispered , "I'm really scared."

Greg nodded, understanding that this was very hard for John. "Tell me what you are doing," Greg asked seriously, "step by step, what are you doing?" Perhaps if John self narrated he'd be calmer.

"Just doing the washing up. Just doing dishes. Nothing wrong with that. Not being burned." John took his fork and started cleaning it as well. "I'm going to be useful. I need to be useful."

Greg rubbed John's back very gently. "You are doing brilliant, John. Brilliant." He patently waited while John finished up.

John finished the dishes and took several steps away. He stood with his hands in front of him, dripping water on the floor, and reached for Greg. He didn't want to be near the sink anymore, and he didn't want to be alone. 

Greg put himself between John and the sink, wrapping him up tight and slowly rocking him. "Brilliant, you did brilliantly. I love you, that's over. You're done. I love you," he whispered before calling Gladstone over to sit next to John.

John could feel his heart hammering and he pressed himself against Greg. "I hate that," he gasped. "But...I did it. I can wash dishes. Sort of. Not well, and not without you, and not with hot water but...I'm going to be more useful soon."

Greg rest a hand on the back of John's head, wrapping him up as close as he could. "You can wash dishes, yes you can. Another _fuck you_ to the pair of them, yeah? I'm so proud of you, John. So fucking proud of you," he whispered as he pulled John closer, his heart swelling despite feeling John's pulse thundering in his back, "you never stop amazing me. You did that so well. You are incredibly useful." 

He then thought to Sherlock, and how much it seemed to help John to feel as though he was doing good. "Speaking of which, let's get ready so we can go have this visit. Can be a short one today if you like."

"I'm useful," John echoed with a bemused smile. "I'm useful. Yeah. Let's go see Sherlock. I can calm down a bit on the way out. Can we take Gladstone?" 

Greg nodded swiftly. He always preferred they take Gladstone. It had been a very long time since the dog had been to Sherlock's. 

In the car he held John against him, Gladstone happy across their laps, while Greg whispered encouragement to John. "You help him so much. Mycroft as well, he needs help with his brother and you've done brilliant. Just brilliant." 

John rested his head on Greg's shoulder. "I hope I can be helpful today. He wanted to see Gladstone."

When they arrived, John was much less hesitant. As usual, the staff cleared out of the way, and John had a straight walk to Sherlock's room. He knocked on the door. 

Sherlock had been nearly coming out of his skin for most of the night before hand and the entire morning, oscillating between desperately wanting to see John and completely terrified to do so. He'd begged his brother to help him sit up and put on a proper shirt, before insisting on a large breakfast. He'd raced to eat, only to lose the food a few minutes later, leaving him begging Mycroft not to leave. He was presently up, face dry though blotchy, holding a cup in trembling hands as he tried to put down another smoothie. 

His heart stopped and then stalled hard forward, racing after the knock sounded at the door. He turned to his brother with the straw still in his mouth, shuddering, absolutely sure John was going to be angry with him. 

John poked his head in and saw Sherlock already sitting up, already eating. "Sherlock! That's wonderful!" John practically bounded over with Gladstone skipping at his heels. "You're eating! That's so fantastic!"

Sherlock kept his head down, eyes falling to the dog and immediately lightening. He pulled the cup out of his mouth, setting it aside with a quaking hand and speaking to the dog, too frightened to face John at the moment. 

"M-May...may I...c-could h-h-he come u-up h-here?" He whispered, his voice wavering with fear, stomach already threatening to return the bit of shake he'd been trying to force down. His posture was both exhausted and defensive, but oh god did he want that dog up on the bed with him. 

John sat down on the edge of the bed and casually put his arm around Sherlock. "Gladstone, up!" The happy dog eagerly agreed and hopped up between them. 

"Here," John said and patted the pillow beside Sherlock's shoulder. Gladstone set his big head down on the pillow and his tail thumped on the mattress. 

Sherlock reached out and sank his fingers in the dog's fur, closing his eyes and taking a slow, deep breath. This wasn't his dog, he hardly knew the beast at all, but the dog was comforting nonetheless. 

"Thank y-you," he whispered to John, burning tears already pressing to the back of his eyes, putting all his focus to the dog. 

Sherlock reached out and sank his fingers in the dog's fur, closing his eyes and taking a slow, deep breath. This wasn't his dog, he hardly knew the beast at all, but the dog was comforting nonetheless. 

"Thank y-you," he whispered to John, burning tears already pressing to the back of his eyes, putting all his focus to the dog. 

Sherlock was quiet as he focused on Gladstone, fighting the urge to wrap around the dog and bury his face in his fur. God, how he'd love to have a dog, but it would just be one more burden on Mycroft. 

"I c-cannot care f-f-or a dog," he whispered, dropping his other hand on Gladstone's head, palms shaking as he pet the animal. 

"Staff. I have a staff. And you can be the one to love him. Dogs need that sort of thing, right?" 

Gladstone seemed to agree, as he nudged his nose over to rest it on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock felt completely trapped. A dog was such a privilege, one he'd not allowed even himself since RedBeard died, and he did not feel worthy even of pain management at this point. He stared at the dog, watching the large, watery eyes. Sharp envy that Gladstone would be leaving with John, who had someone to care for him all the time, shot through him, leaving him feeling like a child at such a foolish emotion. 

He began to slowly scratch behind Gladstone's ear, imagining for a moment that he had such protection. 

"I h-h-haven't...haven't e-earn-ned a d-dog," he breathed quietly as a tear slid down his cheek, his back mostly to the others in the room. 

John leaned forward then and put his hand on Gladstone's huge head. "Yeah, see, neither did I. I still don't. I just started being able to touch water without collapsing. But Greg got me a dog anyway. It's not about earning anymore. That part is over. You can have a dog. I promise. What sort of dog would you want?"

Sherlock watched John's hand come into view and bit at his lip, heart racing. "I...I d-don't..." he swallowed, feeling trapped and nervous, "I-" he exhaled slowly, taking his hands from Gladstone, only to feel as though he'd just fallen off a cliff and reach for him again. 

He looked at John and then away. 

"I...I am...d-drinking w-water and...and st-staying present," he whispered so quietly he could hardly hear himself, hoping that his muscle failure and vomiting would not negate that, "I...I h-haven't g-gone into m-my head...I've...I t-told J-ar-red no p-pain m-medicine but h-he gave it anyh-how, I- I'm-" his words stalled out and he looked back down to the dog, focusing on the feel of moving his hand through the fur. 

John pet Gladstone happily. The dog relieved so much stress for him, and he could see how much he was helping Sherlock. "I am so glad you were drinking. I saw! I'm so happy. It helps me to know you're trying. But Sherlock, you should have painkillers. I don't want you to be suffering. You've done so well, and I am so glad. We'll get you a dog."

Mycroft quickly concurred.

Sherlock looked to John in honest surprise. "B-But," his fingers stilled in Gladstone's fur, "I- I th-thought...thought I- that...w-wait I..." he could not puzzle it out, not for the life of him. 

"Y-You...s-s-so it's...I- you j-just want me..." he closed his eyes as his mind raced. Perhaps it wasn't physical pain John wanted from him. "I...ok-kay I..." he looked back to John then, openly trying to understand, "t-time to th-think on it th-then? I- I'm t-trying to unders-stand." 

"I don't want you hurting," John repeated again. Why the fuck would Sherlock think he did? 

"Never that. The opposite. This stuff will get easier, then things will be better. I promise. I know, because I've been through it. And we'll get you a dog. What sort do you want? Gladstone was a police dog."

Sherlock knew. "W-We've worked w-with him...c-cases...though h-he was n-not...not th-the only d-dog," he answered. 

Then he looked to John before looking to Greg, who smiled gently at him. He spoke to John as he kept his fingers in Gladstone's fur, his eyes on Greg. 

"H-He...G-Greg's t-taken...v-very good c-care of...of y-you." He gave Greg the faintest nod, that was exactly what he'd asked Greg to do, and Greg had gone far above and beyond. John had someone he could count on, the same someone, for a solid year. Greg was responsible for that. 

Sherlock looked back down to the dog, scratching at Gladstone's ears. "Y-You t-take him o-out. You c-care for him, so h-he cares for you. I...I c-can't do that f-for anything. It would b-be one more...one m-more l-living th-thing th-that..." his throat closed on him as he watched Gladstone. Another visitor. Just another visitor that would fade away in time. 

John reached over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He was sort of lying on Gladstone, but the big, cheerful dog didn't seem to mind in the slightest. "If you have a dog, and someone else feeds and walks it, it will still be your dog. It will stay with you. It will love you. And yes, I can care for Gladstone now, but in the beginning I couldn't, and Greg or Paul did it. Didn't really matter. He was still my dog."

John's arms around his neck nearly did him in. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against John, still sharply missing him, breathing in the scent of him while he could. A single, quiet sob broke free from his throat, but otherwise he was silent, so terribly confused and afraid of the people he'd come to love. 

Still though, if John was going to offer him a hug, he was not at all going to resist. Weak, perhaps, but god how he ached for a place to belong. 

John decided that he would never be the one to break off a hug with Sherlock. The man could hold on for as long as he needed to. 

"It's going to get so much better. I promise. Just follow me, and I'll lead you out of this. Mycroft or Greg can find you a good dog. You should get a big one."

Sherlock would follow John anywhere, anywhere at all. But John kept leaving, and Jared- he was mostly alone with Jared, stressing himself endlessly on what was allowed and what was not, hearing that he was a stress to the people around him, trying to sort why he wasn't allowed the mercy of death. John's words left him raw and confused. John was going to let his proverbial hand go in minutes or hours, Sherlock wasn't sure which, and then he'd just be left standing in the dark as he always was. 

A shudder ran down his back as tears slipped down his cheeks. Very quietly he whispered, only so that John would hear him. 

"Does h-he m-m-make you f-feel s-s-safe...wh-when you're al-lone?" He craved safety like he craved air. Since John had screamed at him all those months ago, Sherlock had experienced very few times of feeling safe. Mycroft always had to leave, or came in looking sad, or was in tears. Perhaps a dog could help him when he was left to the hired help. 

"Yeah, that's exactly what he does. Gladstone keeps me safe. And a nice dog would keep you safe too. It helps to have someone to hold on to when Greg is busy." Truthfully, Greg was only ever busy when he needed a shower or lav, or on the increasingly more rare occasions where Paul and John had to speak alone. But still, in those small moments, Gladstone was his safety. 

"Sherlock, do you want me to come every day, or do I make it worse? I mean, I want to be here. I want to. But I don't know if you want me here."

Sherlock tightened his hold on John. How could the man even be asking? 

"Y-You w-want to be h-here? I- b-but I- you-" he drew a hand away from Gladstone, biting at his fingertips. That meant more opportunity for Sherlock to make a mistake and lose John again. 

"I'm-m...I'm y-your h-hard days," he trailed off, failing to keep the crushing heartache out of his voice, "I don't w-want...you to h-have m-more...more h-hard days." 

How did he know that? John tightened his hold on Sherlock. "Yeah, I had you on my work days. But I thought it was going to be really hard, and it isn't. This isn't bad. This is good. I can do this every day, if you want. I want to be here."

Sherlock pressed his face to John's shoulder, desperately holding on to him.

Greg shifted at the back of the room, highly worried over this. He spoke softly, "Maybe...maybe we add a few more visits? We could do that, Sherlock, we could come more."

Sherlock bit at his lip, guilt nearly blinding. "Y-you are...a-always welcome t-to be h-here."

John sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair and held him with love and care in his heart. "I will come more, then. Do you want me to come in the mornings, or later on? It doesn't really matter to me."

Sherlock whimpered as he clutched at John, struggling to understand what his reality actually was.

"I...wh-henev-ver you...any t-time is...f-fine it's...a-anytime."

Greg had suggested not every day, but John seemed...like he wanted to stay. But John was an expert at contradiction, and it was all Sherlock could do to hold on to him.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and listened to the occasional thumping of Gladstone's tail. 

"Thank you. I'm so happy. Can- Oh! We have some films and videos of our old times! It helped me remember. We could watch them. Some of them are hilarious!"

Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder, though he wasn't sure what good watching films of dead men was going to do. He could offer John nothing at all of his former self. Why John was even bothering with him was so far beyond his understanding he'd just given up. John was warm, and still felt safe, still felt of the man Sherlock would have put his entire life's worth on not leaving him. 

He'd have lost, of course, but John still felt like home. He kept very still in John's arms, worried that John would realize what he was doing and shove Sherlock away in disgust. 

John nuzzled down on the top of Sherlock's head and was silent for a few moments. "I don't know if we have any here, but I'll see if we can bring them tomorrow. There's one where you're trying to teach me to dance when we're drunk, and one where we're just trying to sit upright."

Sherlock nodded again, easily remembering the evening. John was a horrible dancer, but Sherlock had done his best. Which was, in hindsight, much diminished from his normal ability, thanks to the drink. 

It had been before John's wedding. The second time he'd lost the man. 

"N-Never could...h-hold m-my alcohol," he whispered against John's chest. 

"No, you could not. Remember my stag night? Jesus, we were hammered. You! Oh, you kept tripping over everything and forgetting how to make sentences. I think we fell asleep on the stairs. It was brilliant." 

John was in good spirits now, and he grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock had not found himself brave enough to look at John yet, his head still tucked down against John's shoulder. 

"C-Cluing...f-for looks," he whispered, smiling to himself then as a tear landed on Gladstone. For a dizzying moment, a rush of memories blew past him like the wind. That was the night he'd known, properly known, that he'd been in actual, horrifying, chemical-nightmare _love_ with John. 

The next evening, Sherlock stared at John's chair for the entire duration of the lonely night, before giving up in the morning and hauling the chair away, unable to stand the sight of it empty. 

It had to be retribution for him forcing John to do the same, though had barrels not been trained on everyone he loved, things would have gone very differently. 

John remembered that night very differently. It was a brilliant time, and once he got over his hangover he could see that. It had been a night of uproarious laughter that left his stomach hurting. It had been a wonderful time with his absolute best mate in the entire world. 

And while he hadn't been _in_ love with Sherlock, he did love him dearly. "I loved that day. Loved it. You and I...I will always remember that. We really do need to try that game again, now that you understand how it works."

Sherlock nodded, holding to John and not daring to breathe overly much, afraid he'd take in too much air and shake away the moment. It had been a wonderful day, one that Sherlock had been unable to make himself invite anyone else out as well, selfishly wanting a last night with John where he did not have to share. 

John thought then about his wedding, and how happy it had been to have both his wife and his best friend there with him. Truly, it had been magnificent. 

Didn't last long, though. 

"I'm glad you're alive," he said suddenly and wrapped Sherlock up. "I couldn't bear it if you were gone."

Sherlock dissolved into tears then, horribly confused. He grit his teeth and held on to John's shirt, unable to speak. It felt far too cruel for John Watson to be doing this to him intentionally, but John was not the same man, and neither was Sherlock. 

Perhaps it was the case that at times John was his friend, and at other times John despised him? He could not follow the pattern, which utterly terrified him. 

John had no idea what he'd done. He'd only said he was glad Sherlock was alive. How was that wrong? What obvious thing had his stupid mind overlooked? 

"I'm sorry," John said gently and took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm here. What's wrong?"

Sherlock was a mess. 

"I d-don't understand," he sobbed, exhausted and shivering, "you...why a-are you...y-you don't l-like me anymore b-but you w-want me to h-heal," he dragged in several panicked breaths, "I'm n-not healed e-enough to b-be near you, but y-you're here and...and I'm...you are g-going to l-leave but- but y-you s-say you'll h-help and then you l-leave and g-get angry when I'm...when I h-haven't..." 

He shook his head, clutching at John. "Don't b-be angry."

"I can explain," John said hastily. "I didn't 'like' you before because I was afraid of you. Then I didn't because I was uncomfortable around you. But now, now I remember what we had, how much fun we had, how well we fit together and I want to try and get some of that back. Or make something new. I don't care. I want to be here. Yes, I'm going to leave and go home, but I'll come back."

Sherlock just nodded, trying to accept that as the whole of it. "Ok-k-kay," he sobbed, dropping a hand into Gladstone's fur. 

"Y-You'll c-come b-back," he wept, holding tight to John's shoulder, "I w-won't...you'll...I'll-" his chest ached as he clung to John, craving stability, frightened by the hired staff, whose company made him feel quite abandoned by the only people he wanted. 

"You'll...b-but...some d-days I...I get s-sick after I...I try to e-eat and...e-everything hurts and-" he shook his head against John, sure that he could never possibly get this right.

"I know. It's okay. How about this? I'll bring some food with me, or we can get it here, and we can eat together. Does that sound okay? I can eat most things now. Just get a bit nervous with the new stuff. But I'm mostly okay." John smiled proudly at Sherlock. "And I can get you there too."

Sherlock kept hold of John and nodded, glad to hear that John was eating again. He could not seem to calm himself down, having terrible doubt of everything he was being told. He could not hold himself up any longer, far too taxed from straining muscles that had gone without his attention for months. He pulled slightly away from John before he put his weight on the man. 

"I'm s-s-sorry," he whispered, laying next to the dog, keeping his eyes down in shame. "I- I'm-m...I-" what was he going to do? John would see that he could not even hold a fork, that he could not even look at solid food without breaking into a freezing sweat. 

"I...I'll t-try, I'll..." he covered his face, too afraid to see the shift in John's. "If-f...if I c-can't...I- what do I- I h-have to do to..." _not be here alone, to make you happy, to keep Mycroft pleased, god don't leave me in the dark anymore_.

"I...I t-r-ried all d-day yesterday. J-Jared! H-He...he'll t-tell you. I tr-r-ried to- to do wh-what y-you wanted. Pl-lease, what...what do I n-need to...what if-f I-" his fingers curled hard into Gladstone's fur and he clung to the dog. 

Greg was holding his breath. This was so similar to John's earlier stages when he believed that he'd be left if he didn't do well enough. 

John saw it, and he recognized the insecurity immediately. "Sherlock, listen to me. I'm here to stay this time. I want to stay with you. I care about you, I love you, and I like you. You don't have to hurt yourself to earn it, or prove yourself to keep me. I will be happy with whatever you can manage."

Sherlock dared to move his hands from his face, looking up at John and watching his face, waiting for the shutter to slam closed or the disgust to return, waiting for John to scream or for Greg to push him away. Several torturous seconds slipped by without any of that happening. 

"I...I w-want that t-to be tr-true...I s-so w-want that to b-be true," he said quietly, holding tight to his own chest, "I...pl-please d-don't..." he could not finish the request, too afraid to ask him not to change his mind, not again. 

"I know my words mean nothing," John whispered. The validity of them had long since passed. He needed an action. What could he do? He could keep coming day after day, but he wanted something he could do now. "How can I prove it to you? How can I prove I'll stay?"

Sherlock watched John and searched his face, looking for description. "Y-you..you r-remember me f-from before?"

"Yes, I remember you from before." John didn't know how that would prove he would stay, but he was listening.

Sherlock searched John eyes, reaching out two trembling fingers, "Do y-you remember h-here," he breathed as he lightly tapped John's head, "o-or here," as he tapped John's chest.

John took Sherlock's hand and pressed it over his heart. "I remember everything. I remember it in my heart. I remember and I think we can have something like that again."

Sherlock's heart rolled over itself, trying to find the man he knew in John's face. In past, it was relieving, but it was also a new form of truth that John honestly remembered...all of it...and still found it in himself to leave.  
"Okay," Sherlock whispered, quietly accepting all that John's words meant.

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's forehead. He lingered there, eyes closed, and took a long pause. "I'm going to make things good for you. I promise."

Sherlock leaned into John, lingering there with him before quietly pulling back. He looked back up to John, quiet and trying to sort his thoughts.

"I...I am...it's g-good you...you r-remember m-me from before. I...w-would n-never h-hurt you, John. I- I would never-" his voice broke as he remembered the terror on John's face whenever he saw Sherlock, abruptly jerking his hands back, forgetting the present. 

He held his breath as tears streamed down his face, "I...I tried- oh g-god I t-tried to st-stay w-with y-you...tried to h-help..." He tucked his fingers to his lips, watching John with unfocused eyes, weeping as he was torn back to their first days.

"Hey, hey, it's alright." John took Sherlock's hands and put one on Gladstone, and the other on his own chest. "See? I'm here, and Gladstone is here. Everything is alright. You're safe, and I am happy to be here with you."

It only took a moment for Sherlock to slowly came back to himself, nodding slowly as he looked away. "Yeah...yes I...I'm..." He swallowed down the 'sorry,' flexing his hand in Gladstone's fur.

"Nothing to be sorry about," John said cheerily and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, as if it were a perfectly normal and accepted way that they communicated.

He carried in scratching the dog's fur, breathing slow and deep. "I wish....I w-wish I..." He shook his head and went quiet again. "I'm...thank y-you for coming back," he finished off with a whisper.

"What do you wish?" John didn't know what it was, but he damn well was certain he would do everything in his power to make it happen.

Sherlock finished speaking, facing the dog, "th-that I...that...I c-could st-tay with y-you," he whispered, keeping his face away from John.

John reached out and took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Yes. Of course."

Sherlock's entire body froze, eyes snapping to John's. He stated at him, incredulous. "I...wh-hat? I...I c-can...b-but you don't l-live at h-home you...but I'm your h-hard d-day...I...I can l-live with you?"

"I've been thinking about it a lot recently. If you want to, you can. But first, it would be best if you work on what you have been. Now, Sherlock, I don't say that because you're not good enough. I say that because Mycroft won't be at my house as often as he is here. Would you be able to leave him?" 

John had a look of concern, not scorn.

Sherlock's face crumpled as soon as John said he had to heal more. He shook his head as John asked him the question, tucking his fingers to his lips and sobbing around them. 

"N-no," he wept, letting go of the dog and pulling away from John, nearly twisted inside out with self-loathing. He and John both knew he'd need help for a long time. The offer was empty, and Sherlock had nearly fallen for it.

"Okay, okay, then you can come. You can come anytime you want. Hell, it could be tomorrow if you really wanted. You just have to work it out with Mycroft. Are you alright with not being around him as much?" 

More still, would John be alright with Sherlock and his staff infiltrating his happy, peaceful home?

Sherlock did not look back to John, biting on his fingers as hard as he could, trying to block out the exasperation in John's tone. "I'm...I l-live h-h-here," he whispered through his heart, struggling to even form words. 

"I'd...I w-was j-just b-being st-tupid, I'm...I'm-m always...a-always b-being stupid!"

"No, no, Sherlock, please. Listen. All I wanted to know was if you wanted such a drastic transition like that. I know it would be incredibly hard for me to leave Greg, so I was just trying to see if you would need time to adjust. I'm sorry. You can come live with Greg and I." John smiled at him in an attempt to save his mistake.

Sherlock had bloodied his fingers, still chewing hard on them. He couldn't go, even if he wanted to he couldn't. How was he going to sleep? How would he get to the lav if he- who would be there if he- 

_You should have been healing_. John's old, familiar voice echoed up into the air, frustrated with him. 

"I c-can't," he sobbed, pulse and breathing skyrocketing. "I d-didn't g-get...get b-better and...and I...y-you w-won't and- G-Greg h-hates- I should h-have..I'm...I c-can't!" He was stuck in a sharp loop of the conflicting ideas that John wanted him, or that John was playing him in a round-about way to make it seem as though he wanted Sherlock with him, when he knew he couldn't be. 

"I- I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry," he began to beg, over and over, knowing he was upsetting someone but unclear on which it was. 

"Greg doesn't hate you," John whispered. He hoped his calm tone would calm Sherlock. "And you can, but we'll need to get your basic needs figured out first. Why don't you and Mycroft work on that, then as soon as it's all sorted, you can come? I'll make up the bed and clean the room as soon as I get home tonight."

Sherlock nodded, holding his breath and trying to soothe himself as he lay on his side, feeling as though he were trapped in a floodlight he could not escape. Greg had shoved him the last he'd had contact, angry with Sherlock for reaching for John. 

Greg might not hate him, but he'd stop at nothing to keep John safe, which included harming Sherlock. 

"I'll- I'll t-try," he wept, sounding very much like a frightened child. That meant learning to eat, learning to get himself around without help, becoming self-sufficient. It would take months, even with his best chances, and he had no-one consistent to help him. He was cut off from his brother, and Jared was often upset with him. "I...I r-really...I've b-been...I've b-been t-trying, I s-swear I've been. I- it's...I g-get..." he hung his head in shame. How could he explain his lack of progress to John, who was so much more healthy? 

"I understand." John reached out and took Sherlock's hands. "Let's give it a few days, alright? I had a goal to work towards, now you have one too. You're a good man. You don't need to heal, you just need to work out how you're going to handle this with Mycroft. You need your medical staff, and him to help you move and such. Course, Greg and I can help with a lot of it, but I don't know if there's special stuff we can't do."

John's calm reaction kept him calm. Sherlock allowed John his hands, daring to look up at him. 

"I..." he glanced over to Greg and then back to John. For a moment he allowed himself to picture Greg's flat, one room on one side and another on the other. That would be his room, if and when he was allowed to come stay. It would be like living with John and Mary, which he refused to do, knowing he'd always be awkwardly in the way. 

"Ok-kay," he whispered again, nodding, accepting that John's offer at least was not empty. He could focus on that. If John could, he would. That was something, wasn't it? He closed his eyes again, struggling to calm down. "Th-There isn't...r-room f-for...I wouldn't...y-you n-n-never c-cared for st-tr-rangers in your sp-pace. I won't do th-that to y-you." 

He meant it as well. Much as he wanted to beg to be taken to John's home, he knew that the very people who frightened _him_ would be coming into John's safe place. 

"W-Will you st-till..." he looked away, his voice catching as he failed to stop sobbing, "see m-me sometimes?" 

"While you sort things out with Mycroft, I'll visit you every single day. Is that alright? Can we work with that agreement?" John was frightened to do this, but he needed to. Clearly, Sherlock did not have the dedication he needed here.

Sherlock nodded, reaching back out and very tentatively trying to hug John, obviously worried that he wasn't allowed to put his hands on John. 

"Ok-kay...okay...we...y-yeah we...that...th-thank-k y-you, John," he whispered, shivering from head to toe, completely exhausted. 

John hummed happily and nuzzled down onto Sherlock's chest. "I'm glad you'll be coming over. I'll show you my room and my bench outside and we'll go look at trees and clouds and there's a balcony with birds and stars." John had found happiness, and he was willing to share it.

Sherlock's body gave out as he relaxed back against the bed, very glad John had returned the embrace. His words painted a vibrant picture for Sherlock, highlighting bits of the flat that seemed dark and empty to him moments before. 

His mind drifted back to Baker Street for a moment, but he shoved that away, trying to latch on to the promise of such good things. "Y-You like th-the stars," he whispered, recalling effortlessly the way John's face always took on a serene, calm state when he looked up at the heavens, even if John had been in a state of stress, "I'm g-glad-d you...h-have them b-back." 

"First night, I'll wheel you out and we can look at the stars. And I'll show you my bird! I have a bird. Sort of. We have a lot of movies and nice things. There's good food and the house is really, really safe. We'll have a DI and a police dog to keep us safe." John beamed at Sherlock. "I feel like a kid getting a sleepover."

Sherlock felt like a kid being denied one. He tried to smile against John's shoulder, nearly asleep despite himself. The morning had been very taxing before John even arrived. "Okay," he whispered against the side of John's neck, holding on to John the way John often held to Greg, desperate for acceptance and safety. He'd forgotten himself in his state of exhaustion, holding as he was always restricting himself from doing. If he could have crawled onto John's lap and curled up small there, he would have. 

"Th-that...sounds...v-v-very n-nice," he added in the understatement of his life. 

"It will be nice." John was working very hard not to be dragged down with Sherlock's negative outlook, and instead gave him a quick squeeze. "Are you thirsty at all? I can't...I can't drink water from a glass yet..." Shame was clear and bitter in John's voice, and he pressed his face against Sherlock to hide it. "But you can, so you should, right?"

Sherlock nodded with his eyes closed, the strength very rapidly bleeding out of his body, "K," he breathed, not giving John any fuss as his arms grew heavier and he was having to actively keep himself awake. "'N y-you...d-don't drink w-water yet...b-but you...st-still climb m-mountains," he added, words thick and slurred, referring to John's constant and remarkable effort. 

Absently Sherlock wondered what John's goal had been. 

"You're okay. Let's just rest. I'll keep staying with you. I'm right here. Why don't you sleep? I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise." John nuzzled Sherlock's face affectionately. "It's okay. You're safe and loved."

John would stay. 

Sherlock used the last of his strength to burrow himself as close as he could to John, one hand on Gladstone, and in several shuddering breaths was down and asleep. 

Greg, who'd been nearly eating his own hands in worry during the entire exchange moved to John's side in a rush, touching his shoulder and brushing his hair gently out of his face. 

"Alright?" 

"I feel worried and sad," John whispered and looked back to Greg. "I want to let him come, but how? How is that ever going to work? You saw how devastated he was when I suggested he work on things first. What do I do?"

Greg kept hold of John's shoulder as he sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through John's hair. "He can't see straight, time is just going to have to tell him the truth." He looked over at the sleeping man, eyes tracing the feeding tube and the drip lines keeping him only narrowly alive. He couldn't go back to caring for someone in that condition, he just couldn't. 

"I'm not...I've...I can only be in one place," he whispered, "I can't care for him like I did for you, not with him across the flat." 

"I know you can't," John said and reached over to touch Greg's face. "I don't expect it. I just don't know how I feel about having his staff in our home all the time. I don't mind Mycroft or Paul, but...I still don't know Jared, and it would feel weird having Mycroft there."

Greg nodded, "It's not really an option. We don't have the space. That room back there is hardly going to be big enough for Sherlock and his equipment, not to mention a support person. This has to wait until he's a bit more healed. There's just no getting around it. And he's- he isn't projected to walk, so...I don't have the most...accessible flat..." 

"I want him to be happy. I'll bring him. I want to. I just can't see how. We can get ramps installed. We...I don't want to tell him he has to heal more. I know how he'll hear it. If you said I needed to heal more before I could see you, I would immediately think it was my fault. That I was failing and not good enough. I would still think that, even though I know better! I just..." John shook his head. 

"I could stay here for a few days, then go home for a few. I don't know. I'm trying everything I know."

Greg ran a hand over the back of his neck, knowing what John was saying to be the truth. Sherlock looked as though he was trying, but was still very ill and very weak, and his mind was obviously not processing well. 

"Okay...okay, let me think," he said gently as he trailed his fingers through John's hair. He leaned in and whispered very quietly to John for a moment, "did he seem...oddly frightened to you?" Sherlock still had a hand buried in Gladstone's fur, one still on John, though he was sleeping very deep. 

"Yeah, he's...something's changed," John whispered again. "He's eating and drinking, but he sounds forced into it. I doubt it's Mycroft or Jared, but...and he's so nervous. He knows right where he is and he's scared."

Greg nodded at that. "Would you feel safe if I stepped out and spoke to Jared and Mycroft in the hall, just outside the door? I'm a bit surprised to see him like this and I think it's important that we understand where Sherlock is mentally, at least." 

John curled up next to Sherlock and settled to wait. "I'll be alright. If you figure it out, let me know."

Greg nodded and brushed a soft kiss to the side of John's head before getting up and walking outside of the room, asking for both Jared and Mycroft if he had the time. 

With John in the room and Sherlock asleep, Mycroft was confident enough to step outside the hall. "I heard most of it. We need to find a way to work out Sherlock going to your house. Clearly, you can't handle a staff. What about just relocating back to Baker Street?"

 

Greg wasn't interested in that at the moment. With only Mycroft in attendance, he crossed his arms, looking every bit the DI he'd been for years. "Why is he so afraid, Mycroft? I'm not talking about this potential move," he opened one arm to point at the door, "he's looked ready to come out of his skin since we got here, but he's incredibly lucid. What's on?" 

Mycroft was instantly defensive. "I have no idea! He's eating and drinking, and even tried to change himself! He's been more lucid in the past three days than he has been in the past six months! But just two days ago he...I believe he is doing this progress for some ulterior motive, but I can't think of what. He clearly thinks he isn't doing enough, but...he's just so stressed."

Greg was quiet for a moment, watching Mycroft before easing off a bit. "So, since John came here." He cleared his throat and spoke very softly to Mycroft. "Is it John? Has it been too long, and he's...is he too afraid to say he doesn't want to see John any longer?"

Mycroft was silent for several long moments while he thoughts. "I don't think so. Either way...Greg, you don't know what it's like. What is the longest John has been away from you? The longest he's been just...blank? Sherlock has been like that for months. He's finally talking."

Greg ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I don't mean to come after you. Sherlock...he's behaving very similarly to John when John seriously thought himself still in danger. Is...I mean, could Jared be doing something or...I don't know, I haven't been with Sherlock so this is a big shift, but he's...this doesn't seem like nothing, this seems...this seems...augmented. I'm not sure. I'm sorry that Sherlock has been away from you so long, it's torture when that happens." 

"You and I know nothing of torture," Mycroft said quietly and stared at his own, unblemished hands. It wasn't fair to use that word around the two of them. "I'm sorry. I just...It isn't Jared. I watched the security footage. He never hurts him. I don't know. He...I think he wants to leave. He wants to go with you. Why can't the three of you go to Baker Street?"

Greg looked down, properly chastised for the use of the word.

"John doesn't like Baker Street, and if anything, that is more inaccessible for him than my flat. Only one level there. I can talk to John about it, but I think John can be of more help if he feels safe, and he feels safe at home."

Mycroft leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Then your flat. But he needs his medical staff. He isn't ready to go yet."  
Greg dived his hands in his pockets. "No, neither of them are ready," he said quietly, "hell, I'm not ready."

"You two could move in here. You transitioned from the hospital to your flat. Why not into my house? It's nice. There is plenty of room and a large yard for Gladstone." Mycroft's voice was laced with forced hope.

Greg looked up at Mycroft for a moment before speaking. "It took John months to adapt to my home. Here you have many faces, there are so many things here that could set him off. I can talk to him about it, but I would not hold your breath."

"So then our hands are tied, and we must wait for him to heal." Mycroft shook his head. "I hate this."

Greg shook his head, "Only where living situations are concerned. Surely he will see John coming back again and again and be encouraged by that? If he's already trying so hard...hell I don't know," he scrubbed a hand over his head.

"Okay good. Good. Just keep John coming, please." Mycroft looked back to the door. "It makes me nervous."

Greg looked to Mycroft, sympathetic and trying to understand. "What makes you nervous? John? He's doing remarkably well." 

"Because this is his fault! He is the one who sent Sherlock into this downspiral!" Mycroft had clearly been sitting on this for quite some time.

Greg waited for the white-hot flash of anger to subside to a low simmer before he even dared to open his mouth. Mycroft was in pain, and it was understandable that he'd be lashing out. Still though, it was very difficult to hear him say such a thing. 

"It is Moriarty's fault, and Moran's fault. John is doing the best he can, which is pretty damned remarkable if you ask me. He feels guilt for this, Mycroft, but he shouldn't. This isn't his fault. I am sorry that John effects Sherlock so strongly, I really am, but that's not John's doing." 

"Right, right. I shouldn't have insulted your little John in front of you." Mycroft waved his hand to dismiss it. " _Terribly_ sorry."

Greg took a step forward, bristling. "Say what you have to say, Mycroft. If they want to be close to one another again that means we are all getting chummy, so just have it out." 

Mycroft clenched his hands by his sides. "I haven't slept in days. Sherlock was making slow but verifiable progress before John shouted at him. What John did made him go bloody comatose for half of a year! I have every right to get mad at him even if it isn't logical!"

Greg nodded, though he kept close and bristling. "Yes, you have every right to feel whatever you feel. What I'm asking you is if this is going to be a _problem_ , Mycroft. I will _not_ bring John back here if you are going to lash out at him. I know what happened was horrific, but it happened, and now all we can do is try to set it right. I am honestly sorry for what you and Sherlock have been going through, I am. That night was...really unfortunate, but it's done and we can't change it." 

Mycroft took deep breaths. "I'm sorry. I am not a threat to your John. I promise. I won't lash out at him, and I will not hold him accountable as far as he is concerned. While I am grateful to him for what he did, I resent him for his ability to pull Sherlock out of his slum, and I resent him for what he did to my brother."  
Greg took a step back, giving Mycroft his space. He was quiet for a few minutes before speaking. "I've given a lot of thought to what it must be like for you. If John were...were like that from wanting Sherlock, I- it would be very difficult not to be angry with Sherlock." 

He cleared his throat and lowered his voice, speaking quietly to Mycroft. 

"Sherlock told me that he was in love with John, one night soon after John was taken and Sherlock was three sheets in. Mycroft...John doesn't love him like that. I don't think he ever will. Before, things were not a problem, but now...when John tells Sherlock he loves him...I see how your brother looks at John. It's...John isn't ever going to feel that way, I really don't think he will." 

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "I was willing to think that perhaps John was simply not interested in men, but you blew that theory away, haven't you?" He slid down the wall and sat right on the ground. God, how he hated John.

"What he did to Sherlock? The damage he did? I've had men killed for less."

Greg crouched with him. "He's killed for Sherlock, you know his intent was not to harm Sherlock. And I have no bloody idea what his interest in men is, Mycroft. The man was raped for God's sake. He's likely not interested in anyone. But he never loved Sherlock that way, I don't think. I can't imagine that happening now. Sherlock knows how to be with John and not loved by him in that way."

Mycroft gave a curt nod. He'd instantly taken a small liking to John when he'd saved Sherlock. 

But now he resented him. "I get it. John...is he gay? I just need to know. There might never be hope, but...I'm sorry. It's inappropriate to ask."

Greg shook his head, "if he's anything, John's a bisexual, but I have a hard time saying that, he's so... so far from a relationship I could identify. I wish I could tell you, I honestly don't know."

"Are you and him going to be in any sort of a romantic relationship? I need to know. You can be honest with me, and I will not judge you. Just...just tell me if that is something Sherlock will have to be exposed to in the long run." 

Mycroft didn't think Greg was gay, or bisexual, but the two did hang on each other. 

Greg ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head after a moment. "Not that I can forsee," Greg said quietly, doing his hand again, "I know Sherlock is...sensitive to that."

"Is he going to have to watch you two snog in bed?" Mycroft kept most of the accusation out of his voice, but a bit crept in like poison in wine. 

Greg shook his head, knowing that Mycroft was unlikely to ever get past that. "We don't do that," he said quietly, "that's not part of this."

Mycroft grimaced and turned away. "Good. Just....don't let him walk in on you two doing anything questionable. He is desperately in love with John. Seeing him cling to you, his only other friend in the world, is devastating." 

Greg nodded sadly. "Yeah...yeah I see that," he whispered, again rubbing the back of his neck. "He's a bit afraid of me I think. I'll work on that with him. I don't want him to be afraid of me."

Mycroft stood up and walked back into Sherlock's room without another word. "How is he?" 

John looked up and gave a small smile. "He's okay, I guess."

Gladstone had fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder, and John occasionally brushed his fingers over Sherlock's shoulder. "Greg? Did you figure anything out?"

Greg drew in a slow breath. "Not much, no. He's not ready to live with us yet, so we'll see him much more."

"I'll come every day until he's better." John had solid resolve in his voice. "I'll come every day until the day I can take him home with me."

Greg gave him a gentle smile and walked over to brush his fingers through John's hair, looking down at Sherlock and gently shushing him. Sherlock was stirring, flexing his hands and grimacing beside John.

"You're alright, Sherlock," he whispered, holding John's shoulder.

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "It's okay. You're alright. I'm here. Are you alright?"

Sherlock opened guys eyes, searching John's face before relaxing back down, inhaling as the tension ebbed out of his muscles.

"John," he whispered.

John gave him a kind look. "I'm here. I'm right here. I am here for you. Did you get a nice rest?"

Sherlock nodded, shifting to get closer to John. 

"I...yes, thank y-you," he said quietly, lips turned up in the shadow of smile. He still held to John's shirt, but was mostly calm.

John kissed Sherlock's cheek lovingly and returned the smile. "I'm glad you did. I stayed with you the whole time. Do you want to watch a movie, or tell stories?"

Sherlock nodded, just wanting to stay with John, not caring what they were doing. "Th-that's...y-yes that would be good."

"Do you remember the time you set something on fire and it smoked up the whole flat?" John slipped into a happy tale. 

"And it made us so dizzy! I still have no idea what was in that."

Sherlock looked for the memory, quiet and contemplative. His brows knit as he searched his mind. 

"I..I don't r-remember, but it s-sounds likely I've d-done so," he whispered, keeping hold of John's shirt.

"Well I fell down the stairs and took you down with me. How do you not remember? Mrs. Hudson came out her room to the sound of smoke alarms, and crashing. We were in a heap on the floor with smoke pouring down the steps." 

John had an easy smile on his face. 

Sherlock huffed a soft laugh, though he had no memory of the event.

"Is," he began, very quiet, "is sh-she...s-safe? Well? I...it h-has been...very l-long time since..." He swallowed, tightening his grip before clearing his throat.

"I don't know. We could ask. We could call her over tomorrow." John brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Remember when you made me tea, and I woke up like...a day later?"

 

Sherlock hummed. "You ate, w-watched telly, a-and fell asleep in y-your chair. Entirely dull Wednesday," he said warmly, if not a bit weighted.

"But I don't remember! I woke up in day clothes in the early morning. What were you testing? What did you even give me?" John didn't sound a bit angry. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I w-was bored," he answered with as much of an air of indifference as possible. He knew exactly what he'd been testing, but did not want to go into detail.

"Oh, come oooooon. I missed a whole day! I don't even remember eating. Or going to sleep. Or anything after you getting me tea. Don't even remember drinking it. What was it?" John wasn't serious in the conversation, he just wanted to keep it going. 

Sherlock kept his tone indifferent. "Your nights w-were g-getting worse...I w-was testing a m-mix I thought w-would...soothe that issue," he said with a shrug. John had been on a string of night terrors and Sherlock was a chemist. He'd thought surely it would help. The failed attempt led to a rather dull day.

"Oh." Again, John was blindsided by the depth of Sherlock's caring. 

"That's...that's really sweet. I remember that time. I'm sure I was a bit cranky from lack of sleep. That's for trying. And, you know, you could always have told me. I'd have thought it was fun, most likely. I hope I didn't act weird on it. Did I? Is it like in the movies where you drug someone and they start telling you all their dirty secrets?"

Sherlock shook his head, "You watched t-telly, s-said nothing, and went to bed. D-Dull as you please. Quite disappointing," he added, neglecting to mention that John had fallen asleep against him, holding his hand. Sherlock had moved him just before dawn, but he'd not slept that entire night, soaking it in.

John snorted. "I'm sure you were terribly bored. Probably kept on talking, though." 

John grinned and reached over Gladstone to hug Sherlock. "I fell asleep once when you were explaining something about math and music, and when I came back up, you were on nuclear astrophysics."

Sherlock hummed and thought on that for a few minutes. "Y-Yes well...y-you needed s-something of s-substance in your b-brain, so f-filled w-with telly," he rumbled quietly.

"Unfortunately, I think it's a bit full of useless gossip to have any room for much else." 

John had casually taken Sherlock's hand, and ran his thumb over his knobby knuckles. 

"Didn't stop you from trying though, did it? A lot of it was interesting. Plus, you always got all excited about it. That was nice." John had always loved the gleam in Sherlock's eyes when he told him about his experiments, or his theories or deduction. 

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, letting that information soak. He was not sure what to say in response to John. He'd thought himself a burden to John most times outside of their cases, with John simply enduring him between times of excitement. "I- I w-was u-unaware it w-was anything m-more than an a-annoyance," he whispered. 

"No! No! Not at all! You were my best mate! Still are, right? You and I had fun times outside of cases. Course, you were a bit cranky without them, but it was still nice sometimes." John leaned over and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, then hugged Gladstone. "Nice like it is now."

Sherlock blinked at that. _Nice like it is now._

And it was...nice. John did not seem to be holding his hand over the proverbial flame in an effort to endure Sherlock's presence. He was sharing his dog. He'd stayed while Sherlock rested. It was more than he'd ever been given before, and it was nice. 

Brilliant, really. 

"L-Like...like it i-is now," he whispered softly, nearly entirely to himself. He looked to John's face, searching it for a moment. "I- w-were f-friends then...st-till," he asked softly, honestly not knowing the answer. 

"Course we're friends. No way in hell you can drive me away." John grinned over at him. "I'm stubborn. I'm sticking with you."

Sherlock did not smile back at John. Those words were too heavy, meant too much, and could not be easily taken after he'd become more familiar with John's back than his face. For months on end, all John wanted was to never, ever see Sherlock again. Then he'd gotten to a place where he could endure him, but nothing more. Sherlock's fingers tightened in Gladstone's fur as he tried to gauge the level of honesty he was receiving. 

"Okay," he breathed, squeezing his fist tighter on the dog until Gladstone moved in discomfort, making Sherlock immediately let him go with a soft hiss of regret, honestly not intending to hurt the animal. 

John pet Gladstone's head until his tail thumped happily again. "He's a good dog. Doesn't mind if I sleep on him, or roll over and hug him in the middle of the night. He's a good dog. You should get a dog. Did you decide what type you want?"

Sherlock looked down to the massive dog and shrugged, not taking it seriously. He'd likely ruin a dog, and he did not need any more guilt on his shoulders. "I...I h-have no idea," he answered quietly, scratching at Gladstone's neck. He closed his eyes, thinking of Redbeard and how brilliantly splendid that animal's companionship had been. 

It would be much easier to endure the constant ebb and flow of visitors who would never stay with him, if he could hold on to Redbeard's neck and hide his face in the dog's fur like a child. Any level of consistency at this point would be more than welcome. 

"Well, a police dog is a good idea. Or you could get one like your old dog. Border Collies are the smartest type, I think. Golden Retrievers are beautiful." John prattled off a few types of dogs, occasionally looking to Sherlock for approval.

"I d-don't b-believe there...a-are m-many police d-dogs f-for...f-for civilians," Sherlock said quietly, knowing that Greg must have pulled quite a few strings to get this accomplished. He carried on scratching at Gladstone's fur, glancing over to the former DI. 

Greg shifted then, still at John's back, sitting beside the bed. "I don't know of any, but I can look into it. Maybe we can see if any more of them are coming into retirement?" He tried to sound hopeful, but there were not many dogs on the force to begin with. 

Sherlock looked back down at the dog, shaking his head slowly. "I r-really sh-shouldn't," he said softly, "I'm...m-maybe if...maybe..." he stopped petting the dog, bringing his fingers to his lips and trying to soothe himself. "if I...do b-better...m-maybe then." 

Mycroft leaned over then and smiled at Sherlock. "I can get you a police dog. Really, I can. I can get one fresh out of training, or one who's retiring. Whatever you want. I will get you a dog. I think you deserve one."

Sherlock looked horrified at that idea. "O-one r-right out of t-training would be cruel," he whispered, shaking his head. "n-no, I- I h-haven't...I don't d-deserve a dog. I w-would hurt it. I- I c-can't." He could possibly take a retired dog, but even that seemed cruel. "I- I don't w-want...want to t-take a d-dog f-from..from..." he shook his head again, chewing at the inside of his lip.

"We can find one who is injured, or who is retired, or who can't work anymore. We can get you a good, calm, loving dog. I think you deserve it. I think you do. You deserve a go. We should get you one." 

Mycroft was going to get Sherlock a dog by the end of the week.

Sherlock just held his hands to his lips, though he did not bite at his fingers. Adding another dog would also be one more reason Sherlock wouldn't fit in any home where John also resided. 

But god, would it be wonderful to have one. 

"Okay," he said quietly, feeling like an unruly child being offered an unearned reward. 

John let out a relieved sigh. "Your dog should be friends with my dog. That would be fantastic. I could push you outside and we could watch them run around. We could do that now, if you wanted. We could go to Mycroft's backyard."

Sherlock knew without a doubt he didn't have the strength for that. Sitting up was incredibly taxing, and being moved at all was painful. The thought of so much exposure, of dragging about this medical supplies and allowing the sun to throw him into light for better observation...a shudder ran down his spine and he clutched at the bedding, even as he tried to keep his voice steady. 

"N-No...I- that...that's alr-right," he whispered, too afraid to project his voice, "I'll...I'm-m f-fine h-here," he added, trying to keep calm, glad that John was seemingly unaware of how poor his physical health was. 

"Okay. Okay. We can work up to that. That's too much too soon. I know. We can do that some other time, okay?" 

John did not sound upset at all. He leaned his head to the side so he could look at Gladstone easier. 

"Sherlock? Can I ask you something?"

Sherlock visibly relaxed when John was not angry. "Y-Yes," he whispered quickly, nodding as he dropped his eyes to the dog. 

John was quiet for quite some time before he gathered up the thoughts enough to speak. "We can get over this, right? You and I? We can...I mean, what happened...It didn't end our lives, right?"

The question froze the air in Sherlock's lungs and for a moment he was sure time had come to a standstill. He'd lost all hope six months ago that he'd personally be able to move forward, and so he'd given up completely. The last few days had been a dizzying effort to turn away from such beliefs. He'd latched on wholly to John, hearing the determination in him made Sherlock believe this was salvageable. 

But here John was, asking if it was possible. John himself did not know. John was here for reasons Sherlock did not understand, but not out of an honest belief that they could move forward together. 

His throat worked, feeling as though John had just dropped him off a cliff. _John_ could clearly get past what had happened, at least on some level, enough to thrive with Greg. Hearing that John didn't know if he could get past it _with Sherlock_ made his heart twist. "I...I don't...I...I hope so." 

John scooted Gladstone just a bit so he could rest his own head on Sherlock's chest. 

"I get sad sometimes. I have a good life, but I sometimes feel like it will stay with me forever. I just...I want the three of us to move on. Four, I guess, if you want Mycroft to come with us. I want to just get away from all the bad stuff. I think we can be happy. I just...sometimes I'm sad." John grabbed a little bit of Sherlock's shirt and held on.

Sherlock was swiftly building his walls back up, pathetically stacking little sticks against the crumbling mortar. He closed his eyes as John leaned on his chest, wanting to bury his face in John's hair and cling to him for dear life, desperately grabbing for the bits of safety and security he'd had just moments before, when John had started to feel safe, and things had seemed nice. 

"I...I'm" Sherlock's throat worked as he swallowed around the swelling, eyes burning with tears he refused to shed. He felt suddenly very cold, and very alone, "m-m-mayb-be...maybe G-Greg c-can...h-help wh-when y-you f-feel s-sad," he offered very quietly, his voice far less steady than it had been. 

"I'm...I d-don't w-want...y-you to e-ever...f-feel...feel s-sad," he choked out, lashes starting to clump together. 

John froze. He'd only wanted to express something that had been weighing on him. He'd only wanted a little comfort, maybe a word of encouragement from someone who had been through what he had. He hadn't meant to do whatever it was he had just done.   
"I...I only wanted..." He shook his head. He'd forgotten. Today wasn't about him. He wasn't with Sherlock for comfort. He was supposed to be helping him, not asking for help. 

"I'm sorry. I just...I just wanted to...I'm sorry." John curled tighter against Sherlock and pressed his face down against his chest. 

"I-I don't know what I said. I only wanted to make sure...I mean...I don't know. I just wanted to hear from someone who had been through it that it was possible."

Tension crept back into Sherlock's muscles, feeling the glass cracking beneath his feet, treading lightly. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered very quickly, wrapping his arms around John and holding as tight as he could, "I'm s-sorry...I w-was scared I- I d-d-didn't...didn't m-mean..." his voice cracked and he held John tighter. "I didn't th-think...y-you'd...I thought if-f...I- I am n-not...you-" he could not get the words out, rambling and stuttering as he tried to explain himself. 

"F-Feels...feels l-like I'm...I w-want to m-make y-you feel b-better...I didn't th-think that...th-that I c-could e-ever be c-comforting to y-you. I...I- think y-you can g-get over this, y-yes. I- I mean...l-look at what you've...you've already overcome! Y-You are...a-are g-g-going to b-be okay, J-John."

John sniffled at the beginning of tears. He was overwhelmed suddenly by how easy it was to tip Sherlock over. He hadn't even done anything wrong. He'd simply asked for help in one small area. "I-I never meant to hurt you. I just...You saw what happened to me. You know better than anyone alive what was done to my mind. Do you think I'll ever be fully alright?"

A torrent of guilt crashed over Sherlock, nearly sweeping him under. He carried on holding to John, running his fingers through John's hair. 

"I...I'm sorry," he breathed, not knowing how to come back from this, "I- I d-didn't....I didn't u-underst-tand, I'm s-sorry I- I'm sorry pl-lease I-" he tucked his head down against the top of John's head, feeling as though John was slipping through his fingers like sand. 

"Y-Yes...yes I- I b-believe y-you are g-g-going to h-have a v-very good l-life...that...th-that y-you'll be alright, y-yes." 

John didn't know why he was so relieved. 

"I just...sometimes I feel normal, and like things are going good, but...then I panic, or I get sad for no reason, or I break down because something little scared me. I keep getting reminded that I-I'm not normal." 

John was holding very tightly to Sherlock's shirt. "Do you really think we can get through this? You...You know what they don't. You know how long a day is and...I just...sometimes I don't know if I'll ever really leave this behind me." 

John knew he was supposed to be the strong one, but he simply needed to talk to someone who had been through what he had.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, breathing much faster than before as John began to speak of such horrible things. _You know how long a day is._

"I- I...th-think...think it...l-like the w-war, J-John. Like the w-war. N-Never...never the s-same, but...but somewhere n-near 'ok-kay,' r-right?" 

Sherlock had no idea. He had exactly zero faith that he personally would ever be anything more than what he was, but that wasn't the point. John needed help, and Sherlock honestly did believe that John would be alright. 

John breathed a slow sigh and nodded against Sherlock's chest. 

"I'm sorry. I'm upsetting you. I didn't mean to. I just get lost sometimes. I'm okay. I just wanted to hear it from someone who knows. It's all well and good when someone who hasn't been through it says I'll be fine, but when you do, it means more. If you think I'll be okay, then I will be. I have a good life now. I just wish..." John let out a bitter laugh. "I just wish Moriarty was stillborn, I suppose."

There was something slightly crushing about John's words, but Sherlock could not place what. "Y-Yes...that w-would have b-been better," he agreed. 

John had a good life already, and Sherlock could feel himself upsetting John as he lay there. Perhaps...perhaps he could be around to assure John when he needed to hear from someone else who'd survived torture. That could be his purpose. He could just...just keep on for that. 

"Y-You w-w-will be okay, J-John. Y-You're the...the st-strongest m-man I know." 

John let out a small whimper and began to cry. He sniffled into Sherlock's shirt and held on tightly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't feel very strong. I was supposed to help you today. I want to be strong to help you. I really want to be strong and help you. But I can't even be a good friend."

Sherlock was well familiar with the feel of complete failure. As always, he'd set John to tears. His voice was heavy and sad as he whispered to him. 

"Y-You d-don't have t-to...f-feel strong," he had to stop as his chin trembled, glad that John could not see his face, "if..J-John if...if-f it...t-takes your st-strength to...to be here...you...you...m-maybe I c-can c-c-call you or...or...we c-can t-t-talk over v-video or..." his voice was as steady as he could make it. 

"You h-have w-worked s-so hard. I have M-My...and the p-people h-here...I- I d-don't w-want to d-drain y-you," he whispered. He was obviously sad, but it was nothing new, no new weight to it. 

"It m-means so m-much that...that you w-would w-work so hard to c-come see me. It m-means everything. I...I unders-stand that...that this...is l-likely t-too much." He snuggled John to his chest, holding him without reservation for just a fleeting moment, his heart swelling and then twisting horribly as he began to let go. 

John shook his head and tightened his hold on Sherlock. He locked his hands behind him and held on with a grip that could not be easily broken. 

"I don't want to leave. I like being here. I just don't like feeling so small. Do you think that will ever go away? Will I ever feel not small?" 

John raised tear filled eyes to Sherlock. "Do you think I'll like who I am someday?"

Sherlock blinked, completely taken aback. "I- y-yes, I think s-so," Sherlock stammered, completely unsure of everything that was happening. "I- I...I'm s-sorry you f-feel small," he whispered, wondering how he must seem if John felt small. 

He could not help the way he began to shiver, feeling as though the situation was about to violently spiral out of control. "Y-You w-won't always...f-feel that w-way," he offered, hoping to hell and back that his words were true. 

John dried his eyes on Sherlock's shirt and pulled it up a little to hold against his face. "I'm sorry I'm scaring you," John whispered in a soft, delicate voice. "I didn't mean to. I just get sad sometimes. I don't really control it. I'm sorry. Did I hurt you? I can be alright now. I can just be okay."

Sherlock's mind was tripping over itself. If John didn't feel safe to tell Sherlock how he felt, he would likely not come back, or at least not _want_ to come back. Sherlock did not feel strong enough to help John, or qualified, for that matter, but he desperately wanted to.

"I- It's...it's ok-kay, I'm n-not scared," he whispered, lying through his teeth. "Y-You don't h-have to be alright, I- it's...it's ok-kay if- if you're n-not...not al-r-right." 

He watched John's hold on his own shirt, wondering if he'd ever have the strength to allow Mycroft's people to wash it. 

John curled his fingers around the fabric of Sherlock's shirt to anchor himself. "Is there anything you want to do? I can tell stories, or...I never had anything to offer you outside of being your friend and occasionally protecting you though, did I?" 

Sherlock had offered cases and companionship and excitement, while John had only been another human in the house. Or at least, he'd assumed. He'd taken Sherlock's gruffness to mean he wasn't interested.

Sherlock's head fell back against his pillow then, eyes closed, face to the ceiling. He'd done a devastatingly horrific job of being John's friend. 

"Y-You were _e-everything_ ," he managed, unable to hide the heartache in his tone, heavy tears suddenly rolling down the sides of his face, tracking over his temples and landing in his hair. He could not help it, not with this sort of weight. 

"Y-You...there w-was n-nothing more...m-more important than-" How could John not know this? How could he think-

_You and I were not meant to love, Sherlock._

He covered his face with a trembling hand, stifling a sob behind his palm. "I'm s-so sorry, John. I'm so sorry I m-made y-you f-f-feel...so...I d-don't know h-how I..." he couldn't carry on, momentarily overcome. "I'm s-so sorry." 

John shifted so he could rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder and watch him carefully. "I did a bad job of being your friend. I left. I am so sorry. I should have known that I was important to you. I just didn't see it, and it's my fault. I did a horrible job of communicating how much you meant to me. You know when I realized that? When I said I wanted you as my best man, and you didn't even know you were my best friend. I felt...Jesus, I felt horrible. But you know now, right? How you saved my life? How you've always been there for me?"

That was the polar opposite of John's thoughts regarding Sherlock since he'd been back. Sherlock's breathing caught and again he was bolstering his walls, doing what he could to avoid the collapse. 

"G-Greg...G-Greg s-s-sav-ved y-your l-l-life," he whispered, trying to dash away the heavy tears on his face, "I've...I'm...one of th-the w-w-worst things t-to...to e-ever h-happen to you, J-John." He knew it in his bones, knew it where metal had drilled into his skin, where fire had torn away his flesh, he knew it with every breath and every heartbeat. 

"Y-You don't...h-have to s-say..." he turned his face away from John, holding his breath as his chest ached. 

"No, no, don't start. You dragged me out of the warehouse. You stayed with me, and you went to Moran instead of me. Greg has saved me as well, but that does not invalidate what you did." John sat up a little and stared at Sherlock for a moment. "I don't know how to convince you that you're wonderful."

Sherlock had his fingers between his teeth, struggling to understand. For six months, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, Sherlock had been trying to die, knowing that John despised him. He had tortured himself with thirst, remained trapped in his head with Moran, paying penance until he died, and now John was telling him that he was wonderful.

He nearly cried out that John had told him, many, many times that this was all wholly his fault. It was, of course. Moran had done him one kindness, in showing Sherlock exactly what he'd done, but it was indescribably upsetting to hear John say these things after so much anger.

"I'm sorry," he breathed again, unsure of what else to say.

John shook his head. He'd pushed too far. He'd gotten too emotional. He scanned the room, touching first on Greg's face for comfort, then to Mycroft's. 

John flinched and tightened his hold on Sherlock. He knew Mycroft was a controlled man, and thus to see a look of such anger and malice on his face made him fear for his safety. 

"Sherlock," John whispered in a low voice, "I think Mycroft is mad at me. Could you tell him I didn't mean to?"

Sherlock immediately opened his eyes, taking in Mycroft's furious expression with a sharp twist of panic.  
"M-My," he whimpered, sharply afraid. John was going to leave and Sherlock was going to have to face his brother's anger at his own failings. 

He reached a hand up, pulling viciously at his own hair in acute distress. "I'm s-s-" he could not get the words out, clinging suddenly to John's shirt, "he- it w-wasn't...he's b-being n-nice...M-My...pl-" he grit his teeth, shivering violently, "please, please d-don't b-be angry."

"He's upset you," Mycroft said in a voice he'd forced to be calm. "Are you sure you aren't too tired to deal with him?" Mycroft was shaking with the exertion it was taking not to tackle John off the fucking bed and throttle him. His unexplainable fury for the man surprised him, and while he knew he was doing everything he could, this was proving to be too much. 

"I'm sorry," John whispered, but Mycroft cut him off.   
"No, John, I'm sorry. I'm being overly emotional. I'll stop. I've just been stressed recently."

John tucked his face back down beside Sherlock and breathed a shaky exhale. He was genuinely afraid. He hadn't been so afraid outside a panic attack since going outside the first time. With a white knuckled grip on Sherlock, he forced himself to be still. 

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock started at Mycroft in shocked horror. He was going to scare John away, make it harder for him to come back. Torn in two directions, trembling so hard his teeth were chattering, Sherlock wanted to wrap around John and reach out to soothe his brother. Either way would pull him away from one of the men.

"I...I'm..." He whispered in a terribly shaking tone, "M-My he...he's t-trying. He's trying."

John carefully slipped one leg over Sherlock's hip and held on. He tangled the other with Sherlock's, effectively locking himself on. "I'm not leaving," he said to both Sherlock and Mycroft. 

Mycroft had his back against the wall and his hands in his hair. "I'm sorry," he breathed, "I don't want to hurt anyone."

Sherlock failed to hold back a sob at the state of his brother, reaching out for him as his chest froze. He'd never seen Mycroft like this. 

"M-My...My...y-you are ok-kay," he cried out, holding his trembling fingers out towards the man who was too far away for Sherlock to have any hope of reaching. He kept a hand on John's back, trying to calm him as well, feeling like a juggler with one arm. Even as he held John and reached for his brother, he broke down into childlike tears, sobbing for the hopelessness of it all. 

His life-raft was breaking apart, and he could not gather all the pieces before they drifted away from him. 

Greg move over to Mycroft's side, standing in front of him and blocking his view of Sherlock. He was well versed in domestics, and felt equipped to handle this. He did not touch Mycroft, though he met his eye. 

"Hey...steady. How about you and I go back out in the hall and take a minute. It's alright." 

Mycroft's breath hitched and tears burned in his eyes. He was having such a hard time not shouting abuse at John then snatching his baby brother away from it all. 

"I'm sorry," he muttered and stepped around Greg. He fell to his knees beside the bed and grabbed hold of Sherlock's hands. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm just having a bad day. It's okay. I'm...I'm glad John is here for you. He's doing very well."

John kept his face hidden. Surely, Sherlock and Greg would protect him.

Sherlock could feel John's fear radiating off him like the sun, but Mycroft was on his knees, nearly in tears, begging his forgiveness. Sherlock's stomach churned, mouth watering, as he became massively overwhelmed. 

"I's alrigh'...M-My," he slurred, ears ringing sharply, "b-bad d-day, 's allow'd," his tongue had gone numb on him and nearly all the color had drained from his face. Why John would want to be here and not home with his birds, he had no idea. He tightened his grip on John, wanting to remind himself what it felt like to have his friend there, even as he tried to comfort his brother. 

John began to cry against Sherlock's chest. He couldn't help it. There was too much stress in the room, and he was utterly unable to handle emotional stress of this sort. His breathing caught in his throat and he sniffled in his fear like a small child.

Mycroft heard the sound and dismay washed his features. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said with genuine guilt on his face. "Please don't be upset. We can...Let's just put something on the telly and all watch, okay?"

Sherlock tracked Greg with his eyes, watching as Greg moved to the side of the bed John was on. There was a dip, and then soft whispering as Greg spoke to John, just before John was shifted beside him with Greg's effort to pick him up. John was much more substantial, but apparently Greg's fitness had grown with John's. 

Sherlock did not speak, clutching to Mycroft's hand with his crooked knuckles blanching, heart in his throat. He seemed to step away from himself, watching from a distance as the _nice_ day imploded around him.

John latched on like a leech. He pressed his face down against Sherlock's side and locked his legs around his thighs. "I am NOT leaving!" He did not rebel against Greg's touch, however. He desperately wanted to be held by him, but this wasn't about him. It was supposed to be about Sherlock.

Another sort of fear ripped through Sherlock as legs were suddenly locked around his own. He took another mental step back, watching from a distance. Greg did not push the issue, leaving John to make his choices, though he did settle down right beside John on the bed. Greg started to gently, calmly rub John's back, nodding to Mycroft. 

"Something on the telly...we should watch something calm on the telly," he said as gently as he could, watching Sherlock and John with a critical, worried expression. 

Sherlock's hand was locked like a vice on his brother's, but he was otherwise silent as he lay there breathing in a panic. 

"Everybody shut up!" John spoke loudly and looked up from his safe place in Sherlock's chest. "Greg, put something on the telly. Other than that, if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Is everyone clear?"

Mycroft was stunned into silence, and dropped his head to Sherlock's hand.

Darkness flashed across Sherlock's vision as he nearly came out of his skin, his stomach bucking hard on him, nearly gagging. He was pressed as far back into his mind as he could be, watching as a third party to his own situation. Of all the voices he expected to hear yelling in anger, John's was not one of them. 

He compulsively swallowed, trying to calm his stomach, icy cold sweat beading along his brow, leaving him feeling like a deflated balloon, utterly hollow. His breathing had become erratic, tears falling from unblinking eyes as he stared in stunned silence across the room. 

Greg clicked on the telly with the remote at his side, turning down the volume and trying to find something suitable.   
Save for the telly, the room was silent. John ran his hand up and down Sherlock's arm to remind him that he was there, and closed his eyes. He kept quiet and kept hold of Sherlock, as he had no idea what else he was supposed to do.

With no one needing his immediate attention, Sherlock made it another ten minutes before his body gave in and his eyes drooped closed, breath still catching, slowly going lax where he lay. It had been too much, and he'd been too overwhelmed, gone far too long without his medication for him to be able to endure much else. Slowly his hand slackened in Mycroft's grip, arm heavy on John's back. 

John set straight to work. He got Mycroft's phone from the bedside table -a fact which further irritated the man- and went to the camera. 

"Hey, Sherlock," he said once the video was on. "Things didn't go so well today, and I'm really, really sorry. I want you to know it was nothing you did, and I am coming back tomorrow. Mycroft is going to get you a dog. I'm going to keep coming to visit until we find out a way for you to live with me. You've been doing a really good job with the eating and drinking, and I'm really happy." Sherlock was asleep next to him in the video, and John leaned over to kiss his forehead. "I'll come back. Bye, Sherlock." 

He clicked the video off, and immediately scrambled out of the bed and into Greg's arms. He practically crawled up him and wrapped his legs around his waist like a koala. "Home. Home."


	23. Chapter 23

Greg picked John up with a bit more effort than before, but managed to get them out of the house and to the car before hiding Jun in his lap, offering his pills.

"Breathe, breathe, you are safe," he repeated again and again as he signaled the driver to go. It was late afternoon, just before dusk, and felt far too bright for their situation.

John tried to breathe, but it turned out that holding his breath was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He let out a wretched sob and wrapped himself around Greg. 

"I-I made h-him hurt! I just w-wanted t-to know if he thought that I could do it a-and he got all sad! And Mycroft-" John shuddered. "I don't like him."

Greg wrapped John up tight, rocking him slowly.

"Easy, easy John. Today was really, really good. You did wonderful, and he was coming around. Mycroft's...very worn down, that's why we are helping. You did wonderful."

John wept into Greg's chest and wrapped his arms around his neck. 

"I never...I just wanted to help! I never wanted to hurt him. Really. I just...I got scared and...I forgot that I'm not supposed to be comforted by him and...and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Greg's brow knit in confusion. "What? John no, no no, that's not right at all. You can seek comfort from him. You did nothing wrong!"

"Clearly, I can't! The second I was anything other than completely pulled together, he fell apart. I'm not allowed to show weakness around him. I get it. Put on a strong face." John was even more grateful to Greg then, who he could be weak around without worrying about hurting him. "I love you."

Greg just put John's head to his chest. "He's tired and confused, don't judge him on today, love. "

John sniffled and began to cry again. "He looked like he was going to hurt me! And that means I was hurting Sherlock!"

Greg ran his fingers through John's hair. "Sherlock was hurting, that doesn't mean it's your fault. Mycroft is strained. Sherlock has been, well, you saw him. For months. Mycroft has been watching his brother die. It's just a hard time right now."

"I don't like Mycroft," John whimpered. "He can't come in our house. Don't let him in our house, alright?"

Sherlock was never going to make it to their home without his brother. Greg closed his eyes as the fits closed. That meant no living with Mycroft, and likely cut Sherlock off from any slim chance he had.

"Mycroft was trying to get Sherlock to our house. He's trying to find ways to help. He's protected you for a year and saved me several times. Let's try to give him another chance?"

John whimpered. "I just don't like him," he whispered. "He looked at me like he wanted to hurt me. I'm very...I'm very vulnerable to that sort of thing, I think."

Greg tightened his hold on John. "I would never allow anyone to hurt you. He was angry, but he knows this isn't your fault. Let's just get home, I won't let him come here. Let's go up." The car had stopped and they were home.

John clung to Greg the whole way up to the flat, then dragged him by the hand straight to bed. He arranged the covers and pillows into a little nest and snuggled against Greg with his arms across his chest. "I just made one little mistake! It...It was such a small thing!"

Greg held John to his chest, breathing slow and trying to find the path to walk John out of this.  
"You didn't make a mistake, he just...John he's just really fragile. Surely you can understand what that is like. He's afraid, and really, really lost. He still tried to help you, though. He was scared but helping. That, does that help at all?"

"I guess it helps a little. But why didn't I just suck it up and help him? Why did I have to try and look for comfort?" John wrapped his legs up with Greg's and made as much contact with him as he possibly could. 

Greg shrugged, holding John tight. "He knows what happened to you, it matters to you what he thinks. There is nothing wrong with that."

"He didn't sound very convinced. And it matters to me what he thinks because he's been through the same thing. Like some sort of support group for people who've had the same thing happen. I thought it would help." John sniffled and breathed a slow sigh. 

"Is there anyone else in the world who's gone through what I have and come out alright?"

Greg closed his eyes and tried to put his thoughts together.  
"There are victims of torture alive and thriving, yes. If you...I could find you...find a support group. Maybe that would be better than doing this."

"I still want to see Sherlock. I just think it might help if I could talk to someone who understands. Prisoner of war? I don't know. Or maybe just get an example. It's just that sometimes it seems like it's only Sherlock and I, and he's not doing well at all." John knew he shouldn't be discouraged by it, but he clearly was.

Greg hummed and nodded. "There are books, if you'd like to start there. People who were tortured and are thriving. I don't know how many people are in London like that, but we can look."

He scrubbed a hand over his head, "You should call him tomorrow, call him and talk a bit, and we will find you what will help most."

"I left that video saying I would go, and I will. I'd like to start with some books. Its nice to hear about success stories. And...I haven't exactly adjusted to normal life. I don't work. I don't talk to anyone outside of those directly involved. Hell, for the past six months, outside of Paul you're the only one I see. I like it like that. I don't know if I want to adjust to society."

John was ashamed of that fact, and he dropped his head. "I know I should, but I don't want to."

Greg shook his head, holding on to John. "That comes later John, much later. For now we get this down completely, get you confident at home, and then we think about more of society.

"I'll get you books, and maybe a documentary. Are...listen I can tell Mycroft not to show him that. I don't know if he is what you need right now."

"I don't think I need Sherlock. But I want to be around him. What will help is seeing him improve. We've been through alot, but I still care about him." John considered once again what life with Sherlock would be like. If he were healed, at least a little bit more, it might be very pleasant.

The three could joke and laugh. But as it was, it would be highly stressful. "I'll visit again tomorrow."

Greg was quiet for a very long time after that, thinking to himself. He tried to choose his words carefully.  
"John," he whispered, tucking the man and trailing fingers through his hair, "if that's what this is for you, then...then you would be kinder to be more honest with him. He's conflicted, and I think that's adding to his stress. You told him today you are still best mates, that you want to be there...what if this doesn't work and you can't keep seeing him?"

"I do want to be there, and I do want to keep him safe. I want to have fun and laugh with him. If he can't do that, then I'll comfort him. I'll do everything I can. I don't know how I've failed to make this clear to you." John pouted a bit. Greg was always trying to tell him to let Sherlock go. 

"Am I bad for him? I feel like he's made progress."

Greg nuzzled down against the top of John's head as he pouted. "I just want to help the both of you. You're...you did great, John. It worries me that you react so seriously to his...when he struggles. He...today ended really badly for all of you. I'm just trying to help everyone. He's incredibly insecure, and that upsets you."

"Yeah, it upsets me. The same way it upsets you when I go away, or when I think I'm going to be sexually abused. It doesn't mean I should leave him." John wasn't angry, but he wanted to stop having this conversation. 

Greg took in a deep breath to calm down. "Alright," he said quietly, leaving it there.

John fell silent as well and simply snuggled against his Greg. It wasn't nearly night time, but he was drained. 

Greg waited another hour before sending a text to Mycroft. He'd allowed himself time to think, going over the day again and again. 

_I'm very worried about you. Will it be a problem for me to bring John back tomorrow? You legitimately frightened him._

Mycroft shifted Sherlock back into his arms as he typed. 

_I am extremely sorry. I am having difficulty keeping myself restrained. It greatly upsets me to see someone causing him pain._

Greg was swift to reply.

_You don't need to apologize. I just need to know honestly if bringing John back is going to be a problem._

Mycroft’s response was mostly what he expected, and received very quickly. 

_I'm going to talk to Paul about it. I didn't mean to scare him. I just have some misdirected anger I need to work out. It won't be a problem._

Greg gave himself a moment before he answered. 

_John is much better, but still far from healed. He does not see things as we do. If you are absolutely sure you can tolerate him, then I'll bring him round tomorrow. Is Sherlock alright?_

Mycroft put his phone down for a moment. "'Lock? Are you alright?"

Sherlock opened his eyes after a moment, reaching out again for John. When his fingers brushed the cool bedding, he scanned the room, finding just he and his brother.

His heart dropped and he brought his arm back to his chest, breathing in as deep as he could to hide how upsetting that was.

It dawned on him that Mycroft had said something.

"I...I m-messed that up," he whispered, chin quivering, "I'm...I'm s-sorry."

"No, no, you didn't mess it up. You're okay. You're alright. I've got you. John is coming back tomorrow. I invited him. I'm sorry I was upset. I just got a bit overprotective. That's all." Mycroft tried for a good natured smile.

Sherlock closed his eyes, greatly disheartened. He pulled his fingers to his lips, keeping himself quiet. Mycroft had been so...unstable when he'd all but blacked out, John angry and shouting, reduced to tears.

"I m-made h-him cry again. I...I always m-make him cry."

"No, I made him cry. I made him scared and I made him cry. That was my fault, not yours. I am so sorry. I never meant to scare him." Mycroft took Sherlock's hands away from his mouth and held them tightly. 

"I won't do it again, and tomorrow he'll be okay."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, trying to breathe slowly. "He...how am I...t-to tell....h-him that...it g-gets better? I...I am the...l-least equipped..." He dragged in a shuddering breath, "he w-wanted m-me to assure him. Me."

"He wanted you to assure him because you matter to him. It's a good thing." Mycroft was incredibly proud of Sherlock, but he was still so broken. "He cares so much. He values your opinion."

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head, "No...no that's not...h-he was angry wh-when I couldn't...I...if-f he...at this point...h-he...if he's n-not even s-sure...what chance do I h-have?l

"Do you want the life he has?" Mycroft asked quietly. "Would you be happy with it? Because if he has made it that far, so can you."

Sherlock shrugged, looking away. "I d-don't...know wh-what his l-life is like. He s-says...says he's...h-happy...b-but...h-he gets s-so angry. So...He d-doesn't...He's n-not...n-not happy h-here."

"No, 'Lock, he is not angry. He's just scared. It's misplaced fear." Mycroft took out his phone and debated showing Sherlock the video.

Sherlock kept quiet for a few minutes, holding to Mycroft's fingers. He was having a hard time letting go of the image of his brother pulling at his hair in distress.

"I'm h-hurting y-you," he whispered very quietly, "I m-make...b-both of y-you in tears. All I do is h-harm."  
"No. You don't hurt me. I'm just tired. I'll be okay. Everything will be okay." Mycroft took out his phone and recalled what John said. Everything was positive. Everything was kind. Everything was calm. It might help a bit. 

"Can I show you something? A video from John?"

Sherlock cringed and looked away. "I m-made him sh-shout again. I know h-he's angry." He dragged the blanket up to his chin, looking at the spot where Gladstone had been.

"He was shouting at me. Angry with me. I made him sad. All of it was my fault. You never did anything wrong." Mycroft would take the blame for anything as long as it took the weight off Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back over at his brother then, watching him for several seconds before looking away with a heavy sigh.

"I h-have to...to choose. Y-you or J-John." He swallowed around the heavy lump that formed in his throat. "It's n-not...not e-even a choice. If h-he even....e-even came b-back...I...I w-won't m-make it without y-you."

If he could lean on John as John did Greg, that would be one thing, but he couldn't, and likely never would.

"You don't have to choose. I invited John back. You do not have to make that choice. I fixed things. I promise I fixed things." Mycroft held on to Sherlock desperately. He would eventually chose John. Of course he would.

Sherlock did not move. He let his eyes fall closed, breathing slow and deep. "N-no...you h-haven't," Sherlock whispered. He looked back to Mycroft then.

"You still...y-you are a-angry with h-him. You a-are in p-pain. It is n-not fixed."

"It's fixed as far as he knows. What it is with John is just...." Mycroft ran his fingers back through his hair. 

"I get nervous because of what happened last time. That is all. Just overprotective big brother. You used to hate that about me, remember? Well now it's making everything difficult again, and I am very sorry for it."

Sherlock watched Mycroft just long enough for his chest to suddenly and unexpectedly swell, looking away before forcing himself to look back.

"I...I am indescribably f-fortunate...t-to h-have you as a brother."

Mycroft stopped _breathing_. He looked over and scanned Sherlock's face for any sign of trickery or sarcasm, which there surely would have been had that phrase been uttered two years ago. "I...I feel the same about you."

Sherlock's immediate inclination was to argue, to remind his brother what a burden he was.

But Mycroft had pulled his hair and hit his knees, and Sherlock would take nothing away from My whole he was so down.

With a very quiet whisper, Sherlock confessed what hurt him the most as a truth. "He f-frightens m-me." He drew in a sharp breath, feeling as though he were committing a cardinal sin. 

"I m-miss him t-terribly...m-more than I c-can express...b-but John...John t-turns l-like the t-tide and h-he b-blames...blames...m-me. I c-can see it the m-moment I disappoint h-him."

Tears slid quietly down his face. "He...He al-always l-leaves m-me. The s-same is n-not true of you."

Mycroft had tears in his eyes and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. "I'll never leave you. Never ever. I love you so much. So very much. John...yes, he does turn quickly. I fear that is the nature of his torture. But I'll stay with you as he gets better, and even if you decide someday that you want to say with him more than you want to stay with me, I'll still follow you."

Sherlock immediately relaxed against Mycroft, leaning into him with his arms around Mycroft's neck. He tried to make himself breathe slow and deep, but his brother's safe embrace knocked his walls down, leaving him sobbing and helpless as he wept against Mycroft's chest.

"I d-don't want to s-see him," he wept, his heart cracking with the anguish of it, "I c-can't give what h-he wants. He's j-just g-going to...to b-be d-disappointed. He h-has...has...h-has..." his throat burned as he grieved like a heartbroken teenager, "G-Greg. He doesn't n-need m-me anymore."

"Sherlock, that is a very serious thing to say. If you don't want to see him anymore, I can arrange that. But he does want to see you, and he hasn't made any demands you can not meet." 

Mycroft rocked just barely, just hardly shifting his weight just in case Sherlock was sore.

Sherlock's breathing caught in his throat and he was abruptly very tense. As soon as the 'nice' stopped, John wanted assurances Sherlock could not give, was dissatisfied with his honest attempts to help anyhow, and had begun to cry.

But Mycroft thought…

The warm swelling in his chest immediately froze and imploded, collapsing back down and leaving him right where he had been, alone and failing.

"Oh," he breathed as his heart began to gallop, "I...ok-kay...I...I'll..." his voice grew very tight and strained, "alr-right."

Mycroft didn't know what he'd said. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "It's okay. Everything will be okay. Let's give it a week, okay? It's only been three days."

Sherlock nodded, dragging in a shuddering breath. "Ok-k-kay,"he whispered again, nodding slowly against Mycroft's chest.  
"H-He..He w-wants...w-wants m-me to tell h-him...he'll b-be ok-kay." He pulled at Mycroft's shirt. "I...w-was t-trying...k-kill myself f-for..." a sob tore from his throat, "he's n-never alone! H-he...He c-can w-walk and r-read and...G-Greg n-never leaves h-him!"

"And he's invited you into that world. We've just got to work out the plans first. I'll arrange it all." Mycroft wished he had some sort of map for this. 

Sherlock went quiet, clutching at Mycroft as he felt the distance growing between them again, the moment of security swiftly ending. That hadn't been what Sherlock meant, and he didn't know how to convey it.

John had snuffed out his own hope at ever healing, and worse yet had been angry when…

"If h-he can't heal...what ch-chance have I? How...how c-can he w-walk in h-here with his...h-his f-family and d-demand I t-tell him...h-him that...that he will b-be okay? Who...who am I-" he grit his teeth in self loathing, deciding that was exactly all that needed to be explained. 

"Who am I? I am n-nothing."

"He is insecure. That's all it is. He is insecure and wants to have himself validated. It makes sense. He is happy for the most part, as you will be. He has a family, and he has said many times he intends on finding a way to put you in it. You are not nothing. You are one of the brightest minds in the world. You're the man who went to his death to save a friend on more than one occasion. You're the man who stayed up all night playing violin to help a friend with night terrors with no thought of credit or thanks. You're the man who always has the good of others in mind." 

Mycroft brushed his hair off his face and kissed his forehead. "And if nothing else, you're my brother."

Sherlock closed his eyes, holding his fingers to his lips and keeping quiet. He was incredibly insecure himself, and had no idea what he could offer John.

"I...I t-tried and...it w-wasn’t good enough."

"You are good enough. I think you need to see that John is very damaged, and he doesn't mean everything he says." Mycroft thought that perhaps John wasn't ready, despite his honest intentions. 

 

Sherlock pressed a hand over his eyes. "I...I was t-trying...I...it's exhausting j-just being awake. I...I c-can't...h-how am I...I thought he w-wanted me d-dead. I thought he w-wanted..."

How was he to distance and read John when he could hardly keep himself steady.

"He never wanted you dead," Mycroft insisted. "Never. I kept an eye on him while you were dead, remember? He didn't like it very much. And now, he would be even more upset. He never wanted you dead. He wants you alive and his friend."

Sherlock nodded before pressing forward, "I und-derst-tand that n-now," he whispered in exasperation, "I...I th-thought that h-he...he s-screamed a-at m-me and th-then...then h-he was g-gone. He w-was so angry and...and..." he shuddered in Mycroft's arms. Hearing John scream had torn him right back, terrified him beyond

what his mind was capable of handling.  
"I c-can't do th-this r-right," he whispered, chewing at the tips of his fingers, "I'll r-ruin e-everything."

"You're doing everything right. I promise. Everything is difficult for him at the moment. Just like how sometimes I make you panic without meaning to. Do you hold that against me?" Mycroft's heart froze for a moment. What if he did?

Sherlock shook his head, still biting on his fingers. "N-No...b-but John does. H-He...he p-punishes m-me e-every...every t-time I-" his breathing had picked up along with his pulse, aching for the peace he'd had with Mycroft minutes ago. 

"John...he is still working some things out. I don't think he blames you, he just gets confused." Mycroft relaxed physically and tipped his head to rest against Sherlock's.

Sherlock did not respond to that. He'd been knocking on death's door days ago, lost months, wasted down to nothing, but John wanted him to have answers, to fix him. 

"Pl-lease d-don't let h-him...cl-climb on t-top of m-me like that ag-gain," he whispered, resigned that he'd have to figure out whatever it was John wanted before being forgotten by him. 

"You don't want me to let John on you? Okay, okay, I can do that. I can do that." 

Mycroft brushed Sherlock's hair off his face and noted it needed another trim. The perpetual scruff on his face wanted shaving as well, which Mycroft always did himself.

Sherlock shook his head, "N-Not like...l-like that...not..." John had locked his legs around Sherlock’s hips, nearly destroying him. 

He whimpered around his fingers, imagining the look on John's face if he was told not to repeat the action. John would not understand, no one seemed to understand. 

"N-Never mind...I'll...I'll be f-fine. I'll be fine." It wasn’t worth the risk of upsetting John. He could learn to tolerate it. 

He shifted, grimacing as he moved. John had wanted him to go outside. Sherlock couldn’t imagine ever being physically healed enough to enjoy being moved that much. Mycroft’s voice cut through his thoughts, redirecting to the subject of John and physical contact. 

"What do you mean?" Mycroft felt woefully incompetent. "Just tell me and I'll have it done."

Sherlock burned with shame, opening the fissures in his fingers. He struggled to remain present, trying to convey his fear without explicitly recalling the events that lead to the traumatic response.

"He...h-he had...He was..." He grimaced and held his breath as panic threatened him. "I w-was pinned down and h-he was y-yelling....He...I c-couldn't m-move my legs and he w-was angry and-" he shifted unconsciously, worried that he'd disgust his brother.

"Okay, that's okay. So you want me to tell him not to be on top of you while he is angry, and not to hinder your legs? That is perfectly reasonable. I'll let him know. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." 

Mycroft smiled amiably. "You're perfectly justified in that."  
Sherlock didn't want anyone on top of him ever, but it had been nice, for a moment, when John had been calm and making promises to help him. He'd felt protected for that short time before John’s grip had become...stifling. 

"H-He is g-going to hate m-me," he whispered, looking down. 

John wanted so much more than Sherlock had in him to give. "I t-tried to m-make him f-feel better...he c-cried. He- he is alr-ready l-living a g-good life. Why m-must he come r-remind me that I'm n-not _enough_? N-Never enough!" 

Anger twisted in his chest as he thought of John with Greg and his beautiful dog, all three together and happy, a constant,, steady chain of support that John was privy to. Soon Sherlock would be in Jared's charge, and he'd have a whole new person to tell him how much he was failing, how terrible he was for his brother, how little he'd accomplished and how disappointing that was. His chest hitched as he lost a defeated sob. 

"It's alright," Mycroft soothed. "I've got you. I'll make sure things go better next time. Remember how well it went last time? The time before last, really. He was calm and kind. Things will be more like that."

He did not expect that in the slightest. "I l-lie," he whispered, ignoring his thirst and vehemently wishing that he'd not broken his efforts to die. "Th-That was...h-him a-acting. An act. The t-truth lies h-hardly below the s-surface. B-But you...y-you already know th-that." 

"No. I think the truth is what is being buried. I think the truth is that he cares and loves you. I think that he gets confused and muddled and that is what makes him panic." 

Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be calm for just a day, just one calm, nice day. "But he'll get better."

Sherlock lay there feeling completely lost and alone, biting down on his fingers for comfort, tears slowly trailing down his face. He deeply envied John's ability to curl up with Greg at any time. For several minutes, Sherlock did not speak. 

Eventually, Sherlock broke the silence. He looked directly at his brother and breathed a question he deeply feared. “Will I?” 

Mycroft answered in an easy tone, desperately attempting to lighten the mood. 

"You'll get better, and things will be easier. I promise. You'll be able to live with them comfortably. I'll live with you as well, if we can work it out. And you'll have a dog. A family. That will be nice, won't it? All four of us with two dogs. Or maybe the three of you, if you decide you don't want your nagging brother around." 

Mycroft smiled and nudged Sherlock's shoulder. "But if not, I'll hover over you and ask annoying questions until you're sick of me."

Sherlock nodded, keeping himself still and quiet in his shame for another minute before tentatively reaching out and pulling lightly at Mycroft's arm with a whispered, "pl-lease," desperately wanting to be safe and held. 

"Pl-lease, M-My," he whispered. 

Mycroft's features softened and he wrapped Sherlock up safely in his arms. "Of course. Anything you want."

Sherlock leaned gratefully into Mycroft's arms, tucking his face down and yelping as he tugged accidentally at the tube in his nose. He was settled moments later, just glad to have a safe pocket to hide in. 

Mycroft was quiet for a long time and hoped Sherlock would fall asleep. Clearly, seeing John was just not working out. But it _had_ made things easier. It had made him eat.

Sherlock slowly managed to relax in Mycroft's arms, glad that their conversation had stopped. It was only a half hour before he slid off into something of a restless sleep, still holding to Mycroft's arm. 

The elder brother cuddled him closer when he slept and rocked back and forth slowly. "I love you," he whispered, as if that made any difference.

Sherlock experienced a fitful sleep over the next four hours, constantly shifting and twitching in Mycroft's arms, speaking in clipped little moments of incoherence before slipping back down into sleep again. When he opened his eyes that morning, he was immediately in tears, body aching, cold and frightened despite the blankets and the warmth of the bed. 

He did not speak, did not seek out his brother or look for John, staring silently up at the ceiling and weeping. 

Mycroft, who had slept lightly, was right beside him. "Hey, 'Lock. I'm here." 

A quick glance at his watch and Mycroft realized he’d need be prepared for and present in a critical meeting in two hours. Hopefully he could get Sherlock to sleep again before that.

Sherlock dragged a trembling hand across his damp face just before shifting. With a stifled cry he turned back to his side, reaching out and grabbing Mycroft's shirt with both hands. He tucked his face under Mycroft's chin, hiding against his elder brother.

Mycroft expected as much, and he wrapped Sherlock close and did his best to comfort him. "It's alright. I'm here. You're okay. Is there anything you need me to do for you?"

Sherlock shook his head as he held as tight as he could to Mycroft. He continued to cry, though was silent save for the occasional hitching sob. Without a single word, Sherlock was back to sleep in less than ten minutes, burrowed in against Mycroft.

Mycroft was caught in a tight situation. He needed to leave for work in an hour and forty five, but John also needed to come over that day. It would have to be later, as he was not going to let that man near his brother without him around. 

Slowly he extracted himself from Sherlock's arms and bundled him up tight in the pillows. He would use the time to get Sherlock a dog, then. If not a police dog than a service dog, one specially trained to handle trauma patients. 

Several hours passed with Sherlock down asleep. His brow knit as he began to wake up, no longer feeling his brother beside him.

With a nearly inaudible whimper, he slid his arm forward, seeking comfort from Mycroft and only finding pillows. A moment later he snatched his hand back, tucking his fingers between his teeth, never daring to open his eyes.

Mycroft only needed to be at work in meetings for four hours that day. The rest of the documents he could process at home, calls he could make could be done from home, and he would be back to Sherlock. 

Nonetheless, he was still at work when Sherlock woke, so it was Jared who tried to comfort him. 

"He'll be back soon," he said calmly. "Short day at work today."

Sherlock flinched at the sound of Jared's voice, pulling his arms in tighter and keeping his face tucked down. He hid in the blanket, terribly afraid without understanding what was causing the emotion.

He wanted his brother, that's all he knew.

His lower abdomen ached terribly, demanding that he take a trip to the bathroom. It would require that Jared handle him, though. Sherlock opened his eyes after a few minutes, looking at Jared before breaking down into tears, absolutely hating this.

"Hey, Sherlock, it's okay. Mycroft will be back soon. Do you need anything? Can I help you in any way?" Jared knelt by the bed and made himself open and small. 

Tears slid heavy down Sherlock’s cheeks as he debated trying to wait. They'd obviously been upping his fluids as he'd not willingly had water in nearly a day.

He was going to soil the bed if he did not get up.

"I-" his voice broke and he covered his face, already starting to tremble, "I n-ne-ed the...w-would y-you pl-l-lease...h-help m-me to the b-bathroom?" The shame of it was overwhelming. 

"Of course," Jared said gently, and got him a very mild sedative to help calm him before moving him. Jared got the chair and wheeled it next to the bed. 

"Am I allowed to touch you to help you to the chair?" He'd never once tried to lift the man without asking for direct permission.

Sherlock very nearly bit out a harsh 'no,' absolutely not wanting to be touched. He made an attempt at sitting up, his arms trembling with the effort, but failed to move himself much at all.

Instead, a very small "please," was his only request for more help.

Jared scooped his arms under the blankets so his hands would never touch Sherlock's skin and lifted him into the chair. He made as little contact as was possible and began to wheel him into the other room. 

"You're being very brave."

Sherlock's heart was beating in his ears, making his throat hurt with the force of its pounding. He clutched at the blankets and kept very still and quiet as dread settled over him like a heavy cloak.

When he was finally in the restroom, Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned forward and attempting not to black out as he relieved himself.

Cold and battling against the want to scream for Mycroft, Sherlock managed to get his trousers back up before calling to Jared in a brittle request for help again.

Jared used a blanket like an oven mit and picked Sherlock up carefully. He made as little contact as possible so as not to scare him, and brought him back to bed. 

"You're making great progress."

Sherlock gathered the pillow that smelled of Mycroft to his face, holding it there and breathing deep in an effort to calm himself down. 

Jared was being kind enough, today, but Sherlock felt raw and vulnerable, unsure of John and unclear where Mycroft stood on what Sherlock still owed him.

He cried as he burrowed down into the bedding, too overwhelmed to handle anything at all.

Mycroft arrived home just over a quarter hour later and immediately went to Sherlock's room. "'Lock?"

Sherlock was nearly green with nerves by the time his brother's voice broke the silence. He looked up with a blotchy face, cheeks wet and hair tousled from his effort to hide, reaching out like a child for his sibling. 

"My," he sobbed, once again trying to sit himself up so that he could get to his brother quicker, "M-My." 

Mycroft was under the covers with his brother in record time.He gathered his crying, tiny little brother to his chest. 

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm sorry I had to go to work. I wish I could stay. I'm back now for the whole day. I'm back now."

Sherlock clung to his brother's shirt, relaxing slowly against him. He was quiet for a long time, simply attempting to get himself under control. Eventually he spoke, his voice soft and heavy with tears. 

"I'm t-tired of th-this," he whispered, shaking his head, "s-so tired of it." 

"I know," Mycroft whispered, "but things are just starting to improve. We had six months of halting, and now we can move forward again. John had to go through times when he didn't want to move on, and now he's got a good life.”

Sherlock just wanted to sleep. Just to go back to sleep and stay out indefinitely. He tucked his face back down against Mycroft, fingers shaking with exhaustion from clinging to him. 

He was quiet again for a long stretch of time, dozing without intending to. 

_Do you think I'll ever get past this? Live a normal life?_

Sherlock startled hard at the sudden sound of John’s voice and let out a low, pathetic cry. 

"I can't," he wept as he pulled at Mycroft, "he's going t-to come...and h-he's going to c-cry. I'm g-going to s-s-say something w-wrong...he's g-going to...I can't, M-My. I c-can't! He's g-going to h-hate me." 

"We don't have to see John today," Mycroft soothed. "If you don't want to see him, you don't have to. It is always your choice." But oh, how he wanted them to get along. 

Sherlock dragged in a wavering breath, holding tight to Mycroft's shirt. "H-He'll b-be so s-sad if...if I-" he shook his head again, abruptly shifting to try and get closer to Mycroft, seeking comfort and warmth as his heart raced. 

"He will understand if you need some time off. Do you want to call and tell him you're too tired? He'll understand." Mycroft really didn't give a damn if he did or not. 

Sherlock did not respond to Mycroft, trying to imagine for a few minutes what it would be like to have that particular conversation. He cringed at the thought. What if John cried? What if he _yelled_? What if Greg became angry with him? 

_He's not made any demands you cannot meet._

"N-No," he whispered, burrowing deeper against Mycroft's side, "I...I h-have to t-try."

"Okay. Short visit, then. I'll tell him that you're tired." Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "It'll be alright."

Sherlock nodded, holding on to his brother for dear life. "Sh-Short v-visit," he agreed, deeply worried over all of this. 

He'd never felt so anxious about seeing John. Typically thoughts of John coming to help were relieving. Now, John meant failure and disappointment, he meant empty offers of help and rage boiling just below the surface. John no longer meant safety and home. John meant pain. 

He was unaware of Mycroft as the elder brother sent a warning text to Greg.

_I need you to give these to John to understand._

_-Do not shout or even raise your voice._  
-Do not pin him down.  
-Do not hold his legs still in any way.  
-Do not show any signs of aggression.  
-Do not give any sign that he has upset you if he has. 

_John, it has been a terrible day for Sherlock. I need your help. It needs to be a short visit, and he needs to feel loved._

Greg read the text, running a hand over the back of his neck and considering if this was even something they could guarantee.

"John," he said quietly as the sat on the sofa, "let's talk about Sherlock."

John was absently doing his stretches for his arms and shoulders, but he stopped at the concern in Greg's voice. "Of course, love," he said softly. "What is it?"

Greg closed his eyes fit just a moment. How to address this?  
"It seems Sherlock is having a difficult day. Mycroft has done eh...specific instruction for today. Sounds like we will have a short visit. Is that alright?"

John was a little insulted, and had a good feeling Mycroft hated him, but he didn't push the issue. "What were the instructions?"

Greg cleared his throat and tried to be as casual as possible. "Ah, it sounds like we really can't...can't raise our voices. He eh, he's requesting that if Sherlock accidentally upsets you, not to um, not to let on."

"Okay. So don't shout. Don't talk loudly. Don't be upset. It's a gentle day. I just be as kind as I can be and gentle like he's a baby bird. I understand. Sometimes there are days when you have to do that." 

John looked to Greg with admiration and appreciation. "You've walked on eggshells for so long with me. I see now how difficult it is. You're a saint."

Greg visibly relaxed, glad that John understood. "Yes, sounds like a gentle day is greatly needed. Eh, also, if you eh, could be careful not to make him feel pinned or...or restrict his legs if you lay next to him. I think it will be okay. In and out, very easy."

John breathed a short huff. "Could I just see the list, if he's given one? I'll remember better that way. Clearly you have an agenda. You don't need to be careful with me right now. I just need it straight."

Greg flinched when John accused him of an agenda. He handed over his phone, somewhat burned from John's harsh words.

"Right. As you wish," he added, leaning back and looking away.

Greg leaned forward and took the phone away. "Mycroft is just stressed, this is why I was trying to relay this for you. That was my agenda. You'll be fine, just be gentle with him."

John was quiet for a while, then leaned his head back. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said softly. "About the agenda thing. I'm sorry."

Greg shook his head and moved over to wrap John in his arms. "It's alright. It is. Can you still see him today? It's going to be alright."

Greg nodded, "okay, sure John. What do you want to bring?"

"I don't know. A nice thing?" John looked around the flat. "We need to bring Gladstone. Mycroft needs to give him a dog. Maybe a nice thing to do would be bring a book and I can read it to him. I can talk quietly and kindly. What does he like to read? Stories? Physics textbooks?"

Greg shook his head, "Mycroft has been reading him Keats and Elliot. He likes poetry, if you can believe it. Reading to him would be nice."

John smiled at that in genuine delight. "Poetry? Sherlock? God, I can only imagine...He said if he wanted poetry he'd read my emails to my girlfriends! I thought he hated such...fluffiness."

Greg shrugged. "He's Sherlock, who ever knows?" He pressed a kiss to John's head and got up. "I bet you can read him something already there."

"Okay. I'll do that. That will be easy and soft and nice." John stood up and got the plates. He didn't think he would be able to do the washing up, but he put them in the sink.

Greg followed John, pulling him back into his arms and holding him for a few minutes.

"Mycroft is just scared, John. He's afraid and it sounds like anger. It's not you."

John climbed up onto Greg's lap and cuddled him close for a moment. "It feels like going into a war zone," he whispered. "I have no control. I don't know what is going to happen. This could go well or it could be incredibly painful and traumatic. I know I'm going to be uncomfortable, and yet I'm walking in willingly."

Greg inhaled slowly, rubbing the back of John's neck to try and soothe him. What was he to say? "Trauma is...difficult to deal with, yes. It's...it's kind of you to keep at this, trying to help him."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm going to do well with this. I've got this." John got off of Greg's lap and stretched again. 

"When we get back, can I exercise? I feel good doing that. Well...I mean, I get frustrated and it hurts and I feel weak, but I feel good after."

Greg nodded, thinking that would be a very good idea. "Absolutely. That's a great plan, should help a lot. Are you about ready to go?"

John put Gladstone's harness and leash on, which was entirely unnecessary, then went to the door. "Yes. Lets go."

Greg waited until they were in the car to text Mycroft. 

_We are on our way. John has seen your text. Be kind to him to help facilitate this list. He just wants to come in and read to your brother. Be kind. Please._

He wrapped John to his side and help him close, determined to be a rock for John to lean on. 

When John arrived at the house, he was nervous. He rolled the fabric on his long sleeved shirt nervously to calm himself. He knocked on the door, then cracked it open. John did not call out. He whispered."Sherlock? Can I come in?"

Sherlock was still folded in his brother's safe embrace, clinging to Mycroft's shirt and holding on tight. He looked up from Mycroft's embrace, still in the pocket of his brother's arms. He laid eyes on John and swallowed hard. 

"Y-Yeah, yeah J-John." 

John went to the bed and knelt down beside it. "I know you've not been having a very good day. I'm just going to stay for a little, and we'll have a nice, safe, gentle day. Can I read to you?"

Sherlock kept hold of Mycroft, breathing much faster and, while he did his best to hide it, was shaking with nerves as John came over. 

John's words took him by surprise. 

"Y-You...want-t to r-read to m-me?" 

He stared at John, openly confused. Surely his inability to do something as basic as read was a great source of disappointment for John, not something to be rewarded. He realized a moment later that he'd not answered the question. 

"Y-Yes, of...of c-course you can if...if th-that's what y-you...if...y-you want." 

John smiled and kept his hands to himself. "I'm glad. Is there anything in particular you want me to read? Greg said you like poetry. I think that's wonderful." John smiled gently again in genuine warmth. He smiled through his eyes and gave him honest love with it. He truly wanted to help and make this comfortable.

Sherlock watched John's face, waiting for the fallout. "I- there is s-some...E-Elliot over th-there I believe," he answered quietly, swallowing again to try and keep his voice steady. 

_Say something useful, you imbecile._

"Y-You..." he bit at his lip, failing to know which words to offer. For a long moment he wavered, looking to Greg and then back to John, "you a-are...you s-seem m-much improved," he trailed off, failing to offer anything that would help John. 

He simply didn't know what to say. He looked sharply away, setting his eyes to Gladstone and sucking in a breath. "M-May I c-call h-him up?"

John kept his expression amiable and patted the bed for Gladstone. "Go see Sherlock," he said happily and the dog hopped right up. He dropped down and nosed Sherlock's cheek, the same way he did when John was crying. 

John got up and found the book Sherlock had mentioned, which was a collection of poetry he previously thought Sherlock would have used as tinder. "Elliot you said, right?" He sat back down on the floor by Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock was scratching at Gladstones head when he realized John had put himself on the floor. He sat up fast enough to make himself dizzy, honestly worried as he reached for him, calling out his name. 

"Wh-Why are y-you..J-John you'll..." he swayed and gripped at Mycroft to keep himself steady, lying back down before he could speak again. The last he'd seen of John before he'd suddenly reappeared, sitting on the floor would have caused a good deal of harm to John. "Y-You don't h-have t-to sit down there." 

"Oh. Okay." John was pleased with that and walked around to the other side. Sherlock had Mycroft on one side, and Gladstone on the other, so John settled on Gladstone's other side and opened the book. 

"I don't know much about poetry, but I'll try."

Sherlock held on to Mycroft as he watched John, settled down between his brother and the dog.  
He reached out and began to scratch at Gladstone, speaking softly to John. 

"It...it d-doesn't m-matter what you do or do not know. I'm...it's...y-you want to r-read to me."

John thumbed through the book until he found the author Greg had told him of. He didn't know much about poetry, but he could read aloud well enough, and started on the first one he found. "These are a bit long, aren't they? I suppose...Ah, I'll just read until you don't want me to anymore. Okay. I'll start." 

John squinted at the page. "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky..."

Sherlock blanched as John remarked on the length of the writing, a rush of heat before the feel of ice followed. He held his breath, hoping it wouldn't be a problem. He should have thought of how long the poetry could be. John's voice washed over him and went quiet, just listening.

John was nervous. Would Sherlock want him talking for so long? Would he be annoying? 

"Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep." John stopped for a moment and smiled. "Oh, I like that," he remarked about the rhyme, then continued. 

Sherlock's heart stopped as John smiled, shocked to see him so taken with the words. He was settled very soon, letting the tension bleed out of his muscles, scratching at Gladstone and watching John.

John read the poem a bit more like a storybook, as he wasn't particularly good with the meter, but he smiled, and laughed, and enjoyed the rhymes. "I like this," he said when it was over.

Sherlock had managed to settle and keep still for the entire reading, deciding he preferred Elliot in John's untrained cadence, something about the rawness adding to the meaning.

"Th-thank y-you," he whispered, meaning it in his bones, "thank y-you, John."

John grinned up at him and thumbed through the pages again. "Can I read another one? I like these. Not sure I understand them all, but I like them."

Sherlock held his breath, looking over to John in shock. "I...y-yes, of course. Of c-course. That...yes."

He was not clinging with depression any longer, holding Mycroft's hand without clenching his fist, honestly relaxed and closer to happy than he'd been in years.

John looked over to Sherlock with warmth and love in his heart. Gladstone had dropped off to sleep with his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, and everything looked peaceful. He nodded to himself, then found another poem. 

"Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable." John's eyebrows raised and he looked to Sherlock. "I have no idea what this means, but I like it."

Sherlock smiled gently at John. "It m-means what...what it means t-to you...n-nothing more." He scratched absently at Gladstone's ear. John's presence had gone from intensely stressful to very calming. 

John continued on with the poem, making commentary when he liked something, and in general demonstrating a complete lack of knowledge of how to properly deliver a poem. It was charming nonetheless in a naive way.

 

When he had been reading for over a half hour, he stopped and looked at Sherlock. "I know this is supposed to be a short visit, but can I do one more?"

Sherlock nodded before John finished, desperately wanting him to stay.

"Pl-lease," he said, nodding and squeezing down on Mycroft's hand with nerves, "y-you don't h-have to leave."

John looked to Mycroft, then back to Sherlock before breaking into a large grin. "Oh, thank God! I was worried! I'm going to stay, then."

Sherlock took a deep breath, letting the tension out of his muscles. He smiled gently to John, reaching out over Gladstone and touching John's hand. "Thank y-you."

John found another poem and read it as well. Then another. He read until his throat was scratchy, but he didn't let on. When the fourth poem was finished, he closed the book and leaned over to rest near Sherlock. 

"I like those."

Sherlock was nearly sedated with John's voice, calm and quiet. He gave John a sleepy grin, languid fingers in Gladstone's fur.

"I'm glad y-you enjoyed th-them."

John closed his eyes and nuzzled closer. "Is this alright? Is it alright if I'm here?"

Sherlock nodded nearly immediately. "Y-Yes." He had no desire at all for John to leave. This was the calmest interaction they'd had since John left and he was loath to remember that it would end. 

Gladstone's head was heavy and warm, and John seemed very calm and steady. allowing for Sherlock to properly rest even while awake.

John reached down and intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's. "That's some really beautiful writing. I'd like to do more of it. Can I? This is nice. I can just come do this every day."

Sherlock nodded. If that's how John wanted to be around him, he'd not complain. "That w-would be fine, John. If y-you are...y-yes, that's fine," he answered as he stared at their joined fingers, surprised John wanted to interact with him still. He looked back to John's face, watching him closely. 

It occurred to him quite suddenly that he didn't know this John any longer. He knew how he used to be. Knew how he used to like his tea, and how he used to read the paper, he knew how John used to behave under stress. But now? Now he'd lost all the little ticks and twitches, all the telltale evidence that John was stressed without John having to say a word. 

He could no longer read him. The realization was staggering.

"A-Are you...y-you alr-right?" 

"Yes, of course." John was well and truly relaxed. Perhaps not as much as he was when it was just Greg, and he was at home, but he was calm. "This is nice. We've got Gladstone and poetry, and you've got Mycroft and everyone is calm."

Sherlock nodded, holding on to John's hand and watching him. Easier to read was Greg, who was relaxed in a chair beside the main door. Sherlock looked back to John and spoke softly. 

"Wh-hat...what is a n-normal d-day for you? The...the g-good d-days, not...not y-your hard o-ones." 

John thought for a moment. 'Cuddling with Greg all day' simply would not do as an answer. "Well...I wake up and things are calm. Greg makes breakfast and sometimes I help. But...on good days, I usually don't, since the hot metal and boiling water scares me a bit. But then, we eat and it's really nice. We watch telly, or play cards, or read or tell stories. Then, we go outside with Gladstone. We walk around and I throw the ball for him. I'm getting stronger! I'm able to move better. Sometimes we do some push-ups, but the harder stuff is for the hard days. Oh! Oh! I'm starting to do push-ups. It's good."

Sherlock nodded to John. "Y-Yes, you told me," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "That's v-very good." He watched John speak, trying to note the subtle shifts in his expression as he explained each detail. 

His mind filled in the imagery. John never screamed quite like he did when being burned. 

He forced himself to keep his eyes on John, reminding himself that he was directly in front of Sherlock, that John was safe, that John wasn't afraid of him in that moment. Remembering John thrashing on the table, his skin burning, eyes wild with fear, made Sherlock abruptly doubt his current reality.

_What if John has a night terror and wakes up to see your face? That would be cruel. This whole affair is cruel. Make him go home. What are you doing? He’s happy without you._

He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, his view of John blurring. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered sincerely, glad that the dog was between them despite his aching want to pull John into his arms and keep him safe, "oh g-god...I...I'm s-sorry. I- you-" he swallowed reflexively again and attempted to school himself. He could at least make this visit nice, there was no need to ruin anything now. 

"Th-thank y-you..f-for r-reading to m-me." He'd made the attempt at sounding normal, but his words were heavier than they'd been before. 

John's eyes turned to worry and he reached out to place a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Don't be sorry. You had nothing to do with it. Now, could you tell me something that makes you happy? Does reading make you happy? If so, I can come back every day and do this until we work something more permanent out. Then, I can read to you when you wake up, and when you're scared, and before bed. If it helps you, I'll never stop. I'll read every damn book in the world."

Sherlock sat there in stunned silence. "That...th-that would...b-be wonderful." 

He has no idea what more to say on it. John willing to read to him was more than he could hope for.

"Would it? Oh, God, Sherlock, after everything you've done to help me, after what you gave up, I owe you a bit of reading."   
John wrapped one arm around Gladstone and the other around Sherlock, so he was sort of lying over the dog as gently as he could. 

"And I love your poetry book. I'll keep reading it to you. I enjoy it. I want to. Can I come back tomorrow? Can I stay a bit longer?"

John had rendered him silent. Sherlock started at John, processing his words as he responded.

"Y-Yes...I- th-that w-would be f-fine. I- yes," he whispered, rambling in his state of shock.

John was filled with joy. He had finally found something he could do, that he enjoyed, and that made Sherlock peaceful. This was an existence he could lead. This would fit in his home. "I look forward to someday sitting on the deck, reading poetry and watching the birds."

Sherlock was nearly in tears. His voice was somewhat muffled as he responded.

"I...I h-hope that h-happens, too," he whispered, overcome for the moment by John's words.

John closed his eyes and leaned over to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "I'll look forward to it."

Sherlock's heart stopped and his lungs seized up, watching John in sharp fear.

The last time John had said he was looking forward to something with Sherlock, it had preceded him suddenly turning in rage on him. He could not pull in a breath, struck silent. He simply nodded, trying to keep the look of encouragement on his face while searching John’s for the sudden shift that was surely to come.

John was peaceful and oblivious to Sherlock's bit of distress, and he settled down as if to sleep. Finding something pleasant had helped him so very much and given him a major confidence boost.

Sherlock watched him closely, trying to calm down. His heart kicked forward, pounding and making him feel ill.

He remained silent, not daring to disturb the quiet.

John nestled closer and settled down. He was tired, and decided not to be so anxious. Nobody was upset. Things were calm. "Maybe tonight I can call and read to help you sleep. Or I can stay until you need to sleep and read."

Sherlock nodded, swallowing down his fear as much as he could. "I- y-yes, whichever y-you like. That...th-that would... b-be n-nice."

John wanted to stay. He was calm, and he wanted to stay. He would get over his anxiety. His focus went to correcting his breathing.

John could now see the anxiety Sherlock was displaying, and wondered if his leaning over was causing a problem. He went to move away, then remembered how poorly the man handled his exits. "Is the way I'm sitting bothering you?"

Sherlock shook his head and reached out to keep John there, "N-No," he reacted swiftly, hand shaking, "no...I'm...it's n-nothing. I'm sorry."

John settled back down and set his head on Sherlock's shoulder next to Gladstone's. "Okay. Thanks. I'm glad. Want me to read again?"

Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes and breathing. "No....thank y-you. Your th-throat...you r-read f-for hours." He reached back and scratched at John's hair gently, trying to steady him as well.

John's worried expression shattered into a smile and he tipped his head back into Sherlock's hand. It was absolutely no secret to anyone anymore that he loved the feeling of fingers in his hair. "Fine. All fine. I'll read as much as you want." 

John moved his head side to side, looking a bit like Gladstone when someone scratched behind his ears.

Sherlock smiled to himself as John reacted to his touch. His fear dissipated swiftly, the unfortunate moment over in the next few breaths. He took in a deep, cleansing breath before simply allowing himself to rest.

John was giddy with happiness. He could do this. This was something he would like to have in his home. It wouldn't always be this way, and John knew that, but the patches of hope were encouraging. 

"You're amazing, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand stilled for just a moment. He smiled to himself and then resumed. 

"Brilliant...y-you forgot 'brilliant,' John," he teased.

"Hmm...." John said as if trying to decide. "Brilliant does seem to apply...Say something dazzlingly confusing and I'll be convinced." Ah, and how John had missed this.

Sherlock smiled to himself, closing his eyes. "I don't w-want to tax you, J-John," he rumbled warmly, tugging at John's sleeve in good humor.

John puffed out his chest a bit. "Oh, now, I've been reading! I've been reading all sorts of things about...time and...metaphors and...such. Come on. Give me your worst."

Sherlock hummed, searching his mind for something productive to say. John had been reading about time...

"I t-take some sm-small measure of...c-comfort knowing there are s-strings of t-time where none of th-this happened."

John thought, and the tip of his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth. "Hmm...So, like times when we've forgotten about the...the thing that happened?"

Sherlock hummed again. "Something like that," he whispered, though very much doubted they'd ever forget. He inhaled slowly and let it out, leaving the alternate universes to themselves. Perhaps he and John would find peace in this one.

John didn't quite understand what Sherlock had said, but he could still appreciate it's beauty. "Could you and I find another nice thing to do? Like reading? We can find a bunch of nice things."

Sherlock swallowed down the nerves in his throat and stared up at the ceiling. What else could he do?

John did not care for chess. That was about all he'd done at this point. 

Sherlock had yet to discover nice things, outside of being protected by Mycroft and the oblivion of sedatives. 

His fingers stilled in John's hair as his heart started to race. "I-" his voice faded down and he swallowed several times, desperately afraid to ruin the day. "Wh-what...do y-you suggest?"

"We could...Oh, I don't know. We found reading. That's nice. We could watch telly, though I think we've tried that. We could...Hmm...When you're better we can sit outside. I'll push you in the chair and we can watch Gladstone play. For now we could...You could tell me about science stuff? You used to do that a lot."

Sherlock blinked rapidly to keep from shedding tears. What could he tell John of science anymore? His mind was chaos and the vast swaths of knowledge he’d so carefully curated scattered to the wind. 

"I- I c-can try," he whispered, fidgeting restless. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something worth talking about. He loathed his voice, the absurd stammering uncontrollable. How could John want to hear him speak?

"You don't have to," John said and was very careful to keep his voice low as Mycroft instructed. "I just wanted to find something you liked. I can read again if you want." 

Sherlock held his breath, hearing John's shift. John had been reading forever, his voice still a bit off from so much of it. His fingers curled up to his lips subconsciously, leaving him chewing at the tips.

He nearly spoke, but he felt like they were on shattering glass, and he could not endure ruining yet another visit.

"How about I read one more, then we put on the telly? Then, tomorrow, I can come back and read again." 

John was eager to help, and it shone on his face. "I'll read a short one, then we watch telly."

Sherlock nodded and held himself quiet, right up on the edge of panic. He was breathing tight and controlled. "Ok-kay," he whispered, "okay."

John got the book and found a poem. It wasn't by the same author, but he thought it sounded nice. "Why does he spell tiger like that?" John muttered and squinted at the book, then continued. "Tyger, tyger, burning bright...."

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John reading, focused on calming his breathing. John wasn't upset, he could relax. Nothing to fear. It was alright.

John finished the poetry and put the book down. After a moment, he began to laugh. Reading poetry to Sherlock Holmes. Who would have foreseen that?

Confusion tore through Sherlock. There had been nothing amusing in the poem. 

"John?"

What had started off as muffled giggling was now uproarious laughter. John was shaking with it, his head tipped back and arms wrapped around his stomach. The bed shook as well, and Gladstone woke up and thumped his tail on the bed. 

When John tried to explain, he only noticed further oddities. He was in Mycroft's bed with Sherlock and a dog, of all things. The three men and animal were all smushed together, reading poetry and trying to figure out why John was laughing. 

"It's just...you..." John lost himself to laughter once again.

Sherlock watched John with a churning mix of sinking fear and swelling delight at a sight he'd not been privy to in years. 

John laughing was an incredible sight. 

The unknown nature of it was horrifying. 

John could have just realized to whom he was reading. He stopped breathing and prepared for John to suddenly leave him.

He kept his eyes on John, clenching down on Mycroft's hand.

"....reading poetry...to Sherlock Holmes...: John tossed his head back and laughed with delight. 

"Isn't that strange? But it's good. Never thought I'd be in Mycroft's house, in Mycroft's _bed_ , with the man himself, Sherlock and a dog. The unlikeliness of this is absurd." 

He reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "And yet this is the best day I've had in weeks."

Sherlock's entire world stopped. He watched his vision tunnel as he let out a shuddering breath, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around John. He buried his face against John's chest and held him tight with trembling arms, trying to laugh with him, washed in such overwhelming relief he could hardly breathe.

John accepted the embrace and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms. "I'm glad we're doing this," John whispered for just Sherlock to hear. "I'm glad you and I are making it."

Sherlock nodded in complete agreement, holding to John as though he were in danger of falling.

Perhaps he was.

Tears had won out as fear was replaced with relief and he quietly sobbed as he clutched at John. 

John brushed Sherlock's hair with his fingers and rocked just slightly. "I'm glad to be here. I'm glad we're okay. See? Nothing can make us not be okay."

Sherlock whimpered at John's words, clutching the back of John's shirt. He passed his ear to John's heart, pulling John as close to him as possible.

Barring his teeth in grief, he tried to absorb John's words. His walls fell suddenly, leaving him in a confusing cloud of ash. Homesickness bloomed behind his ribs, leaving him aching as he held to the man he'd always unknowingly loved.

John could feel Sherlock's conflict and hear his distress, so he held him tighter. He rubbed his back and whispered softly to him in a gentle, loving voice. "I've got you now, Sherlock. I've had a difficult road, but I've got you. I can bring you out of this. I can save you from it, just like you always saved me. I've got you. You aren't alone."

Sherlock gave his best effort before he fell apart against John, sobbing as he clung to him. He muttered an apology, tightening his fingers in the material of John's shirt, unable to speak any further.

"It's okay, it's okay. I've got you." John dipped his head down and nuzzled the top of Sherlock's head as he cried. "I've got you. It won't always be fear and confusion. It gets better."

Sherlock would die when John left him, he was sure. He wanted those words to by truth more than anything in existence.

He could not calm himself, saying a thousand things to John without uttering a word.

John was struck with the sheer weight of Sherlock's grief, and his own eyes clouded with tears. But he couldn't break down. Not with Sherlock so damaged. 

"I love you," he whispered. "I promise, I'm going to help you out of this."

Sherlock's weak body began to fail him, making his arms shake and his breathing shallow as his strength ebbed. He was struggling physically to hold on to John after a time, desperate to keep the sound of John's beating heart, gases exchanging in John's lungs.

"Pl-l-leas-se d-don't leave m-me," he wept, shifting to be closer to him, using all of his strength to hold to John.

"Okay. Okay. I'll...I'll stay here tonight. Is..." How would that work? Where would his Greg be? He had not slept once without Greg. Not once. "I can stay here tonight." But damnit, he was a grown man. He could sleep where he wanted.

Sherlock was swiftly losing his grip on John, sliding more to the side. "I'm- you'll st-stay? You'll..." He talked off, losing his ability to speak. He'd not had food or water in a very long time, stressed to the point of breaking even with the relief of it.

"I...w-would y-you come b-back tomorrow?"

"How about this? I'll stay over tonight, then go back to my flat in the morning to eat and get my things, then I'll come back. Is that okay?" 

John was beginning to grow nervous. How would he pass an entire night without lying in Greg's arms? How would he handle the nightmares? Even the small ones, the ones that were simply stressful, were only easy to manage because he woke in the safe embrace Greg offered. 

"Greg, is this okay?"  
Greg leaned forward and nodded at John before looking to Sherlock, suddenly reaching out and keeping Sherlock from falling. He shifted a pillow to help support Sherlock as he spoke.

"Sherlock, I need to stay here too. Is that alright? I don't know how to go a night without John. Please."

Sherlock had tightened his hold on John as he was touched, terrified of Greg's potential anger. He still nodded, knowing John needed Greg.

"Y-Yes," he whispered, nodding as his color faded.

John kissed Sherlock's forehead and wrapped him up more fully in his arms. "It's okay. It's okay. Where do you want me to stay tonight?"

Sherlock pulled back, shaking like a leaf. "J-John...John p-please...b-be honest w-with m-me. I- I'm sorry, oh John I'm s-sorry. I don't w-want you to h-hurt. Greg...Greg has t-to st-stay wherever you a-are. If...if-f y-you w-want to st-stay w-with me in a m-month, do it th-then. I...h-hear what..."

He had to close his eyes and breathe a few moments before carrying on. "I hear wh-what you a-are trying t-to do. G-go..." His throat closed and he inhaled sharply to keep from crying, "go h-home. John."

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Do I look scared?" John looked steadily into Sherlock's eyes and held him calmly. "It's okay. I'm not hurting. I'm not scared. I don't want to go. If you send me away, I'll be sad. Right now, I just want you to tell me where I should sleep. I'm okay. I really am."

Sherlock kept his eyes to John's, watching him closely. "W-where- wherever you...y-you feel comfortable. H-here or..." He looked to Mycroft, openly pleading with him to endure this. "C-Can they s-stay?"

Mycroft nodded, but looked to Greg. "Whatever you three think is best, I will allow."

John looked between the two hopefully. "Please?"

John breathed a short sigh. He could not sleep without Greg. Sherlock needed Mycroft. But the point was for Sherlock to stay with John. Perhaps... "Do you want me to stay in here tonight?"

Sherlock held tight to John, unwilling to let him go. He wouldn't hurt John. He wanted to beg John to stay, to know Sherlock would not hurt him, had given everything he had to protect John.

"Pl-l-lease," he whispered, arms shaking around John.

"Okay. Well, I need some medicine before bed to keep me from getting sore and help me sleep. I don't know...Greg, do we have any with us?" John was quite certain he would not be able to handle being sore and stressed.

Greg nodded, speaking softly. "I have enough of your medication to make it until the morning. You've got to eat and I imagine Sherlock needs food as well." 

He looked up to Mycroft as Sherlock made a small noise of worry, shaking his head against John's chest, not at all interested in proper food. "John feels safest with a bit of scrambled egg, toast, and tepid tea served with a spoon and straw. Can that be arranged?"

Mycroft got his phone and texted the request. "Sherlock, would you like what John is having, or would you like your usual shake and smoothie?"

John gave Greg a grateful glance. His Greg always took care of him.

Sherlock's voice was muffled against John's chest, still refusing to physically let him go. This was too good to trust and he was not yet able to accept that it wasn't about to all erupt into screaming chaos. "N-Not hungry," he muttered into the cotton of John's shirt, tucking his face down further and shaking his head. 

"Okay then. Maybe just a simple feed through the tube? It's better if you have something in your stomach. You don't have to if you don't want to." John kept his arms around Sherlock and his heart broke for him.

Sherlock did not want to talk about food or the damned tube in his nose. He did not want to discuss all the reasons this was a bad idea, did not want his medication or to be taken to the lav, did not want to see Mycroft and Greg struggling with semantics, did not want the reminders for why this was likely not going to work.

John's heart was steady, along with the soothing sound of John breathing was just under his ear. He pinched his eyes shut tight and adjusted his hold in the material of John's shirt, breathing swift and shallow himself. He did not answer John, desperately trying to hold onto the moment. 

"Okay, Sherlock, okay." John breathed a ow sigh and wrapped Sherlock up in the blankets. "We'll just be peaceful now. We'll just stay like this and rest. You've done brilliantly today. We can sleep now."

Sherlock allowed John to shift him, settling down in the blankets beside John and keeping his head close to John's hip. He held onto the corner of John's shirt while Greg spoke softly to John. 

"You've got to take these with a bit of food," he said as he held out John's pain medicine, "Should be up in a few minutes. I'm going to put something on the telly and sit with you, if that's alright?"

Gladstone shifted to lie down with his head on John's hip near Sherlock's, and John was happy with the comfort in the room. "That's great, Greg. Thank you so much for this. You're wonderful." John meant it to the very depths of his soul.

John worried when Greg leaned over, but was greatly relieved that it was caught. "I'm perfectly alright. Thanks, Greg. Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock had a death grip on John's shirt, face hidden against John's hip. He nodded without speaking, only shifting when the staff brought in John's meal.

The appealing scent of eggs floated through the room, leaving Sherlock's stomach audibly grueling and his mouth watering, hunger and thirst roaring to life. He pressed in closer to John, doing what he could to quiet his body.

John was caught between eating and letting Sherlock be, eating and encouraging Sherlock to do the same, and abandoning it entirely. He didn't want to eat in front of Sherlock if it would upset him, but he didn't want to scare him by refusing food. 

John took a bite of eggs and looked to Sherlock. "Are you sure you don't want any?"

Sherlock was abruptly in tears, though he did not move. He shook his head, turning down the offer though he was aching with hunger. "N-No," he wept, though he edged closer to John. His thirst, however, was about to win over. He'd gone the entire day without anything to drink and now that he was allowing himself to do so, it was torturous to go so long without. 

But John was allowing him to rest against his hip, was offering to stay, and Sherlock did not want to upset the very delicate balance. 

"How about a feed then?" John pushed very gently. "Or some water? I feel like you're hurting, and I don't want you to be hurting. We can go right back to being peaceful like this once you're finished, I promise."

Sherlock inhaled slowly and then let the breath out. 

We can go right back to being peaceful...I promise. 

He nearly whimpered in relief at that, abruptly trying to get himself up so that he could sit. He reached out for Mycroft's help, rambling nervously to his brother. "I'm s-s-so thirsty. I'm s-sorry I..sh-should have s-said e-earlier I- please c-can I- I don't w-want a f-f-feed, I- pl-please c-can I h-have something to eat?"

Mycroft was intensely grateful to John for finding the right thing to say, and gave Sherlock a hug before getting out his phone. "Of course. What do you want? I'll have anything you want brought up." He was already typing up for the same thing John had, as well as a few drinks for them.

John rubbed Sherlock on the back. "I'm proud of you."

Sherlock shook his head, holding very tight to Mycroft's hand. "I d-don't want to eat...I...but I'm v-very hungry," he wept, starting to wring Mycroft's hand in distress.

The food was brought up, and Mycroft gave Sherlock a tray with the same things as John, as well as a smoothie and high calorie chocolate shake. "I understand," Mycroft said quietly. "The shake should fill you up. It's alright now, you can just try."

Sherlock started down at the tray, visibly breathing hard as he tried to form a plan. He wanted to eat, god how he wanted to eat, but the aftermath of doing so was intolerable. 

His eyes darted from item to item and soon he was in tears, wringing his hands.

John wrapped one arm around him. "It'll be alright, Sherlock. You can get through this. I'm right here, and everything is alright. Do you want me to hold you while you eat? Is there anything I can do?" 

Sherlock looked over at John and then back to the tray. He reached out and took the lidded cup of water, nearly sobbing as he began to drink from it. He was frantic as always when he had his hands on water, drinking as though there was a real danger of it being taken from him, his relationship with food and drink very muddled at the moment.

John put his hands over Sherlock's to keep him from dropping the drink and further stressing himself. "That's it. You're alright. Wonderful job. You're alright."

Sherlock leaned against John, slowing down slightly, loathing that he was making a spectacle of himself. He was shaking as he finished the cup, setting it down and feeling his stomach roll.  
John kissed Sherlock's cheek and hugged him with gentle enthusiasm. "That's wonderful! Look at the progress you're making! Maybe some of the shake now?" 

John had forgotten his own hunger and was completely absorbed in helping Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat there shaking, breathing fast and stressed as he looked at the rest of his tray. "I d-don't like this," he breathed, in a cold sweat.

John brushed his lips over the side of Sherlock's temple. "I know. But you've got to push through it. You're doing so well and I love you so very much. You're a brave man. You can do this."

Sherlock reached forward with trembling fingers, picking up the fork that Mycroft had purchased for him. He stared at the eggs, mouth watering. It was a but messy, but he managed a bite with most of it going into his mouth.

He closed his eyes, almost groaning with enjoyment. Christ, he was famished.

John rubbed Sherlock's back, as he wanted to show that eating would bring him affection and happiness. "God, Sherlock, I'm proud of you," John said and picked up a piece of toast to eat. "You're brilliant."

Sherlock leaned more against John, going for another bite, spilling most of it. He tried again, only wanting to eat. He forgot about what would come later in the rush of the moment, his body screaming for food.

John took Sherlock's hand and helped him eat in a nurturing, loving way. "You're doing so well, love."

Sherlock ignored the fact that John was helping him eat, focusing on the food in his mouth instead of the low-burning shame.

The eggs were gone before he realized it, starring down in shock at his plate. He looked over to John in surprise.

"I- I- ate," he whispered, struck dumb.

John threw his arms around Sherlock and rocked side to side happily. "Yes! You did! You are absolutely brilliant, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock blinked over John's shoulder, leaned against him as he thought on that. He would pay for his indulgence later, but for now he drank in the praise, closing his eyes as he hugged John in return.

"Do you want some of your chocolate drink? Man, I had forgotten the taste of chocolate until I had cake. Maybe we can have cake sometime! We...birthday's. Next one that comes around we'll celebrate." 

John paused for a moment. Moriarty had celebrated John's birthday, Sebastian's, and his own in ways John found unpleasant but Moriarty found amusing. 

"Nice birthdays. With cake and ribbons and such."

He would have to request not having candles. But no, surely Greg would already know. Besides, he was getting ahead of himself. 

Sherlock kept against John, focused on the sound of him happy. "I...y-yes, we...y-you like c-cake? Yes we...we will...c-cake."

He held on to John, tucking his face down and clinging.

"Yes. I like cake. And I like tea with extra sugar. I used to worry about staying in shape but now..." He shrugged. "I don't really give a shit."

Sherlock cracked a laugh at that. "Too r-right, John," he said warmly, "too r-right."

He kept the fact that John now enjoyed sweet things as he leaned back, watching John's face.

"Y-Your...I- John...I-" he shook his head, falling to find the words to voice his gratitude, picking up John's hand and brushing a swift kiss to John's knuckles.

John grinned, then blushed, then looked down. "You...I'm just so proud of you, Sherlock. I know what you're going through and...I'm just so proud."

Sherlock let go of John's hand, smiling gently at him before he shifted, wanting to lie back down.  
"I'm..I'm v-very tired," he murmured, the solid food working nearly as a sedative. "P-Please f-finish your f-food, Greg says y-you n-need f-food."

John settled Sherlock back down and set back to his food. He cast occasional glances to Greg, just to show that he was still very grateful, and nearly inhaled his toast. 

He still had to go about his routine with the tea four times before he could drink it, and he was aware it was a bit neurotic, but he was in a different place with different cups and different spoons and different people, so he had to check the tea extra. 

When it was all finished, he wrapped both arms around Sherlock and settled down. "I'm glad we got to eat."

Sherlock had watched John eat and drink, understanding the horrible reasons for each behavior. He nodded, hardly believing that John was still there. Struggling to stay awake, he held to John's sleeve and watched him with his full attention.

John breathed slowly and cuddled up next to Sherlock. He got comfortable slightly on his side, leaning towards Sherlock, and ran his fingers through his hair. "You're a beautiful man. I love you. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock clung to John as the weight of a thousand men rose off of him. John's words were water in the desert and Sherlock drank them in. He did not take his eyes from John's face, studying him. Carefully he reached out, tracing John's jaw and feeling for a scar he knew would be there without being able to see it. His mind supplied the moment it had been given with no effort at all, and soon he was whispering in return. 

"That y-you have f-found some m-measure of peace," he rumbled quiet and deep, unwavering, "b-brings m-m-e a c-comfort y-you could n-not imagine. Th-Thank y-you for st-taying, J-John W-Wats-son."

John's heart filled and swelled with pure, genuine love for this man. Tears filled his eyes and he beamed at Sherlock with elation, affection and peace. He wrapped his arms around his neck and embraced him with his face pressed against his neck. 

"Love you," he whispered in a voice shaking with relief. "We're going to be alright. I know we are. We're going to be alright."

Sherlock's world zeroed in on John and his words. He carefully wrapped his arm around John, hand splayed flat between his shoulder blades, and held on to him as the heat from John's whispered words absorbed into his skin. 

_Careful, Sherlock. He can still turn on you. Careful._

With a rough exhale, Sherlock pushed the apprehension from his mind and simply clung to John, fingers starting to gently trail over John's back. He listened to John breathing against him as he felt the endless cross of layered scaring under John's shirt, bitterly wishing he had a way to take all of that pain from him. 

Heart pounding, he chose not to speak, unwilling to risk words. His throat was likely too swollen for him to do much of anything, anyhow. Instead, he simply held John as securely as he could and let John's assurances find a place in his mind to settle. 

John closed his eyes. If he didn't think about it, if he didn't consider that he was going to be vulnerable in a place that was not his home, he could sleep, perhaps. John nuzzled Sherlock and got comfortable, just as he would if he were Greg. 

"Think I might sleep," John muttered. "It's nice here."

Sherlock absolutely did not dare risk speaking now. He nodded, throat and eyes burning, and kept John tucked against him as he rubbed his back. He was personally exhausted, heavy with sleep, but oh, if he could help John rest...

_John's terrified, fleeting glances across the room were killing him. Very gently he tapped out the same word for the thousandth time, aching to do anything to alleviate any of John's sharp distress. 'S.A.F.E,' he carefully spelled out again, violently suppressing the desire to get up and fold John into his arms and never let him go._

A tear slipped suddenly down his cheek as he tightened his hold on John, overcome with the memory of his broken body lying in terror during his first few days in hospital. He tipped his face down, carrying on trailing his fingers over John's patchwork back, silent as the moment hovered, seemingly fragile as a soap bubble. 

John had a habit of sleeping when things were peaceful. Perhaps it was the months of denied sleep or inability to be peaceful, but while he had more energy and spent less time of the day sleeping, he would nod off whenever the opportunity arose. 

His breathing slowed and he trailed his fingers through Sherlock's hair for a moment before they stilled near the back of his neck. 

Sherlock stilled for a breath as he felt John _fall asleep_ in his arms. Swiftly he resumed stroking his fingers over John's back, wanting to keep him feeling safe and secure, tears streaming freely down his own cheeks. 

It took Sherlock another half hour to finally drift off as well, his breath stirring the hairs at the very top of John's head. 

Greg was in a chair beside the bed, and eventually looked up at Mycroft to gauge his mood. "That went surprisingly well," he whispered to the elder brother, only just audible over the sleeping men between them. 

Mycroft had watched with a combination of awe and suppressed anxiety. He stood and looked down at the two, sleeping in each other's arms, and as silent for a long while. 

"He looks happy," he whispered without breaking his stare. 

Greg watched with a spark of anxiety as Mycroft stood. Was he going to leave? He nodded, not wanting to wake the men, keeping his eyes on Mycroft and failing to read his mood. 

"I hope this lasts." 

Mycroft simply walked to the bathroom. He wanted at least a few moments to be alone, to collect his thoughts, and would rather nobody was watching him. 

Greg quite agreed with that. He could always take his John home and put him back together if this went poorly, but Sherlock clearly was not going to make it without John. Just watching Sherlock attempting to eat, with the tube at the end of his nose while he was still so painfully thin and frail...it was nearly like traveling in time, watching just how far John had come. 

He leaned back in his chair, very quietly watching them, his mind far too active to allow him to even think of rest just yet. 

Mycroft was quiet for a little while, thinking on the possible fallout, the grief and agony, but also of the new peace. 

Surely, he hadn't seen Sherlock that peaceful in months. Years, maybe. But John always came in smiling and happy, only to leave a wave of destruction in his wake. 

When Mycroft came back out, he addressed Greg quietly. "How are we going to prevent the fallout?"

Greg cracked a soft, incredulous laugh almost to himself, shaking his head as he watched John very closely. 

"I have no idea," he answered just as softly, watching Gladstone's tail thump once against the bed. "I'm actually optimistic there won't be one. I've never seen John like this with him before."

Mycroft watched Sherlock carefully. "I know. John seemed...genuine. He helped him eat. He seems to actually care about him now, not just...he doesn't seem driven by guilt anymore. But they're still fragile."

Greg cleared his throat and ran his hand over his face, eyes on his John like a mother watching a sick child sleep. He nodded in acknowledgement. 

"I wish there was some sort of guarantee I could give you, but I'm just as powerless as you are when it comes to their interactions, Mycroft. We just have to move on blind faith and hope. That's all we can do."

"I don't like going on blind faith. Not when my brother's sanity is on the line as it is. John is holding Sherlock's emotional security in his hands. He could destroy him, or he could save him."   
Mycroft sat down in the chair by Sherlock's bed. "How is this going to work? We can't keep having him sleep over. We need a permanent fix."

Greg trailed his fingers over his lips as he sat there in thought, watching the men. Both seemed to be deeply asleep, twined together as though they'd always been as they were. 

Sherlock was too ill to be moved at this point. John still needed his time at home to recharge. 

"It's not time for a permanent fix," Greg said with a shrug, "it will get there eventually I'm sure, but for now it's not time."

Mycroft agreed. "Perhaps not now, but when it is time for a fix, what will we do? We need to at least think of a solution."

Greg sighed as he looked over at the men. 

"How can we? It all depends on the situation. I don't see how Sherlock will feel safe in my flat if he can't walk, I just don't. From everything I've heard he's going to need help functioning for...what? The duration of his life? He's made no progress in half a year. How can we possibly hope to come up with a solution if we don't know how disabled he'll be?" 

"Then John will continue to come over. Maybe he can sleep over every once in awhile. Having John calm around him will help Sherlock more than you know. Just keep John functioning properly, if you would." 

Mycroft called for food to be brought up for himself and Greg and. "You have done an amazing job with him. Truly, these past months have done your personal health wonders."

Greg shrugged as he kept his eyes to John. "It's him who did the work, I just sort of...was there. You will be amazed what good proper sleep and regular eating will do for you. I hope you get to see that for yourself very soon." John had shifted very slightly and Greg leaned forward without hesitation, trailing his fingers along the side of John's face and then resting his hand heavy on John's shoulder to assure him. 

When he leaned back minutes later, he looked up at Mycroft. "He honestly wants to be here. Stubborn and angry, that's him if you suggest not coming. He would never have it. He wants to be here. That has to mean something."

"These are two of the most stubborn men I have ever met," Mycroft scoffed. "And we're lucky for it. I think about what they have survived and...it's amazing they can function at all."

"These two men fit. John was fiercely loyal to Sherlock just a day after meeting him. Sherlock..I'm fairly certain his world revolved around John by that time as well. They are very....They just work. To think that John believed Sherlock to be the cause of such damage and to not only get over that fear but to seek Sherlock out again is remarkable. And Sherlock, who was made to watch videos of John in pain while being tormented himself, is still comforting him. It's remarkable."

Greg nodded, watching as Sherlock stirred and shifted his hand, assuring himself John was still there before quieting once again. Greg watched them in silence for a long while, tracing his lip over and over again, stopping to itch as one of his scars gave him trouble for a moment. He looked back to Mycroft, speaking softly. "What sort of recovery do you honestly expect for Sherlock?"

"Ideally?" Mycroft leaned back to think. "I want him to find a suitable existence. If John is in the picture, I think he will be in a chair but more self reliant. I expect him to feed and wash himself. Be able to move himself around a bit. Be able to hold conversations and be content if nobody is around, though I don't expect him to have to be. Again, if we find somewhere that the four of us can be, it would be perfect. If not, I think in the long run he will gravitate towards John. As much as I want to stay with him, he is clearly in need of him. Frankly, I wish John could live here."

Greg leaned back again, taking to tracing his lip once more. "That might be something he can do in a few more months, if he becomes intimately familiar with your home and is able to learn the staff." He allowed himself a few more minutes of thought. "I'm worried about the long-term. John still retains his medical knowledge. He genuinely might be able to function as a private physician to a very few patients, in his own setting. Honestly, I could see John working in a little private practice in a few years." 

He looked back to Mycroft, making sure his voice was still very quiet, "I can't picture Sherlock without cases. I just can't."

"I can't either. But for now, we just need to get him eating. A feasible end for this is him solving cases in a way that he is able, from a chair, or with help walking. That could work. If you think John is capable of owning his own practice, then go ahead. Perhaps he could work with patients similar to himself who require a degree of compassion." Mycroft placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"As long as they are together, I think Sherlock will be alright. Truly."

Greg reminded himself that it would be one little victory at a time. It was daunting to consider walking someone else back to any semblance of health from Sherlock's position. Food had been a massive battle to overcome with John, and Sherlock's fear of it was...entirely different than John's had been. John also had been rehabilitated massively in hospital, giving him the capacity to walk, where Sherlock's knee had basically taken his legs away from him. 

He stared at Sherlock openly as he considered the daily work that would be required, abruptly feeling exhausted and wrung out. "I'm nervous to do this again," he whispered to Mycroft, "I don't know how much help I could possibly be."

"I don't plan on leaving you to do it yourself. I only work outside the house about five hours a day, and since Sherlock sleeps so much, he isn't alone very long." 

Mycroft considered how much easier it would be if John lived in his house, then remembered that the man already had a home. Who was he to take that away from him? "And we have aids."

Greg hummed at that. "Sherlock does not seem very keen on the aids," he whispered, silencing himself as Sherlock's expression pinched and he shifted quite suddenly, tightening his grip on John, though clearly still asleep. Greg shifted so that if John did open his eyes, he'd see Greg right there waiting for him if he only looked over his shoulder. 

Sherlock was soon quiet again. 

Greg looked back to Mycroft, shaking his head. "It will be months before John could even consider living here, I'm afraid."

John only opened his eyes for a moment, during which he saw his Greg, felt warm and sleepy, and dropped right back off after nuzzling down on Sherlock. 

Mycroft let out a breath he'd been holding. "Can he keep doing this? It is intensely therapeutic for Sherlock, I think. He rarely gets to feel this peaceful."

Greg shifted slightly after John had turned to look at him. "I think so. He has good days and bad, obviously, but he wants to help as much as he can. If Sherlock asked him, I wouldn't be surprised if John agreed to move in next week, but that isn't what is likely to work in the long run. John would revert, I have no doubt. It would be a mistake to rush a move."

"Right. Right. We'll take things slow. Keep John rehabilitating." Mycroft suddenly realized how exhausted he was. "I think I'm going to try to sleep somewhere. We can take turns watching, if you like."

Greg was nervous for either of them to leave the room, and was not at all about to get up and be anywhere John could not see him within seconds. "No, I'll sleep in this chair, thank you. I don't want to risk- John never wakes up without me there, he's not used to it. I can keep watch, you need sleep. Will you be close?" 

He looked back to Sherlock, seeing that the man was obviously dreaming, though he seemed to be alright at the moment. He just wanted to be sure there was someone close if he needed help. 

"I am increasingly on edge. I need to sleep, at least for Sherlock's sake if not my own sanity." Mycroft did indeed look haggard and worn, and he ran his fingers back through his hair. "I will be just in the other room. If he even breathes strangely, call me."

Greg nodded and shifted so that he could settle in a bit more comfortably. Sherlock seemed to be a much more active sleeper than John. "I take it this is baseline for him," he said of Sherlock's twitching fingers and occasionally shifting expression. He was very much asleep, however. 

"I'll let you know. I think he'll be fine. He knows us."

"Stressed even in sleep," Mycroft said sadly, "but this is the most calm I've seen him in ages. It's beautiful, really. I'll just be around the corner. Thank you for this."

Greg waited until the door was closed again before slipping out of his shoes and setting them neatly aside. He propped his feet up on the edge of the bed and settled in for the long haul, watching over John and Sherlock. Eventually he settled into a very shallow doze, keeping his ear out for sound from either man. 

John woke several hours later. Mycroft had been in and out, as he woke nervously every hour to check on him. 

John shifted and opened his eyes. For a moment, he was greatly surprised to see Sherlock there instead of Greg, but he relaxed.

Greg had been awake, watching Sherlock as he grew more and more restless, wrestling with the idea of calling in Mycroft, when John opened his eyes. He leaned forward and rest a hand on John's back, gently trying to quiet him. 

"It's alright," he whispered, just as Sherlock shifted with a grimace. It was still quite early in the morning.

John looked to Greg for a moment to confirm that it was, indeed, alright, then looked to Sherlock. Clearly, he was uncomfortable. "Hey, Sherlock," he whispered and prayed he wouldn't be scared of him. "It's John. You're okay."

Sherlock's eyes abruptly opened, unfocused, staring at John for a moment before he let out a clipped noise of denial, shifting backwards so abruptly that Greg had to reach over John to grab hold of his arm, keeping him from falling. "Easy, Sherlock, easy!" 

Sherlock swallowed down the scream that wanted to tear up from his throat, heart racing, petrified from being abruptly held into position. He looked back to John, quietly sobbing his name under his breath, still caught in the ashes of his dream. 

John swatted Greg's hand away and wrapped Sherlock in a hug, but not in a way that would constrict his arms. "It's okay! It's okay! You're alright. You're at Mycroft's house, waking up from a bad dream. You are confused. Listen to my voice. Do you know who I am? Who's protecting you?"

Sherlock's focus slowly sharpened and he properly looked at John for a moment, staring at him. 

"J-John," he wept, reaching out and touching John's face, pulling his hand away a moment later and staring at his palm. His fingers slid over themselves and he swallowed rapidly, well into a cold sweat. Greg was on the phone ringing Mycroft, but Sherlock was swiftly calming. 

"Y-You're..." he traced over John's head, then down John's shoulders and along his arms, constantly checking his palms for blood. "y-you're ok-kay," he whispered, finally looking around the room and only seeing Greg there. 

"I'm s-sorry...I'm sorry, I th-thought..." he shook his head and gave himself a moment to breathe, trying to calm himself. 

John folded Sherlock into his arms and kissed his head. "I love you. I'm here. Nobody is hurting me, and nobody is hurting you. We're alright. Mycroft is-" 

Mycroft was right at the door in that moment and walked to kneel beside the bed. "'Lock, I'm here. It's okay."

Sherlock had already melted into John's arms nearly as soon as he was folded into them. "Okay," he breathed, nodding, allowing the tension to ebb away from him. "Okay, ok-kay." 

It only took him a few minutes to get himself back under control, slowly relaxing in John's arms. 

John let out a shuddering exhale and nuzzled down on Sherlock's neck. "You're alright. You're okay. Everything's okay. You've been doing so well. I'm so proud."

Sherlock was silent in John's arms, holding on to his own shirt with both hands, breathing slow and controlled.  
Greg stood just beside John, reaching out after a moment and slowly rubbing John's back. 

"I'm right here," he reminded in a quiet voice.

John nodded when Greg rubbed his back and mimicked the action on Sherlock. "Everything is alright," he reminded and held Sherlock's head to his chest. 

Behind them both, Mycroft sank down into his chair and let out a relieved sigh.

Sherlock managed to slide back into sleep without another word, hands to himself, tucked in John's arms.  
Greg was watching Mycroft, keeping a close eye on the man who was absolutely worn too thin.

Mycroft was exhausted and watched the two with weariness. He was glad Sherlock was happy, but for reasons very complicated he still held animosity towards John. 

John was oblivious to that at the moment and focused on Sherlock. "It's morning. Morning." John looked back to Greg for a moment with eyes wide and triumph on his face. _I did it_.

Greg nodded and smiled broadly at John. "It is, yes," he whispered, looking down at Sherlock who was back sleeping in John's arms. 

"We will need to go soon, you need your medicine. You've done brilliantly."

John smiled up at Greg. "I'll come back later today, right? I'm glad things went well. God, I was nervous. It's alright now though. He's alright."

Greg nodded and looked to Mycroft. "I have to take John home, we did not come prepared to stay." He gave him his most apologetic glance and then looked back to John, smiling. 

"Are you ready?"

"I don't want to leave without saying goodbye properly," John insisted and shifted Sherlock just a bit.

"Hey, Sherlock? Can we talk for just a second?"

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes after a deep, slow inhalation. He leaned back a bit, scrubbing his hands over his face. He looked at John, and then to Greg, taking in Greg's posture and immediately understanding. 

There was an immediate pull of tears that he swiftly stamped down on, refusing to allow them. "T-Time f-f-for y-you to g-go," he said quietly, looking to John and nodding. "Th-Thank y-you for st-staying with m-me." 

John breathed a sigh of relief and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I'll be back later, okay? I just need to go home and get my medicine." 

John was comforted by routine, and this was incredibly far from his usual routine. "I'll come back, I promise."

Sherlock nodded, sternly keeping himself in check. "Okay, J-John," he replied, clinging to his own shirt. He shifted back a bit to give John space to leave, actively fighting tears and using all of his energy to keep a calm, brave face. 

Greg moved closer, offering his hand to help get John up out of bed.

John gave Sherlock one last, long hug, then pulled away out of the warmth and safety of the blankets. He tried not to immediately rush into Greg's arms, as he very much wanted to, and instead simply took his hand. 

"Bye, Sherlock. See you later."

Sherlock's hands began to shake as he clung to his own shirt, watching John leave. When the door closed behind them, Gladstone's tail vanishing behind the polished wood, Sherlock stopped breathing. 

Fear, sharp and nearly overpowering, locked his heart up in a vice and robbed his ability to hold back tears. 

"B-Bye, John," he whispered to himself, rolling to the side and curling up as tight as his body would allow over the fading warmth where John had laid. 

John adhered himself to Greg as soon as he was outside the door, and stayed that way all the way home. This was not his routine, and it was unnerving, but he was proud of himself nonetheless. 

Mycroft was worried. That had been a fairly easy goodbye, but he could see Sherlock struggling. "He'll be back," he offered and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

Sherlock nodded, though he was not particularly settled. He was sure that he'd run John off, frightened him with whatever he'd done while dreaming, making John's waking unpleasant. He was still very tired, and had been so settled in John's arms, sleeping much better than the night before. 

The loss was sharp and difficult to endure. Absently he reached out to where Gladstone had been all night, remembering at the last moment that the dog was gone as well. With a rough sound of shame he drew his hand back to him and tried to focus on his breathing, actively fighting off panic. 

"I s-scared him," he wept, pulling at his shirt, "I m-m-messed it up, I sc-scared h-him."

"You didn't scare him. He just had to go home and take his medication. It's okay. He is going to come back later." Mycroft saw the action and checked his phone. 

"Sherlock, I'm getting you a service dog. Do you have any input on what kind of dog you want?"

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't care at all, didn't believe he deserved a dog or would be able to keep one. He was working very hard to calm himself down while his mind supplied endless reasons for why John would not come back, for all the errors he'd made. 

"H-He's n-not upset?" 

Mycroft decided he would get the dog based on merit then, not breed. "He is not upset. He is happy to be with you, and will come back soon. You didn't frighten him off."

Mycroft leaned over and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms. "John will be back. I promise."

Sherlock nodded but kept quiet, holding onto the sheets where John had been. He needed water, and god help him the lav, but he did not want to move.

Mycroft switched on some gentle music and sat by Sherlock. He would have to go to work, but he would not leave Sherlock in such a state. "Do you need help with anything?"

Sherlock shook his head very swiftly, not wanting to admit that he did in fact need help. Like a child he held out hope that the issue would self-resolve, even though logically it would not. 

_He's not going to come back, you're too needy. He had to sleep here, for god's sake. Next to you, of all things. He's not coming back. You're such a waste. Everyone would be better off were you dead. Just go away. He's not coming back._

Sherlock tugged at his hair in an effort to derail his thoughts, shaking his head and dragging at the blankets

Mycroft eased Sherlock's hands out of his hair. 

"Hey, hey, it's alright. Everything's alright. You're okay. I've got you. He's coming back, I promise."

As soon as Mycroft touched him, Sherlock began to openly weep. He looked to Mycroft as tears rolled down his cheeks, unable to meet his eye, gripping Mycroft's wrists as hard as he could. 

"Wh-Why did I _e-eat_ ," he sobbed, loathing himself for giving in. Panic was biting at his heels and he was doing his best not to give in. 

Ah, that again. Mycroft did not want to remove Sherlock from the place where John had slept, and so he curled up around him. "It's okay. You did a good thing. It made John happy. I can give you a painkiller so you don't have pain. It'll be alright."

Sherlock had made John happy, but so had the water. And what did it truly matter if he'd made John happy? John was still going to leave. Surely there was some other way to make John happy. 

_You can't avoid this function for life._

He covered his face, shaking his head. "I c-can't do this. I can't. I can't!" Panic was shredding through him as he tried to be calm, overriding even his sense of shame over such an intimate topic. 

"M-My...I- it- e-everything h-hurts, it _hurts_!" 

"I know it hurts, but it will be over soon. You'll feel better once it's done. And I'll get you something for pain so you don't feel it, alright? It'll be okay." 

Mycroft hated every second of this. How was Sherlock going to function if the very daily activity of going to the lav was painful?

He was doing his best to ignore his body, but that battle was swiftly being lost. He could not seem to catch his breath, stomach twisting as though Moran were crossing the room with intent. 

"M-My," he stammered, biting on the ends of his fingers in sharp anxiety. 

"Okay, okay. It's alright." Mycroft got a painkiller for Sherlock and gave it just a few moments before lifting Sherlock out of the bed. "You'll get through this, then later, John will come back and it'll all be alright."

The next half hour was complete hell for Sherlock. By the time he called weakly for Mycroft, he was nearly gray and drenched in a cold sweat, shuddering and curled in around himself. It was not so much pain, as it was a sensation he now associated with horrific memory, and he'd lost where he was at one point. 

"M-My," he called, breathless and abruptly turning himself and hitting his knees before violently sicking up.

Mycroft reached out and supported Sherlock as he heaved. "You're safe. It's over. I've got you. You're okay. Everything is alright." Mycroft got a towel from beside the bath and wiped Sherlock's mouth for him. 

"My is here. You're okay."

Sherlock leaned heavily on Mycroft, shuddering as if just plucked from icy water. He buried his face against Mycroft's chest, suddenly shouting against him in terrible frustration. 

John was the litmus for where he should be as far as progress, and he'd been found terribly wanting. He could not care for himself, could not move himself, could not dress or bathe or read or-

Again he cried out against Mycroft, ashamed and disheartened, soaked in pain and fear that did not want to ebb. 

Mycroft felt tears burning in his eyes and he clutched Sherlock to his chest. "Things will get better," he whispered to keep the pain from his voice. "I promise. I swear I'll make things better."

Sherlock remained as he was until his body could no longer support him. He was sagging more and more, struggling to keep himself against Mycroft. 

"C-Could I h-h-have a b-bath," he whispered, narrowly audible. 

"Yes, of course." Since they were already near the tub, Mycroft turned the water on, remembering to keep it hot so as not to scare Sherlock. Clearly, cold water was triggering for him. "Do you want me to help you undress?"

Sherlock lifted his arms in an attempt to do it himself, failing nearly as soon as he began. He nodded silently, looking up at his older brother with tears rolling freely down his cheeks. "P-Please." 

Mycroft gently and calmly undressed Sherlock in such a way that he would shift him as little as possible. The bath was full and warm by then, and Mycroft scooped Sherlock up. He slowly lowered them both down into the tub, himself still fully clothed.

Sherlock kept a tight hold of Mycroft's shirt, burying his face against his brother's chest as the heat of the bath helped to chase away a bit of his fear. He was bone-weary already, and his stomach was threatening to rebel on him again. He was curled as tight as he could, defensive and afraid, pressing his ear against Mycroft's chest to listen to his heart. 

"I d-don't f-f-fe-el w-well," he sobbed like a child. 

"I know. I know. It'll get better. I'm sorry that was so frightening for you. It will get easier with time." What a horrible thing to have to get used to. "I'm sorry this is happening to you. You're going to be alright, I promise. You're safe and warm here."

Sherlock nodded, his panic giving way to exhausted grief. He _loathed_ such a visceral reminder, even if it was nothing compared to the crime committed against him, nothing felt quite like an intrusion there and it was just too...similar. His body was unaccustomed to functioning properly with whole, solid food and he'd been able to go quite a long time without those nerves being activated. 

He was abruptly asleep not five minutes later, utterly sapped of his energy. He went lax against his brother, still clinging to Mycroft's sodden shirt. 

Mycroft stayed in the bath with the drain slightly open and the hot tap on to keep the bath warm for quite some time. Eventually, though, he stopped the tap and lifted Sherlock out of the water. He sat down on the edge with Sherlock in his lap and managed to get him wrapped up in a towel.

Sherlock woke in the shift of the wet heat to the dry towel. He opened his bloodshot eyes, whimpering pathetically at being woken from a safe, comfortable sleep for the second time that day, trying to tuck back against Mycroft. 

Mycroft got him dried off and brought him quickly back to his room, where he put on his pants, trousers and shirt. "It's alright," he whispered. "You can go back to sleep in just a moment."

Sherlock allowed his brother to dress him without fear or tension, simply enduring being moved like an exhausted child, half dozing before Mycroft was done. 

Mycroft got him bundled up in bed again before he relaxed. He put on some light music, dimmed the lights, and kept things very, very peaceful in hopes Sherlock would sleep while he had to go to work.

Sherlock was down and asleep hard not ten minutes later, curled on his side and holding tight to his own shirt. 

Miller knocked lightly on the door, peeking his head in. "Do you need anything from me?"

Mycroft looked old. He wore his age in the tired expression on his face and the way his shoulders rolled forward when he sat up. He wore it in his hands, which were wrung together, and his eyes, which were cast down. "No, no, I'm alright."

Miller looked to Sherlock and then back to Mycroft. "I'm told he ate. I take it we had a similar episode again?"

Mycroft nodded and scrubbed his face with his hands. "But no screaming, so that's nice." It was a moment before he realized that he was still standing in his room fully clothed and soaking wet. "And he had a bath. Which means I did as well.'

Miller was nodding, very worried over Mycroft's state. "I can see that. Why don't I sit with him until Jared gets here, and you take a moment to see to yourself. I have spoken to Paul, and we both agree it's in Sherlock's best interest to take a steady anti-anxiety medication, round the clock, for the next few weeks. This is a high stress time for you both. Do I have your permission to start him on that?"

"Yes, but don't keep him too drugged. It's important for him to be able to make mental progress." Mycroft went to his dresser and got his clothes. "I need to go to work. Can you two manage for just a few hours? Preferably, keep him asleep."

Miller nodded, setting about getting Sherlock's medication. "We will manage him. Go see to what you need to, and think about grabbing a meal and a few hours of sleep? We will call you if Sherlock is in distress, alright?"

"I'll just go to work and get back. I'll eat when I get back. John is coming later. I'll sleep after that if Sherlock isn't in too much distress." Mycroft was worn thin, and left to the lav before anyone could argue with him.  
Miller gave Sherlock a strong dose of anxiety medicine before setting in on a brief exam. When he'd checked Sherlock over as well as he could, including the function of the pacemaker, he settled back in to wait on Jared, who arrived soon after he was called and settled in his usual place. He knew Sherlock wasn't overly fond of him, even though he'd always been incredibly careful with his emotions. But that couldn't keep him from doing his job.

A full hour ticked by before Sherlock jarred awake violently. Miller startled to his feet, shocked that Sherlock was even able to dream with the anxiety medicine. 

"NO!" Sherlock bellowed, shouting so forcefully his voice cracked. He grabbed hold of the blanket, dragging it up to his chin, still very much asleep. 

Jared, who had been reading, nearly dropped the book. He was caught between letting Sherlock stay asleep while his brother was out, and waking him to spare him from the dream. He decided to let it play out a few more seconds. 

_The blanket was wrenched away from him as Mycroft lay there gasping for breath, eyes wide and terrified. Moran circled the bed, laughing with unreserved glee as he kicked Sherlock's bleeding brother on his way around._

_"You see? No one escapes. You know that, don't you Sherlock?" he purred salaciously, grabbing himself over his trousers in a lewd display, "You feel me right now. I know you do."_

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed where he believed himself to be watching Mycroft taking his last struggling breaths, heavy tears flowing down his cheeks, sheet white and horrified. 

_"Watch me, poppet," Moran growled, though Sherlock did not tear his focus again. Mycroft shifted in the steady-growing pool of blood, obviously trying to get closer to Sherlock, who suddenly wailed out his brother's name in pure anguish. Mycroft's pale forearm dragged across the thick puddle towards him, disrupting the heavy flow for a moment, before he gave a wet, rattling breath and went still, the lights fading from his eyes._

A horrified scream tore out of Sherlock's chest as he lunged forward on the bed, shifting his legs under him and reaching for Mycroft, choking on his tears as he tried desperately to gather what he thought was his dead brother into his arms. His body was too weak for such swift movements and he collapsed down on his stomach, one leg partially under him, wailing in unrestrained grief. 

Jared motioned to Miller to draw up something to calm him and gently pushed Sherlock away from the edge of the bed with a pillow. He didn't want to touch him or make him feel restrained, but the way he was lying could not be comfortable for his damaged legs. "Sherlock! Sherlock, it's Jared! You're safe!"

Miller was already struggling to draw something up, his hands uncharacteristically shaking in the wake of Sherlock's upset. Soon enough he was pushing a dose into Sherlock's line, moving the bag to keep the line from ripping. 

Sherlock did not react as though he'ad heard Jared at all. The strength went out of his muscles as the medication flowed, leaving him sobbing on his side now that he'd been moved. 

"M-My...My-y..." he cried out, still reaching for where he could see his brother's body growing steadily cooler. Eventually his eyes closed, the medication pulling him right back down into darkness. 

Miller cleared his throat and exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "I've not seen something like that out of him in a while. Let's get him off those legs."

Jared rushed to get Sherlock comfortable before he let the distress show on his face. "What do you think he's seeing?" He asked in a subdued voice as he tucked the blankets up around him and straightened his legs out. 

"What the hell did he have to go through to still be this afraid of it? What sort of human being does this to someone else?"

Miller shook his head, getting a painkiller drawn up as well to keep Sherlock from feeling how badly he'd torqued himself. "I did not do a post-mortum on the man who did this to him, but I highly doubt 'human being' can be applied." He did not even want to know what Sherlock was seeing, honestly. 

"He's been on hold for half a year. I'm not really surprised this is still so bad for him, he was just shutting down for months. He's got to face all of this now. Today he had an unpleasant trip to the lav. John got him to eat last night." 

Jared looked sadly at the man. "From my understanding, John has done much better of handling this than Sherlock, but he also has had a better environment in which to improve. Sherlock has just been...well...pining? Grieving? I don't think there is a word to describe the abject, visceral pain he is subjected to from his own mind."

Miller was going through the motions of giving Sherlock a brief exam, for his own assurances, while speaking to Jared. 

"John Watson has healed to a degree I did not think possible, and continues to improve. Greg thinks it's a realistic possibility that John may even be able to practice medicine again in the next few years, something I'm starting to think might be true. He's made...I mean it's stunning, truly. Paul has been doing his best to write this case study up, it's truly remarkable." 

He sat back down beside the bed, watching Sherlock. He took in a deep breath and shook his head. "Not Sherlock, though. I don't even want to hazard an outcome for him, I just don't know. I'm not optimistic, that's the best way I can put it."

"At least he's talking," Jared said in reference to the past six months of relative silence. "That's got to be a relief for Mycroft, right? At least a little."

Miller again shrugged. "Mycroft looks ready to drop, so much so that I'm already prepared to care for him when that happens. I don't know if Sherlock being communicative is better for Mycroft or not, to be honest. He seems to have gotten worse since Sherlock began to engage again."

Jared crossed his arms and considered it. "Maybe John coming more will pull him out of it. I mean, it worked pretty immediately. But John did send him into this state in the first place. It's like the lottery."

Miller clicked his tongue. "It's entirely unfair to say that John has done this. John was reacting out of fear, this is not his fault. And frankly, if John could find something to go on for outside of Sherlock, then Sherlock should have been able to do the same. Paul keeps going on about this not being particularly about John himself, but rather the trauma associated with John, but hell," he shook his head and adjusted Sherlock's hand on the mattress, "I don't think John and Sherlock are made of the same stuff, I just don't. John is thriving. There is little reason for Sherlock to be failing." 

Jared raised his hands and shrugged. "Sherlock seems a bit sensitive towards everything involving John. John visiting, John being upset, John leaving, it all stresses him. But still, I don't see why Sherlock has made no progress in a year and a half, while John is...hell, he's mostly functioning. He isn't independent, but he's functioning at a quality of life he seems content with."

Miller shrugged. "Paul gets it. I don't. Seems to me that Sherlock gave up. Not much else to it. Mycroft is obviously adamant that Sherlock not be allowed to do so, but I'm starting to wonder why." 

Sherlock shifted slightly on the bed, his fingers flexing reflexively, tears still drying on his face. 

Miller scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck and gentled his tone. "Poor bastard is suffering. Perhaps it's a bit off to assume I'd behave a different way than him. I don't know." 

"I have no idea how I'd handle what these two have been put through," Jared remarked. "It sort of makes all the things I have to deal with much less important in the grand scheme of things. Can't really complain about getting stuck in traffic when I'm coming to work with Sherlock."

Miller hummed at that, "Yes, it does shift perspective. Are you aware that John slept here last night?"

Jared raised an eyebrow. "Here?" He asked, pointing to the bed. "As in, with Sherlock?"

 

Miller nodded. "Yes, all night. Greg sat here and dozed, but John and Sherlock slept here in this bed. It was calm, if you can believe it. They had a peaceful goodbye this morning and John intends to return this afternoon." 

"Wow. Well, that's great. I hope he's alright by the time John gets here. They sort of trigger each other." Jared propped his head up on his hands and stare absently at Sherlock. "They're strong men.

Miller inhaled slowly and nodded. "John is, at least. I don't know how it will go if Sherlock is still like this. He has a hard time recovering from...this sort of thing." He shrugged and looked away. 

"Sexual abuse is terrible," Jared said quietly. "Especially...Moran was a sick fuck. Makes me wonder what sort of upbringing he had. I mean, how does someone turn out that bad?"

Miller shrugged, "No idea, don't particularly care. I'm glad Mycroft had him put down. I often wonder if that's what made this so devastating for Sherlock, that sort of unbridled abuse. This was a tremendous amount of physical damage to take on in such a short time, and being shot...fresh trauma before trauma, it's...but it has been a very long time, and John has overcome where Sherlock has not.”

"Sherlock was abused physically, and John was abused mentally. They both...It's surprising either of them are functioning at all. If John weren't an example of what could happen, I wouldn't be surprised with what Sherlock has managed so far. It's just when you see what John has accomplished..." He shrugged.   
"Maybe he'll pull out of this."

Miller shrugged, "I hope so."

He settled in quietly to watch Sherlock for a while, lost in his own thoughts. At one point Sherlock began to cry, though he was unresponsive and still sedated. Miller shook his head and settled back in his chair, knowing there wasn't much they could do.


	24. Chapter 24

John, after he had recovered from his initial stress over his routine being broken, ate his breakfast then curled up on Greg's lap. 

"I can't even remember if today is an easy day or a hard day." It was literally the most important part of his routine, and it stressed him _terribly_ not to know.

Greg shifted uncomfortably. "Easy day," he whispered, mostly sure that was true, though the day had been anything but easy. He shifted John against him, holding him close. "You've done so well already."

Upon hearing it was an easy day, John relaxed completely against Greg. "He didn't scream. I didn't cry or anything. I think I did well. And I enjoyed it! That, Greg, was something I could picture doing on all the good days. Maybe not the sleepover part yet, but the reading was really nice."

Greg nodded, "He looked very comforted by it, you even got him to banter with you. It was a really, really good visit. He ate eggs! You helped him a great deal, but I want to know how you feel after that."

John snuggled closer to Greg in a casual, comfortable way. "I'm tired. Waking up somewhere else is a bit scary. Not panic scary, but...stressful. I am glad I helped. That was nice. It was nice getting to see him for a bit. I love banter. I'd like to try and draw him back to us, if I can. Do you think I helped? Truly? He looked sad when I left."

Greg nodded as he shifted for John to better see him. "Oh god, yes, you helped. He's been catatonic for half a year and you had him joking with you. He just...he's going to be sad when you leave, I don't think we can get around that."

John abruptly smiled and kissed Greg. "We're going to have a happy life, and Sherlock will too. I'm going to get to have a good life with good things and I owe it to you."

Greg grinned at John and kissed him back, very happy to see this reaction. He held John as close to his chest as he could, whispering to John about how proud he was.

"You're remarkable, just remarkable."

Despite being tired, John was elated at having done good. "Good. I am sorry it took this long for me to help, but now I'm trying, and I think I can do some good."

Greg shook his head at John's apology. "You've made so much progress! Sherlock...hell, if we use him as a comparison, you're a damn Olympian. He's done nothing. You have moved mountains."

"He's done nothing because he didn't have a Greg. I was supposed to be his Greg. But now, I am going to help, and he'll get better. We can't compare me to him." John tucked his knees up and smiled. 

"I'd be about where he is if I didn't have you."

Greg cleared his throat and nodded, a bit ashamed of himself. "I suppose that's true," he said quietly, rubbing John's back, "he's been moved about quite a bit, and now with paid help..."

He hugged John tighter, unable to imagine John being passed about. A moment later he pressed his face to John's hair and rocked him gently. "I love you."

 

"Uhm, Greg?" John looked up nervously. "Thanks for never getting an aid. I wouldn't like an aid. Thanks for staying with me even though I wasn't very useful. I love you. I owe you everything I have."

Greg pulled John right back to him. 

"I'd never- no, that would never happen. I'd never do that. I love you." 

He gathered John to him, unsettled by the idea of a stranger trying to help John while he was afraid.

"God...Mycroft has to leave him every day...Jesus."

"Mycroft pays for our cake." John said it flippantly, then realized how hard it had hit. 

"Mycroft has to leave Sherlock in order to pay for our happiness, and for Sherlock's medical care, and our houses, and...which means Sherlock is paying for us to be happy by being passed around by aids."

Greg pressed his face down to the stop of John's head, the sting of tears at his eyes. He'd been critical of Sherlock, simply because he was upset that Sherlock's failure to thrive was stressing John.

"Oh god, you're right. You're right."

"Yeah. Yeah. He's paying for us to sit here and eat cake. He's paying by being alone and scared. I...I can't believe I didn't think of that. I need to do more. I need to...I'll record myself reading for when I'm not there. That could help, right? We should go to him now." 

John clasped his hands together and looked up at Greg with great despair. "We need to do more."

Now that John had put it that way, Greg could hardly deny John's request. He'd known Mycroft was struggling, but he'd not realized that Sherlock was paying as well.

"Yeah we...we can do more, if you're up to it, we can do more. Christ," he breathed before raking his hands through his hair.

John got Greg's phone off the table. "Can I record myself reading now, and then send it to him to listen to as I leave? Maybe that would help the transition."

Greg was swift to agree. "Yes, yes of course, John. That's a wonderful idea. Let's do that, get you more to eat, and if you want to head over we will."

"I'll look for poetry on your phone. That's okay, right? I'll just find some nice things to read, record it, then send it to Mycroft." John, new to the topic, simply googled 'poetry'.

Greg pressed a lingering kiss to John's temple. "Mind if I get in the shower while you do this? I'll be quick. I'm so damn proud of you, John."

"Course, love. Go ahead." 

John found a poem he liked, and recorded it. He did this many times, each one beginning with a happy 'hey, Sherlock. I like this one because-' and a rambling reason about the words, or the rhymes, or the imagery, then the poem read in John's untrained but charming meter. 

He went until he heard Greg turn off the tap, then went to the kitchen. He couldn't cook on the hot metal yet, but he could get all the things out, and he even managed to fill the kettle without panicking. He left the things on the counter then went back into the bedroom as a bit of a retreat, as the process with the water was a bit unnerving without Greg near him. But John wanted desperately to show Greg just how much he had improved, so the kettle was left full by the stove.

Greg walked into the kitchen, still dragging a towel over his damp hair. He stopped up short as he found the kettle waiting, and the food sitting beside the stove.

His heart skipped a beat as his chest settled with pride.

He walked into John's room with a tray of his favorite breakfast, beaming at the man. "My beautiful John," he said gently as he sat down on the bed beside him.

John grinned up at Greg with the full delight of a man pleased with both himself and those he loved most. 

"You're beautiful," he said in a stupid, happy retort. "I made the recording for him. I made sure I sounded happy and peaceful the whole time so I don't scare him. You know, you've helped Sherlock a lot too, by helping me."

That was entirely yet to be seen, but Greg was grateful John was trying to take away some of his cloying guilt. In reality, if he'd not stayed around, John likely would have already been with Sherlock for quite a long time now. It would have been rough, but they'd have made it. His smile faltered for just a moment before he whispered his thanks, starting to tuck into his food without really tasting it much. 

_Sherlock has been paying for us to sit here._

He cleared his throat and tried to endure the wave of guilt, nearly buried with it. 

John only had to go through his neurotic routine with the tea once, which was the first time he'd managed it. He ate his food with a healthy, fully recovered appetite, and when he was done took the tray back into the kitchen. Since it was supposed to be an easy day, and John relied on his structure religiously, he decided not to work on using water. 

"I'll help tomorrow," he told Greg, and worked on getting the harness on Gladstone instead.

Greg finished the washing up and took John's hand. "God, I'm proud of you. Your strength is just...remarkable, John. You are remarkable. I love you. Let's go." 

He rode with John next to him, smiling most of the way there, his guilt pushed aside by swelling pride.

"You're just as strong as me," John said and took Greg's hands. He bent over and kissed his forearms, where he knew the scars were. "And I'll always be here when you can't be strong anymore."

Greg was taken aback at those words. He had to be strong around John, there was no getting around it, but the offer was overwhelming. He swallowed several times, nodding as he spoke. "Thank you...John...truly, thank you." 

John was proud of himself. He was being strong, helping people, and kicking Moriarty's idea of who he was supposed to be right in the arse. 

When he arrived at Sherlock's house he walked with Gladstone and Greg to the door. He peaked into the door and spoke very softly. "Sherlock? Are you awake?" Mycroft had returned home by then, and was on his laptop by the bed.

Sherlock had not yet woken from his second round of sedatives. He'd been more and more restless over the last half hour, but was not yet properly awake. 

John didn't want to startle him, and crept over to the side of the bed very slowly. He sat down in a chair and, since he knew of only one thing he could do, picked up the book that lay where he'd left it and began to read the first poem he found. "I carry your heart with me..."

Greg quietly sat down next to Mycroft as Gladstone jumped on the bed. He inhaled slowly and looked to the brother, observing him. "Bad day." he asked quietly, John's voice gentle in the background.

Mycroft nodded his confirmation. "He had to deal with the repercussions of eating."

John continued to read in hopes that Sherlock would eventually have something peaceful to wake up to.

Greg swore under his breath. "Christ, what a thing to deal with. Are they sure he's not...there isn't something that needs fixing?" Greg shifted uncomfortably at the topic, though he was genuinely wanting to help. 

"He's had exams. At this point, I think it's more the uncomfortable sensation reminding him what happened, not the pain." Mycroft looked gratefully to John. "Thank you both for coming back."

"There was no way he wasn't coming back. He's even made a recording of himself reading poetry so that Sherlock has something nice to listen to when you can't be here with him." 

He cleared his throat then, looking down at his feet as he spoke. "John and I- Mycroft we're just so grateful to the both of you. He'd never have recovered...not without...and you've both paid so dearly. We are going to make this right, Mycroft. We are." 

Mycroft was surprised with the sudden gratitude. "Yes, thank you. Sherlock, of course, has had it far rougher than I. As long as John is back and willing to be helpful, I'm sure Sherlock will make vast improvement."

Sherlock, meanwhile, had opened his eyes while John was reading, staring directly up at the ceiling as tears slid down his cheeks, otherwise completely still as he had been. 

John noticed when he finished the poem, and leaned forward a bit. "Hey, Sherlock. Are you alright?"

Sherlock slowly turned his head to face John, staring at him with slightly unfocused, watery eyes. Grief forced him to draw in several swift, sharp breaths, ribs catching and lower lip trembling as he tried to speak. 

"M-My-y..." his voice shattered at his brother's name, breaking him down into terrified, anguished sobbing. He grabbed at his hair, pulling very tight as a long, slow, wailing cry tore out of his chest.

Mycroft bent over and took Sherlock's hands from his hair. "Right here. I'm right here. It's alright. Everything is alright. John is here, and everyone is safe."

Sherlock nearly came out of his skin as Mycroft took his hands, jumping hard and then staring up at his brother in complete disbelief. He grabbed at Mycroft abruptly, one hand going to the side of Mycroft's throat as he shifted forward with a huff of pain, shuddering hard from shock. 

"My?" He breathed incredulously until disbelief gave way to sharp fear, "MY?!" He was pulling Mycroft to him with what his strength would allow, scrambling to see that he was alright. 

Mycroft was concerned, but at least glad he was recognized. He pulled Sherlock into his lap and held him tight to his chest. "Yes, I'm here. You're alright. Everyone is alright. Did you have a bad dream?"

Sherlock threw his arms around Mycroft's neck, sinking one hand into Mycroft's hair at the back of his head, holding him tight. 

"Oh god, oh g-god...g-god, My… _My_ ," he carried on, clutching his brother to him, trembling violently. He'd watched Mycroft take his last rattling breath and honestly believed that memory to be genuine.

Clearly, there had been some sort of hallucination. "Yes, yes, I'm here. I'm alright. You're alright. Everyone is safe." Mycroft carried on with his soft, gentle reassurances and rubbed Sherlock's back. "I'm here."

Sherlock's entire world was focused on his brother at the moment. He tucked his face against Mycroft's neck as he fell apart, sobbing out his fear and loss, or what he'd believed to be so. 

"I l-l-los-s-st y-you," he stammered, his voice muffled against the underside of Mycroft's chin, "I w-watched! I s-saw h-h-him-m k-kill y-you."

"Oh, 'Lock," Mycroft breathed and held Sherlock closer to his beating heart. "I am so sorry you had to see that. I'm alive. Nobody hurt me. Nobody killed me. See?" 

He took Sherlock's hand and held it over his heart. "It never happened. I'm alive. I'm right here."

Greg watched from beside Mycroft as the man handled Sherlock much as he'd had to handle John nearly a year ago. He bit at his lip, feeling useless to do any good, leaning to the side to ensure John was alright as Sherlock sobbed against his brother's chest, clinging to the material over Mycroft's heart. 

John had reached back to hold on to Greg's hand in the wake of Sherlock's distress. 

Mycroft was handling it on his own, though. "It's alright," he whispered and rocked him slowly. "You're so brave. So strong. I'm here. I'm here."

Greg rubbed his thumb along the back of John's hand as he sat there, waiting for Sherlock to settle. It was difficult to see him in such raw upset, and he was very worried over what it was doing to John. The next ten minutes passed in a painfully slow come-down from Sherlock's panic, leaving him wrung out and weak against Mycroft's chest, sagged down and shivering. 

John spoke up then. He didn't dare move forward, and his wide, sad eyes were downcast as he spoke. "Uhm...Sherlock? I just wanted you to know that it's alright, and you're safe."

Sherlock had completely forgotten that it was John's voice to which he woke. He looked up sharply and dashed his hand across his eyes. 

"I- J-John-" he stammered, flustered terribly and trying to make himself look less of a mess than he was, "I'm- oh I'm s-s-sorry, I'm sorry-y-" he swallowed a few times, making a soft sound of distress as he scrubbed at his face again, "pl-lease don't l-leave. I'm sorry." 

John smiled and leaned forward to put one hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. I understand what it's like. Sometimes I think I see Greg dying or being killed. I used to see that a lot. That's one thing that will get better as you recover."

Sherlock stopped trying to correct his appearance then, looking to John for a moment without speaking. Another tear slid down his cheek as he cleared his throat, trying to restore his voice. 

"It w-will?" He'd been sure the damage was permanent, that this was as good as life was going to be for him. The idea of this part fading away was more than welcome. 

"Y-You saw...you...it h-h-happened w-w-with you, als-s-so?"

"Yeah. I used to see blood. And...And sometimes...sometimes he was still alive, but then died, or...or he would say it was my fault." John felt terribly exposed telling Sherlock these things, and preferred to keep them out of his mind. 

"But they slow down a good bit, yeah. Haven't had one in a while."

Some measure of relief came with John's words, letting some of the tension out of his muscles. He still was unwilling to let go of his brother, never once having something so realistic play out before him in fiction. 

"H-He...I would b-be alone a-al-w-ways if-" he shook his head and pressed his face back to Mycroft's neck, dissolving back into quiet tears. He would die if he lost Mycroft. John was still a very temporary and fleeting presence in Sherlock's world. He'd be left to aids until the money ran out, and then what? How could he manage without his brother? Even before this had all occurred, he'd have died without Mycroft. 

John withdrew his hand as Mycroft rocked Sherlock. "Shhh....it's okay. I've got you. You're alright."

Sherlock clung to his brother for another ten minutes, until sitting upright was too much energy and he was forced to ask to lie down again. He immediately reached for Gladstone as he looked to John, searching his face for signs of anger.

"I'm s-sorry," he whispered, "b-bad d-d-day."

Gladstone licked Sherlock's hand and nuzzled his nose on him. 

"It's alright," John said gently. "Everything is fine. I'm here. Do you need a hug? You look sad."

Sherlock blinked several times as the surprise of the offer rolled over him. He was nodding before he realized the action, shifting weakly to his side, though he did not dare reach out for John.  
John took the initiative and folded Sherlock into his arms. "Things get easier," he whispered. "Much easier."

Sherlock tucked his face down, holding his shirt in one hand, gently biting at the fingers of the other. It was nice to have John, but truly he wanted Mycroft to lie down with him. He continuously looked up, checking now and again to see that Mycroft really was there. John...He was still trying to learn to trust John, and woke he had no desire for John to leave, he felt pulled in two directions.

"H-how do y-you...r-remember.. wh-when Greg is g-gone?"

Mycroft sat at the edge of the bed and hugged Sherlock from the other side, so he was safely tucked between the people he loved. 

John looked a bit perplexed, as Greg really didn't leave that often. "I suppose...I focus on where I am instead of who I am with."

Sherlock immediately felt like a fool. 'Who he was with,' was always Greg, of course. Who else would be with him? Sherlock simply nodded, very tentatively reaching out to take hold of the corner of John's shirt. "You came b-back."

"Of course I came back," John said kindly. "I missed you. I read some poems on the camera so you can listen to them if you get sad. But right now I can read, or we can just sit here. Whatever you want."

Sherlock nodded and settled in closer to John, a bit less reserved. "Thank y-you for c-coming back. I- t-today- I h-haven't l-liked today."

"Well we can like today. Today can be good, because today is an easy day, as I choose to spend it with you." John leaned over and kissed his forehead. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into John, slightly numb from the events of the day. There was a gentle knock at the door before Miller paired in, speaking to Mycroft. "He's due for meds," he whispered quietly, leaving off about Sherlock needing a feed as well.

Mycroft didn't leave Sherlock's side, but gestured for Miller to come in. 

John tightened his hold on Sherlock. "It's okay."

Sherlock glanced over at Miller before settling back down, exhausted and uninterested in the familiar doctor.  
Miller spoke softly to Sherlock as he pushed all of Sherlock's normal medication, adding a bit more of something for anxiety. Before he stepped away, he spoke very quietly to Mycroft.

"He needs to eat, or a feeding, I'll come back in a bit if you need me to help."

Mycroft didn't want to push the subject yet. Not after such a hard day. He would give him a feed. No solid food.

John was preoccupied with one of Sherlock's curls, which bounced back into place after being stretched. It was a lazy type of amusement, and he was content to do nothing else.

Sherlock shivered where John was playing with his hair, flexing his fingers in John's shirt and clinging. The anxiety meds were swiftly working, relaxing him along with his painkiller. His posture shifted so that he could see John's face, his eyes soaking in the details. 

"The p-palace is gone," he said absently, no feeling behind it, just a statement, "well, it's there, but it's gone. You w-were there...m-maybe still are...I've n-not checked. My doesn't w-want me in th-there anymore."

"That's alright. Plenty of people get on just fine without a mind palace." John kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock nodded in a sort of numb detachment. He supposed that was true, and more so, that there was precious little he could do about it now. 

"I'm o-ordinary," he said a few moments later, exhaling slowly as he began to say aloud some of what he'd been in complete denial over. "N-Not e-even ordinary...b-below th-that. I'm- n-now I'm s-simply..." he stopped talking for a moment, considering what he'd have called himself three years ago, "an u-unpleas-sant c-cripple. U-Useless." 

"No, Sherlock, no. You aren't a useless cripple. You're my friend. You have value in relationship with other people, and value in making people happy. Not everything is about skill and abilities." John understood Sherlock's complaint, though. "I feel useless a lot too."

Sherlock nodded slowly and looked to John. "I d-don't make people happy," he whispered sadly, "n-never have."

"Yes, you do. You make me happy." John bent down and pressed a lingering kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Want to read?"

Sherlock looked over to John with raised eyes. "I m-make you...h-happy," he repeated, heavy with the medication.

John snuggled closer. "Course you do. You make me smile. You and that clever banter of yours, and the way you light up when you smile."

Sherlock had never heard such things in his life. He watched John in silence, unsure what to make of that.

"I'm not so sharp a-any longer," he said frankly, his tone still slightly detached, "l-less wit."

Less everything, really.

"Yeah, but you will outlast me by a long shot," John said with his ever persistent smile. "Though it's nice to think I'll finally have a chance."

Sherlock huffed at John and closed his eyes, resting for a few moments before suddenly looking off at Mycroft to assure himself he was still there.

John, who didn't know what else to do, held on. "We should have a nice day today. We can read and watch telly, right?"

Sherlock nodded, starting ahead without much reaction. "Yes...of c-course," he whispered.  
John was worried by now. "Okay. Let's put on the telly."

Sherlock lay there without moving, allowing John to position them however he wanted. He kept hold of the corner of John's shirt, listless and distanced.

At one point he looked over to Mycroft, watching him instead of the telly. His brother was run down, spread too thin, exhausted.

He then looked to John, oblivious to what was on the screen, studying him as well. John surely wouldn't stay the night again. He'd go home where he felt safe and happy.

He was taxing them all.

Abruptly out of his silence he cried out in bitter frustration, "I sh-should be s-sent away!"

John startled hard and looked at Sherlock with surprise. "I...I don't...no, Sherlock, no. You should not be sent away. You...no, please don't try to leave."

Sherlock looked over to his brother, staring at Mycroft as he spoke to John. 

"I'm actively hurting everyone. I- l-look what I do. T-The last m-mistake I m-made...I l-lost y-you for h-half a year. I w-was trying to die but that h-hurt M-My. N-Now that I'm awake, I st-till hurt h-him. Y-You are going to g-go home. _Home_.”

It took him by surprise how much that word hurt. 

“N-Not Baker Street. N-Not with m-me. You will g-go to your n-new life with G-Greg and you will w-wrap up with h-him and l-let go of all the t-tension I put in you. Mycroft w-will go to work and stress o-over me and when h-he gets here I'm l-likely just g-going to n-need more help than he has the energy t-to give." 

His tone was steady as he spoke frankly, listing off facts, though he'd failed to keep tears from slipping down his face. 

"Th-There are p-places I c-can be s-sent-t t-to that w-will h-handle a-all this unpleasantness until...u-until I c-can l-learn to st-t-t-op b-b-being l-like this-s," he ended in a whisper, voice shaking as he realized how solid his own terrible argument was. 

"I...I w-was s-s-supposed to g-get b-better, but I th-thought I w-was supposed to d-die. I f-f-failed at m-my...I d-don't deserve to b-be here, none of y-y-you deserve the b-b-burden of m-m-me." 

John shook his head and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. "Just....no! No! Not at all! Yes, Mycroft is stressed, and yes, I'm going to go home after this, but that doesn't mean I don't love you."

Oh, but it did, didn't it? 

John thought he loved Sherlock, and perhaps in his own way, that was true, but he didn't love Sherlock as he'd used to.

John wasn't raising objections to any of Sherlock's points, neither was his brother. Sherlock knew they were all disappointed in him, that he was simply a failure in their eyes. If Greg and Paul, Miller and Jared, hell even Mycroft at times, had put neon signs on their heads it still wouldn't be more clear.

He could not help responding to the way John was holding him, though. Tucking down against John's chest and speaking far too quietly for the others to hear. "I'm n-not supposed t-to be h-here."

"Yes, you are. This is where you belong. This is your family. This is where you've always belonged. We're your family." John nuzzled the top of Sherlock's head. "You belong here. Right here." He held Sherlock closer against his chest to demonstrate where he meant. 

Sherlock tucked close to John, giving himself a few minutes simply to be before speaking only to John.  
"I h-have not d-done e-enough. Jared s-says...." 

He swallowed hard and covered his face, shaking his head and going silent.

"What does Jared say?" John had an edge to his voice that he kept mostly covered by gentleness. He would physically dismantle anyone who spoke harshly to his Sherlock. 

Sherlock shook his head again, ashamed to repeat the words. He took a few swift, distressed breaths before speaking just loud enough for John to hear.

"S-Said...I'm t-taxing My...that...that I sh-shouldn't...shouldn't t-tell h-him when I...I'm s-sad or..." his breathing caught and tripped over itself. "I'm...h-he said I'm...I'm n-not...I sh-should b-be..." He couldn't get the words out, tucking his fingers between his lips and trying to breathe.

Slick, oily hatred dripped down John's spine. He knew just how badly it stung to feel like a burden, how debilitating it was to feel unwanted. "I would like to speak with him about that."

Sherlock shook his head. "H-He's right," he breathed, "I h-hear them...they all...e-everyone th-thinks.. " He gasped and pressed his fingers to his teeth, "I f-failed and...n-now it's too late."

"No," John said firmly, now blaming Jared for Sherlock's attitude. "I need to speak with him about this."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at his exhausted brother. "Look at h-him," he breathed, tears sliding down his cheeks as bitter self loathing you're at his mind, "a-and...I...y-you couldn't...couldn't b-bear the th-thought of m-me...and no one c-comes. I'm d-dead to e-everyone. I...wh-what is the p-point of m-me? I...I am ch-chaos and destruction. I l-lay ruin. I tried...J-John I tried. I was supposed t-to die...I...I was t-trying to l-leave you all alone. I'm- I've w-worn the o-only person who l-loves me down t-to nothing."

He closed his eyes as his chest buckled in a silent sob. "I c-can't even eat. What is th-the point of m-me?"

Mycroft reached over then and wrapped his arm around Sherlock. "I'm not worn down. I'm just tired. It isn't your fault."

John gathered the blankets up and clutched Sherlock to his chest. "I come. I'm here. You aren't dead to me. I know how you are feeling. I tried...There was a point where I drove Greg to attempt suicide. He'd put up bags and slit his wrists. I know how it feels to feel like a bad person." John's heart twinged and he swallowed hard. 

"But you aren't doing that. You're helping the people you love every time you simply try to."  
Sherlock looked suddenly to Greg, staring at him in open shock. When could he…

Oh.

"Y-You thought...John w-was g-going to stay w-with...with...m-me." 

The implications of that were numerous and terrifying. He swallowed hard and looked to John, then back to Greg. If John...Greg had fallen for John...and he'd...if John tried to make a life with Sherlock in it...

The weight of that was indescribable. Sherlock's lip trembled as he looked from John back to Greg, holding to John with one hand as his heart pounded in his ears. Everywhere he looked, there was massive evidence that life for all these people would become so much easier if Sherlock simply died.

He looked back to Greg, speaking in a voice wavering under the weight of tears. 

"H-he...all he w-wanted was y-you, I...I...swear it, Greg, I-" he pressed shaking hands over his face as he tried to get hold of himself.

Greg shook his head, stepping forward. "It was more complicated than that, Sherlock. It's okay, you're ok."

Sherlock was biting harshly on his fingers. He had to live because Mycroft had begged him to, but Mycroft couldn't keep caring for him. He'd been banking on going with John eventually, but then Greg...and John would die without Greg. Panic shredded through his mind, kicking up his breathing and washing him cold. 

"I...I d-don't know wh-what t-t-to do!" He wept, wanting to reach into his heart and tear it out.

John was losing his optimism. 

"I'm so sorry," he muttered and nuzzled Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I am so sorry you feel that way. I know what you're supposed to do, since it is the same thing I'm supposed to do. I was making things harder for Greg. I had ruined his life. I had driven him to suicide even before we left the secure facility. I thought it would be easier on everyone if I died. I've thought that from the second I got out of the warehouse. But...But you needed me. So I stayed. And now, things are better. Things will get better for you too. I promise. I'll help you through this. Once you and I start working on it regularly, Mycroft will have less to worry about."

Sherlock had needed John a year ago. Now Sherlock didn't know what he needed or wanted. He was exhausted and terribly afraid, caught up in Jared's words, floundering, terrified to make a move. He wanted to cling to John, but that hurt Mycroft. He wanted to die, but that hurt Mycroft. He wanted to beg his brother to stop leaving him, but that hurt Mycroft.

He whimpered in distress and reached out, holding desperately to John's shirt. "Pl-please," he whispered in fear, "I d-don't...e-everything I do is w-wrong."

John closed his eyes in a face almost like a wince and held Sherlock's head to his chest so he could not see. "It'll get better. I know this feeling. I hate it, but I know it. Please, just give me time. I can make things better."

Sherlock held tight to John, making no attempt to pull away. "I...I w-was s-supposed to m-make things b-better f-for you," he cured against John's shoulder. 

"I c-can't even play for y-you anymore. I'm a g-goldfish that c-can't swim," he could hardly choke the words out.

"No, no," John said quietly. "I'm supposed to help you. I always knew that. I've always known I am supposed to help you. At the least, I must not hurt Sherlock." 

John said it in such a way that showed how it was his mantra, with each word emphasized, every syllable said with force. "I love you. I've just been so stupid. I want to help you. Please, let me help you get through this."

Sherlock kept close to John, breathing tight and controlled as he tried to settle down. "You've n-not been s-stupid," he wept, shaking his head, "I...I was...I h-hurt y-you, why would you come?" 

He choked on a sob and flexed his grip on John's shirt, "I...I didn't m-mean to. I'm s-so sorry."

"You didn't hurt me. You never hurt me. I just...Sherlock, I love you. I want to stay here with you. Please, let me help you. Let me try and bring you out of this." 

John's eyes had filled with tears and he held tight to Sherlock as if trying to keep him in this life by grip alone. 

Sherlock nodded against John's chest, ashamed at how comforted he was from how tight John was holding him. 

"I...I'd n-never s-send you away," he tried to explain, though he was very afraid he was hurting Mycroft. "I'm s-sorry, I'm- I-" he cursed himself for showing this. 

Jared had told him how to make things better, and this wasn't it. He'd become a terrible liar.

"I'm still going to talk to Jared," John whispered and looked over to Greg, then to Mycroft. "Sherlock, could we make a plan for this?"

Sherlock's heart skipped several beats and he went very still, somehow sure he was in trouble. "P-Plan f-for what," he asked in a small, reserved voice.

"Plan for the future. Plan for when we live together. We need to work on some things so you're comfortable. It has nothing to do with you being not good enough, and everything to do with you being comfortable. Now please, let's talk. We should make a routine we can follow. They help with stress."

Sherlock tried to consider something like a routine. It was difficult for him to stay awake for any length of time. "I- wh-what a-are you going t-to e-expect of m-me?"

"I am going to expect you to try to make progress. That's all. I don't expect anything but you to try. I don't care what you accomplish. I just...I just want you to let me help you." John brushed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. 

"As long as you give me a few minutes a day with my friend, I'll be happy."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, drenched in icy fear which thawed slightly as John assured him. He nodded, whispering to John. "Ok-kay...I...I don't know h-how though."  
"Just talk to me for a few minutes every day. That's all I need. Can you manage that? I don't mind if you need a day to just be in your mind. I'm okay with that." John wasn't comfortable with it, but he understood. 

"If you can manage just a few minutes with me each day, I'll be happy."

Sherlock relaxed at that. He could talk. He could do that. Talking was...that was fine. He didn't need to worry about such a small thing, surely. He could take a few minutes and pretend as though everything was alright each day. 

"I...I c-can do th-that. I'll...y-yes I can do that."

John relaxed against Sherlock and kissed the top of his head. He smiled, face still buried in Sherlock's curls, and knew he could feel the movement. "Thank you," he breathed. "That's all we need to do. Just talk. Anything else you feel like doing is extra."

Sherlock still had hold of John's shirt as he went quiet, allowing himself to think for a while. He felt completely wrung out, a husk of himself, just the empty shell. His day had been difficult from the start. He shifted in John's arms and settled in deeper, trying to find comfort while he was so incredibly stressed. He'd likely have to wait until he and his brother were alone to tell if he'd upset My, and he was dreading the next day, when he'd have to face Jared's disappointment and perhaps anger after John spoke with him. 

Perhaps he could avoid at least that. 

He kept his voice very soft, so quiet only John could hear him. "Please...y-you don't n-need to t-talk to J-Jared. I'm- I'm g-going- he- I h-have to b-be alone w-with him o-often and...and..." he swallowed down his fear, trying to articulate better, "I c-can't fix it if-f he- if- I don't h-have anyone e-else when M-My is gone." 

His voice wavered at that terrible truth, but that's what it was. If Jared quit, he'd have to get used to another stranger. If Jared became angry and unpleasant, he'd be in fear any time Mycroft was gone to work. 

"You are worried I'll make Jared angry and he'll not be nice to you?" 

John shuttered at that. Such fear was a horrible thing to live with. 

"If you don't want me to talk to him, I won't. But I'd like you to know that I disagree with what he's been saying to you. The bastard." John muttered the last sentence to himself, and continued to grumble his disapproval. "Telling my Sherlock that he's supposed to hide things. What sort of aid is that?"

Sherlock did not respond to John. Jared had been mostly kind to him, but as soon as Sherlock stressed Mycroft, Jared's tone had changed. He'd been unresponsive for months, and when he'd finally come back to himself, Jared had seemed...disappointed that Sherlock had come back at all. He did not know where he stood with Jared anymore, and being so helpless in the care of someone he did not fully understand was terrifying. 

John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek in a gentle, loving way that he knew to be comforting. "Does Jared make you nervous? Would you rather I come sit with you more when Mycroft is away?"

Sherlock tightened his grip on John, stopping himself from blurting out a desperate 'yes,' and thinking on it. 

Jared had never hurt him and Sherlock doubted he would. But it was very frightening listening to Jared explain how he was doing damage, how he could not be honest with Mycroft was frightening.

He exhaled slowly, wondering how Jared would effect John. Before Sherlock had gone into his head months ago, Jared had been comfort, nearly a friend, but something was very different now. He'd been harsh when Sherlock had deeply needed kindness.

"I...that m-might...I d-don't want t-to stress y-you."

"It's not about that," John insisted. "I don't care. At all. It's all okay. I'll come over more often, like when Mycroft needs to sleep or work."

Mycroft shifted. He did not want John near Sherlock when he wasn't personally there to make sure things went smoothly. But he held his tongue and only smiled. "That would be very kind of you."

Sherlock tugged gently at John's shirt in distress, unsure what decision he should make. John under stress typically ended poorly for them.

"I- wh-what...I d-don't know, I don't know, J-John," he whispered, tucking his face down and breathing against John's chest, incredibly stressed, sure he was about to make a terrible mistake.

"Okay. You don't have to choose. We can just try both and you see which one makes you more comfortable. You don't have to make a decision right now. You can rest." 

John felt horribly for Sherlock, as he knew better than anyone else alive just what he was going through. 

Sherlock nodded as he tried to gather John closer, tentatively wrapping his arm over John's upper back, doing what he could to settle his racing heart.

"John," he whispered in a shaking voice, the pounding of his heart making him feel ill.

"I know," John whispered. "I know. You can rest, though. Just rest. Things are going to get much easier."

 

Sherlock went quiet and decided just to rest, keeping his eyes closed and listening to the sound of John's breathing.

He was dozing when Miller returned, waking to Mycroft's side. "He’s not had food or drink today, how are we proceeding?"

"I can't ask him to eat today. Let's just give him a feed. Maybe he'll drink something, but I'm not going to push it." Mycroft looked at Sherlock with great sadness in his tired eyes. "|'m still worried for him."

Miller went ahead and prepared a feeding for Sherlock, who was not aware of anything beyond resting against John. It wasn't until Miller tried to gently move him to get access to his tube that he realized what was going on.

John was there. John could see this. Sherlock clapped a hand over his nose, immediately in tears. John couldn't see him fail, this wasn't progress. Shame exploded in his chest as he shied away.

"N-No," he sobbed, shaking his head as he started at the feed in Miller's hand. "I- I'm- I d-don't want that."

John brushed Sherlock's cheek with his fingertips. "No, no, it's okay. You should have something in your stomach. It helps."

Sherlock started up at Miller, keeping a hand over his nose. He couldn't be fed, for the love of all holy he had to be feeding himself, at the least.

"I'll...I'll e-eat," he pleaded, voice shaking, "I'll...I'll e-eat...please...I'll..." Oh how he did not want to eat again, but moreso he did not want John to watch him be fed.

"Sherlock, you don't need to be ashamed of it. But if you would rather eat, I understand." John was increasingly gentle with his tone. "You're very brave."

Struck kept his hand over his face. "I'll e-eat, I'll eat..." He tucked back down to John's chest, holding tight to him. "Please, I- I c-can at l-least...I'm...I..." again he tucked down so his face was not accessible.

Miller stepped back, looking to Mycroft for instruction.

"Could you get something from the kitchen?" Mycroft looked to Miller with worry, but did as Sherlock asked. 

John held Sherlock closer for a moment. "I'm so proud of you."

Miller thought on it as he left the men, intent on doing his best to provide something for Sherlock that wouldn't hurt him.

Sherlock was swallowing rapidly, determined not to allow his fear to win out.

"Sherlock, love," John said softly, "it'll be alright." He was supposed to be Greg, but he felt woefully inadequate. "You'll be okay. I promise. I'm really proud of you."

Miller returned shortly with a very thick shake, seeing it down beside Sherlock. "May I at least give you fluids? You are doing very well, but I don't want you getting dehydrated."

Sherlock didn't want anything, though he offered his hand. The last he wanted was to be difficult at the moment.

John took Sherlock's hand and gave him a base to hold on to. "Proud of you," he whispered. Doctors still made him nervous, even if he did like Miller. 

Sherlock struggled to sit himself up, picking up the shake with both hands and drinking just as the cool rush of fluids went through his veins. He occasionally shifted closer to John, only daring periodic glances at Mycroft.

John wrapped one arm low around Sherlock's waist and used his other hand to help Sherlock support the drink to remove any ache it caused his limbs and the anxiety of spilling it. "Do you think that maybe someday we could play Cluedo?"

Sherlock was starting down at his hands, slowly drinking as he listened. He shrugged, stopping to speak for a moment. "I suppose s-so," he whispered, thinking it over. Could he even manage the simple thing any longer? He'd kept up with chess, but he wasn't sure about solving puzzles.  
"M-Might...might n-not see me the same..."

John chuckled and nudged Sherlock with his elbow playfully. He very much wanted to lighten the mood. "Maybe you'll finally play by the rules."

Sherlock was quiet for several heartbeats. John's cadence suggested a shared joke, though he could not recall it. He narrowed his eyes, thinking hard on it, struggling with what issue he could have had with the rules. When he finally found the memory, it came back in a rushing flood, stealing his breath away. 

_Knee bouncing for want of nicotine_

_Folded newspaper_

_Rambling suggestions in John's voice, none of which helped._

_The shake of a game box suddenly before him._

_Anger, irritation._

_John's gentle endurance, fond irritation._

_Rules read, game played, fire gone out and tea cooling._

_Calm. Momentary calm. Stillness in the chaos._

_Home._

Sherlock dragged in a shuddering, desperate breath and nearly dropped the cup in his hand, looking to John with wide eyes. "I'd just s-stopped sm-smoking and...y-you were...the...I w-was so _bored_ and-" He let go of the cup, nearly bowled over with homesickness and loss, staring at John in a mix of grief and longing. 

John had loved him then. Another bit of what he'd lost. 

"I- I w-was s-such a f-fool," he breathed, flinching as his mind helpfully handed him the audio of he and John's earlier meetings. _If you'd t-told me, this wouldn't have h-happened! You could have j-just said a few w-words and this wouldn't have happened!_

_I used to love you._

_I don't want to go to Baker Street._

_You are my hard days._

He looked down to his lap in shame, tears blurring his vision. 

John held the cup for Sherlock and leaned over to rest his forehead against the side of Sherlock's. 

"I know you miss it. I do too." 

John's throat had a painful lump in it. He missed the time spent at Baker Street, before Sherlock jumped, before anything horrible happened. Even the bad times had been bearable with Sherlock there. 

"I miss it so much. Do you remember how...you got mad at me for wiping dust off a desk, and so when you left, I wrote 'Sherlock, you really should let Mrs. Hudson clean this' in the dust on the bookshelf?" 

Sherlock nodded slowly, watching a tear break apart on the blanket over his lap. "I- the c-cameras. I couldn't t-track them without..." he shook his head, feeling like a terrible person, what an unbearably idiotic thing to have shouted at John about, "...dust." 

Shame burned across his face as he thought about home, and abruptly the loss was too big, the grief too heavy. All he wanted to do was die. How could he possibly have any sort of a life now, in John's spare bedroom, third wheel to a happy little family that didn't need him or benefit from him in any way? 

"Well, it makes sense now." John said almost cheerily. If he could go back, he would have done it differently. Maybe taken a toothpick and written _brilliant_ , in such tiny letters that Sherlock would have to be looking, so it wouldn't ruin his dust test or upset him. Maybe he would have written nice things. _You're amazing. You're my best friend._

"I'd have done so many things differently," John whispered. 

"It's p-perfectly n-normal to not w-want dust in your h-home," Sherlock replied, though his voice cracked a bit at the end. "I w-was too impatient to...I d-didn't know wh-what n-needed explaining and-" he reached up, holding his bad arm to his chest as he'd done months ago, trying to soothe down the screaming urge to do away with himself, his heart thundering in his chest. 

"L-Like when I c-came back. After y-you thought I j-jumped. That I d-did s-s-so to s-save your l-life...that- I sh-should have explained..." 

He was fully in tears at this point, unable to stand himself. If he could have pealed out of his own skin in that moment he would have, "I h-heard you ever d-day. When I w-was captured y-you- I had you w-with me then t-too, you always t-told m-me-" 

He nearly gagged, thinking back to the moment he was suspended in chains, weeks before his brother finally found him. He'd not stopped hearing John, not until he'd shot up after the wedding and fallen into blissful silence. 

"I m-missed you m-more than- it was intolerable...I- I w-was as f-fast as I could b-be and still it t-took y-years."

John's eyes misted and he pressed his hand over them. "Who captured you?" It was a small question that said so much. They hadn't talked much about what happened after Sherlock's fall. John had asked once or twice, and gotten the feeling that Sherlock either did not want to talk about it or did not know how to.

"Terror c-cell, Serb-bia. I m-made a sloppy m-mistake and it t-took My s-several weeks t-to find me. I d-didn't talk, n-not to anyone b-but you." 

Let Mycroft scoff at him for that. He'd put on a good face, but it had been fucking terrifying to be there, and his back had hurt him for months after. He swallowed several times before he was able to settle his churning gut. 

"I- it w-was a foolish m-mistake. My f-fault." 

"Terror cell?" John was struck with fear once again. But in addition, he was filled with hurt. Had he truly been so poor of a friend that Sherlock hadn't even bothered to mention this?

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I...I would have done so many things differently." John thought of them. He would have told Sherlock sooner that he was his best friend. It was years later that he finally found out that Sherlock actually didn't know. 

"I asked you to be my best man, and you didn't even know you were my best friend. I...Jesus..." The weight of that hit him hard. "I would have been kinder. I would have...I don't know! I would have been better. I would have been the type of person you could tell things too. I would have been there for you instead of leaving. I would have known. I..." John hated himself fully in that moment. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head, still looking down at his lap. "I w-was too ashamed to t-tell you. You, who h-have multiple d-deployments to w-war zones and w-were n-never captured...I f-felt so d-damned f-foolish I-" he cleared his throat, trying to explain himself, "a-and you...y-you wouldn't h-have b-been properly a-angry with m-me, and you n-needed to be. If you'd n-not...if you'd sh-shoved your own..." he closed his eyes, easily recalling John's face the moment he realized that it was Sherlock serving him wine. 

"I w-was so af-fraid to c-come back to you th-that I had to m-make a f-foolish game of it. I- it w-wasn't f-fair of me at all. I was j-jealous and afraid and stupid. B-But it's all...too l-late for this...y-years have p-passed and I've...l-look what I've d-done. Just destruction. A-Always destruction." 

John considered that. He'd been terribly alone. He'd been depressed with no reason to live. He'd been a soldier without a war. He'd stopped eating, feared sleeping and the terror it brought, and was so alone he ached. Sherlock had changed all that. 

For a time.

Then he'd been alone again, and it was worse than it was the first time.

But he recovered, in a sense. Not truly. He constantly missed Sherlock. He couldn't go to the flat. But he had someone he loved and wished to marry. 

Then Sherlock came back, and things were difficult for a time, but then good. Then wonderful. 

Then horrible. Hellish. Empty. Cold. Aching. John was suddenly a husband without a wife and a father without a child. He wondered if anyone had pictures of his baby. Surely there were pictures. Mary had taken so many. 

_"You've taken thirty of her sleeping just today," John said with a warm smile as he held his darling child on the sofa. Her little head with peach fuzz hair rested perfectly in the palm of his hand as she slept. "I like to get ones with the two of you," Mary responded. Indeed, John was a sight with his child. He was practically glowing, all paternal love and affection zeroed in on his little baby girl. He beamed at her constantly. He'd tell others, "Look at her little hands! She can hold onto things now!" Or "Oh, look! She's smiling!" John's eyes were always crinkled at the corners when he had his baby girl in his arms._

He had a wife and a child in his arms one day, and nothing the next. He didn't see Sherlock for a week. John had shut himself away in bitter denial and grief. 

In the end, he'd run from his home, from the pink room with the crib, from the bedroom fitted for two. He'd run back to a place that was familiar.

But he hadn't really come home. He spent more time shut away in his room. He took longer hours at the clinic, which he'd grown to hate. 

"She'd be nearly six," John said in a sudden rush of emotion that left him with tears streaming down his face. 

He'd gone to Sherlock once in his entire grieving process. Only once, but he'd fallen apart completely. He'd wept openly with his face pressed into his hands, nearly doubled over on the couch with Sherlock sitting next to him. Before the torture, that was the most vulnerable he's ever let Sherlock see him.

"She'd...she would be talking and have friends, and...and there would be drawings on the fridge and-and-" 

John covered his mouth with his hand and turned his face away in shame. He was supposed to be controlling himself. That had happened years ago. Why was it resurfacing so painfully now?

Greg moved before Sherlock had a chance, sitting down on John's side of the bed and pulling him into his arms, holding him with one hand splayed across the center of his back, the other cradling John's head to his shoulder. 

Sherlock reached out, but a moment later his fingers curled in on themselves, knowing this was no longer his place. When John had fallen apart on the sofa, Sherlock had quietly wrapped an arm around John as he sat beside him, silent as John poured his heart out. When John had quieted, he'd gotten up, poured him two fingers of whiskey, and played a soft melody beside him until John had fallen asleep on the sofa, not a word spoken. 

He shifted away, allowing Greg his well earned space, looking down at his useless hands in his lap. "Sh-She'd have b-been very f-fortunate to h-have you as a f-father. It- there w-was nothing you could do, J-John. F-Freak accident, statistically unlikely. N-Nothing y-you are at f-fault for." 

He shifted further still as Greg pressed a soft kiss to John's temple, whispering too softly for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock's heart twisted hard, and he wondered if this was what John needed to see how useless Sherlock was to him. The loss of John's family had been devastating to the man, and he'd never fully come back from it. Sherlock hadn't been able to help him at all.

John pressed his face into Greg's shoulder and cried. "If I-I had just _been there_ ," John wept, but shook his head. He'd been told there was nothing even the best doctor could have done, but that did not keep him from feeling responsible by not preventing it. 

John wiped his eyes and tried to collect himself just a bit. "I...I kept a-a blanket and a pair of socks. They're so tiny. A friend of Mary's knitted them. They'd be in the left drawer on the bottom." 

It was where John kept things he did not use often, but needed to keep nonetheless. "I'd like to have them back. I'd-" John looked and saw Sherlock's face, and his heart shattered in his chest. "Oh, Sherlock," he whispered. _Here I am doing it again_. 

It reminded him of the crestfallen look on Sherlock's face when John had checked out a woman. A look that John had only seen years later in the video Greg showed him. But this was deeper, more aching. 

"Sherlock," John whispered, "I'm hurting you. I'm...my grief, my ignorance, my insecurities... They always hurt you." 

He slowly retracted from Greg's arms, which was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. The warm bed felt cold with Greg behind him, but John had a duty to help Sherlock, and thus he pressed his face against his collarbone and made himself small. 

"Vatican Cameos. Something isn't right." John spoke their old danger code, the one he had responded to instantly from his prior training even before he'd ever heard Sherlock say it. "Nothing is right anymore. Nothing is normal. Nothing is right."

Sherlock took a moment to bolster himself before speaking very gently to John, ignoring the silent tears that tracked down his face. "Th-That's n-not true, John. Y-You have a n-normal w-with G-Greg. You h-have a n-normal at h-home." 

He eased John back away from him carefully, shifting his hand as his drip-line caught on John's shirt. He settled him in Greg's arms, with John's back to Greg's chest, and gave him his best effort at a smile even as his lip trembled. 

Greg wrapped his arm around John, holding him close as he watched Sherlock with growing worry. Sherlock had his eyes on John, feeling as though he were pulling his own heart out and pushing it away. 

"Y-You've s-s-said many t-times that y-you are h-happy n-now, you have a h-happy l-l-life. Greg l-loves you. I-" he swallowed and then tried to speak, shaking his head slightly and swallowing again as his heart slammed against his ribs. 

"I'm wh-what's n-not right. I- th-there isn't- I m-make you f-feel b-bad...it's m-me, John."

John felt his heart ache as he was passed from Sherlock to Greg. He knew how horribly painful it must be, and it only further showed both how much Sherlock truly loved him, and how much he was letting him down,

John pressed his hand over his mouth and shook his head. That couldn't possibly be true. Sherlock wasn't what was wrong. He couldn't be. True, John had found a somewhat normal, very happy life with Greg, but... What Sherlock was saying simply could not be true.

"When you jumped, I thought the world had stopped spinning. Each time you are injured, I feel it on my own body. If you asked me to give you every ounce of my happiness and to take all your pain, I would not tell you no."

Sherlock sat there in blistering agony, nodding as calmly as he could as John spoke. "I know," he managed to scrape out of his swollen throat, studying John's face as he always did when he felt the end approaching, greedy to remember the details, "I kn-know. I- it is m-mutual." He had to take a few steadying breaths before he could carry on, forcing himself not to fall apart right there. 

"A-And at h-home y-you f-feel...r-right. You feel h-happy and s-safe. H-Here...w-with me...I'm the e-everything that is wr-wrong. Again...n-not your f-fault, John. It's n-not your f-fault." 

John closed his eyes and allowed himself to cry in pure shame. Sherlock was right. He did not feel at home in Mycroft's big house, with staff and people and unfamiliar things. Sherlock was not as comfortable as Greg. It pained him to admit this.

"I...Sherlock, I want to be here." 

Despite the discomfort, John did genuinely wish to be in Sherlock's presence. 

"I...you are not what is wrong. I am. It has always been me, always my shortcoming, my ignorance, and my stupidity. If I was more trustworthy, you could have told me about your plan on the roof. I could have helped you. I could...you would have told me you didn't want me to leave, and none of this...you would have your hands...I...it's always been me, Sherlock. Always." 

John truly believed the horrible accusation he'd made towards himself with every ounce of his blood.

Sherlock blinked in nothing but shock. 

"You are th-the most trustworthy m-man I know, John," he managed, reaching out and wrapping a freezing hand around John's. 

"I didn't t-tell you b-because you would have l-l-likely d-died trying to protect m-me and I couldn't b-bear that. I h-honestly thought y-you'd have a h-happier l-life without-" he shook his head, slowly pulled his hand away.

He'd told John so many ways that he'd not wanted him to leave, but it hadn't been enough. John still held him accountable. 

"I thought I w-would lose y-you if I t-told you," he sobbed, losing his composure under the crush of guilt. 

It was crippling to hear this. If only he'd spoken, if only he'd said in clear language...none of this would have happened. 

"I w-was afraid. I- I sh-should have told you, I'm so sorry, I'm s-so sorry. I-" his breathing snapped and he was nearly in a panic at this point. 

"G-Greg k-keeps you s-safe and I- I h-have...J-J-Ja-Jared and M-My...you d-don't- I- it's n-not-" he could not _do this_. 

John had not moved from Greg, which spoke volumes of his true feelings. Sherlock could not believe his heart still had enough solid bits left to break apart as it tore in his chest. "I'm s-sorry." 

John was shaking his head, but he wasn't sure which part exactly he was disagreeing to. Perhaps all of it. 

"No. No, no, no. Just...stop. Stop it. I absolutely refuse to listen to you blaming yourself. You only ever did what you needed to, and I mucked everything up. I'm staying here because I want to." 

He reached out and took Sherlock's hand again, almost stubbornly. 

"Don't push me away," he whispered, this time in a gentle, pleading voice. He slowly crawled from Greg's arms, again with great pain, and pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Don't leave me behind. I've had enough of that. I don't like it. Let's just establish that I'm coming over every day, and that it doesn't hurt me."

Sherlock did not again push John away, though he looked up to Greg in an anguished plea for help. It did hurt John, how was he to agree to a false establishment? How was he to ask John to suffer more on his behalf? 

"Wh-What if...we m-make an agreement that...when I'm...able," he swallowed painfully and pressed on, "I will come v-visit you? Perhaps we c-can speak on the phone d-daily?" 

"You know damn well you can't leave this house yet," John said without a single touch of scorn. "What if I come every day for three hours? Then I call before bed? I can read to you to help you sleep."

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John, leaning into him as the room began to spin. They'd gone from John potentially helping him with Jared, to bartering how much time John could endure with Sherlock. He tucked his face against John's neck, selfishly hiding for a few moments. 

"Y-You s-s-said _Vatican C-Cameos_. This is t-too m-much. I am m-making you d-doubt yourself. Doubt your reality. E-Everything f-feels wr-rong when you are with me. Three hours a d-day is n-not...it's going to keep breaking you down. I d-don't want to be what d-drags you d-down after you've come so far, J-John. I can't bear it. I'll...I'll l-learn. I'll...Jared will..." he breathed in deep against John, feeling nothing but _home_ in his arms, "m-make sure I do the right things...I'll do b-better and...and you'll b-be more on your f-feet. I don't w-want to hurt you, John. I n-never- I never hurt J-John," _it wasn't me_. He shuddered as he repeated his mantra, unable to pull away from John just yet. 

"You never hurt me," John supplied, "You never hurt me. You never hurt John. I love you. You never hurt me. You've always saved me. You never hurt me." 

John nuzzled on Sherlock like a cat. He knew what was happening in Sherlock's mind, and hoped to make it slow. 

"I need you to tell me something, Sherlock. Be honest. Please." 

He held Sherlock's face to his neck and sank his fingers into his hair. "Does me being here with you, like this, make your life any better?"

Sherlock's composure crumbled, his lips pinching in a fine line and chin drawing up as the corners of his eyes crinkled and his brows cast down, seconds before the tears began to fall heavy and fast. 

"Yes," he sobbed, as though admitting to a terrible crime. It was horrific to know that he made John's life so much worse, when all John did was make his better. 

He was in complete hysterics moments later, his shoulders rounding in as he fell apart in wailing agony, babbling again and again his true and heartfelt apology.

John pressed his lips to the top of Sherlock's head and kept his face in his curls. 

"Then I'll stay," he whispered. 

"I'll stay with you, and I'll bring you home someday, and you can be happy, and we can watch the birds and have cake and play card games, and things will be nice every day."

Sherlock grabbed two fistfuls of John's shirt, burying his face in the material as he held to John in a sobbing mess. None of that was true. It couldn't possibly be true. John had called out their most reserved distress phrase and being here had been the motivator. This wasn't a little issue John was having; this was massive. 

_You shouldn't let on with the sad things, try and heal more._

If only he'd been able to lie, to tell John that he'd made no difference, John would have been free to get up and leave his guilt there. But Sherlock was too selfish for that. No. It was never something he'd be able to do. 

John was soaked in self loathing, bitter loss, and horrifying anguish as he lay in Sherlock's arms, with Greg behind him. He did want to help Sherlock. He honestly wanted the things he had stated. 

But oh, how it hurt to hear what Sherlock had said. Every word of it had been a whip on his back. 

"I'll b-be able to make tea someday," John babbled, "and I'll make sure t-to let the dust collect and I'll write tiny little nice things in it and bring you cake and we can hold birds and dogs and w-we'll be h-happy."

Sherlock had put John to a stammer. The sound of John's distress was enough to silence Sherlock's, and with a few sharp, cleansing breath he pulled back, sitting better upright and wrapping John tight in his arms, ignoring how close that put him to Greg. 

"I- l-love you John. Maybe w-we don't make a choice about th-this today. I love y-you. Go h-home with G-Greg and your b-beautiful d-dog and get comfortable in-n your b-bed-" he stopped for a moment, looking back and forth between John and Greg, realizing for the first time that the men surely had been sleeping in the same bed for more than a year. Of course they were sharing a room, but he'd never considered them asleep. 

He blinked as life seemed to push him further from John, making the idea of him living with John and Greg seem more and more absurd. 

In a much quieter voice he carried on, "a-and f-find your c-comfort...a-and we c-can m-make a better choice w-with clearer h-heads l-l-later." 

He honestly wanted John to be calm, no matter what it cost, and if that meant asking John to go curl up with Greg so be it. "P-Please. You're h-hurting and I'm...I d-don't know h-how to fix it."

John could not fathom how Sherlock could be so selfless. He wanted to comfort him somehow. What did Greg do? John tried to mimic Greg's comforting actions, and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

"I love you," he whispered. "It's a good idea to figure this out when we're not so sad. I don't want to leave right now. Please, I get sad all the time. I was sad about Mary, not about this. I wasn't angry with you. Sadness happens." 

What did Greg do? 

He held him. John was already doing that. 

He rocked him. Check. 

He said kind things. He encouraged him. He gave words of love. Check, check, check. 

Greg also kissed him, but John was sure it would cause some sort of nuclear meltdown if he kissed Sherlock. 

"Sherlock, right now, right this moment, not speaking of the future or the past, what can I do to comfort you?"

Sherlock looked down sharply as his lip trembled, vision blurring and tears easily striking down his cheeks again. He spoke very softly, his voice thick with grief.

"W-would...would y-you hold m-me until I f-fall asleep?" He absolutely did not want to watch John walk away. A last time of falling asleep in John's arms was all he could think of.

John readily agreed and cuddled Sherlock in a comforting way. "Of course. And tomorrow I'll come do the same. We'll get better at this and things will get easier. I promise."

Despite his exhaustion, Sherlock fought sleep as hard as he could, frequently startling and clutching at John in fear that he was too late and John was already gone.

Over the next hour, he oscillated between quiet resting, to hitching, childlike tears, to almost panicked breathing, constantly adjusting his grip. Finally though, sleep won out, and Sherlock's fingers slowly released John's shirt until his hand fell heavy on the mattress, tears drying on his cheeks.

John stayed completely still, and when Sherlock finally fell asleep, he looked to Greg. 

"I need a little while to stay here," he whispered. "I'm going to be still. I just need to think about some things. Please don't be mad." 

He didn't want to describe it as 'going away', as it had been called before, but John felt his mental hold slipping, and he would either be a mess of tears or nearly unresponsive quite soon.

Greg blinked in shock. John was going to leave him....here? He looked up at Mycroft briefly before back to John, "Why don't I take you home and you can think there? We can go right now, it will be quick," he whispered, heart pounding.

John muttered something that might have been a reassurance and shook his head. He closed his eyes and gently touched the top of Sherlock's head with his lips, where he stayed, unmoving. While he was here, he was doing good. Here was the only place he could rest now. John slowly let go of the reigns of his mind and let it wander, hopefully to find numbness. 

Greg closed his eyes with a sound of distress and swiftly got up, pacing with a loose fist resting against his lips.

He should not have allowed John to come here. This had been a terrible mistake.

John was oblivious to those around him as his mind refused to grasp any one thought. The things were like a hot stove, and he had a jerk-away reflex that sent him into numbness once more. He was thirsty, but that didn't matter. None of it did. He was failing to make Sherlock feel loved and wanted, and this state was the only one his guilt-ridden mind found acceptable. 

Greg gave John another hour before his own distress got the better of him. He whispered a quiet goodbye to Mycroft before gathering John into his arms and carrying him from the room.

The entire car ride home, he whispered soft assurances to John, stroking his fingers through John's hair and holding him tight.

As soon as they arrived home, Greg settled John into bed with him, wrapping around him and holding him close.

John did not make much of an outward appearance of distress, other than holding onto Sherlock's sleeve as he was pulled away until he lost his grip, and the tears that started once he was out of the room and did not stop even when he was safe at home. 

Now, he was not helping Sherlock. Now, Sherlock was alone, and he was with Greg, and Sherlock would be in pain.

"Please talk to me, John please, please come back. I can't do this John. Please. For me? John I need you to talk to me."

He rocked John, pressing kisses the top of John's head. "It's safe, come talk to me John. Talk to me."

John shook his head just enough that Greg would feel it. He didn't want to talk, but he didn't want to scare him. 

He mouthed _sorry_ in a way that hardly moved his lips, and while he opened his eyes, they were focused on something outside of the walls of the room.

Greg drew in a show, deep breath, resigning himself to this. "Alright," he said quietly, "whenever you're ready, I'm here. I love you, I'm so proud of you."

John did not come out of it on his own. He stayed in that state for three full hours before he unknowingly fell asleep out of sheer weariness.

When he woke, he lazily wrapped an arm around Greg and muttered something pleasant before he remembered that he was not supposed to be there. John froze. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock. Sherlock had given him to Greg. Sherlock had looked devastated. John's breath turned to stone in his lungs and he ceased all movement. 

"Hey...hey...you're alright, John. You're okay. I need you to talk to me, okay? I can't help if you don't talk to me." Greg shifted them so he could see John's face, speaking soft and calm to him.

John's eyes flicked to a distant place slightly closer to Greg's face. "Sorry," he exhaled, "lost."

"You're not lost, you're right here with more. It's okay to come back, you don't have to punish yourself. Come back, give me a hug and let's talk about this, John. I love you, I've got you."

John's eyes slowly focused on Greg and a combination of love and self-disgust hit him all at once. 

"This is what hurts him," John whispered. "This. This comfort. Me and you. It hurts him."

Greg shook his head. "No, John, not really. I think he's honestly glad you've found safety and love. He never seems sad about that. I think he...it just sounds as though he's sad to not be able to be involved in that part of your life."

"I'm trying to involve him!" John brought his hands to cover his eyes. "And it's never worked! I keep...he put me back with you, but it...it hurt him. I just want a solution that won't hurt him."

Greg sat in quiet consideration for a few minutes before speaking. "John, Sherlock's wants aside, what sounds like an ideal outcome to you? Honestly. I won't pass this on, I just want to know where you stand.”

"Ideal? I'd like to stay here with you for the rest of my life. I'd like to learn to not be afraid of water and not break down every other day. I'd like the pain of all this to go away. And I'd like Sherlock to be alright, and maybe live with us, and be alright that I love you, and not think that it's anything more than what it is."

Greg nodded as John spoke. "And...isn't that exactly what he proposed? Let you heal more, come visit us one he's done some work? You could phone him every day, and we could visit now and again?"

John felt his blood run cold and he looked at Greg. 

"You've been suggesting less and less contact with him for a year now. More than that. Is it that you truly think I'm stressing him, or that he's hurting me, or something else?"

Greg dragged a hand over his hair and spoke softly to John. "He makes you go backwards," he confessed honestly. "I'm sorry, I don't intend to make you mad. He just...He makes you upset with yourself and I hate seeing that. Maybe you both are not ready for this much contact yet. This has been much better than before, I just...I hate seeing you go backwards."

"I'm not mad at you," John gasped. He couldn't possibly be mad at Greg. 

"But I've made so much progress! Even since Sherlock first got back, you were saying that maybe I shouldn't see him. I've come so far. How can I still not be ready?" 

Truthfully, John felt insulted.

Greg took a moment to gather his thoughts. "You've made incredible progress, John. Truly incredible. What makes me think you're not ready...is your...your reaction to his upset. He's only just come out of half a year's effort to die, he's going to be very emotional and that cuts you down very fast. He needs to work with Jared and get himself more together, I think."

"I don't like Jared," John suddenly hissed. "We need to speak with him. He isn't doing it right. Sherlock wants me to stay with him. I'm going to start doing that. I don't care if you think it hurts me. I'm doing this. I need to."

Greg closed his eyes and stayed quiet, letting the shock of upset to settle.

"John...do you think...did...how do you intend to help him?"

"I don't know!!" John sat up and scowled. "I've been trying to figure it out for a year! I can hold him, and I can read to him, and I can encourage him to make progress, but he doesn't believe that I want to be there and he is sad that I love you. I don't know what to do!" 

Frustration and exasperation made his voice rise in tone and volume.

Greg looked up and cleared his throat. "He can't help that it makes him sad, John. And he's not thinking clearly at all. He needs to heal more before he can be what you want him to be, and that's part of why I think his suggestion is sound. You were gone from me three hours today. What about tomorrow, and the day after that? How many times am I going to lose you because of him?"

"It's not because of him!" John retorted. "You can not say that. I wasn't gone. I was just...I just had things in my mind. I told you I needed to think. You shouldn't have taken me away from Sherlock while I was thinking."

Greg shifted John in his arms, stung by the words. "How was I supposed to know that? You refused to speak to me! It looked just like when you leave, I was scared! What if he woke up and found you like that? I'm sorry, John. For God's sake, I'm doing the best I can!"

"Then stop trying to take me away from Sherlock!" John pulled away and say cross-legged on the bed. His brow was pinched, his lips in a tight line, and his eyes full of pain and irritation. 

"According to you, I'll never be ready to help him, and I should just ignore him completely!"

Greg was swiftly growing upset. 

"I'm falling to see how daily calls and occasional visits are ignoring him completely," he responded, feeling John pull away from him as though they shared skin.

"You've already helped him so much, and you are more and more ready to do so, but his pain makes you feel low and John, from experience, he's not going to stop hurting any time soon. Do I just watch you get pulled down again?"

John snorted. "I'm sorry my emotional torment is difficult for you to watch," he snapped bitterly, though his anger was not towards his love, but the situation. 

"But if I don't keep going, he won't get better. He'll wake up for the phone call, then go catatonic again. I know this because if you had only called me, I'd only have stopped screaming when you were on the phone. Remember in the beginnings? When you came after work? That was the only time I was lucid and making progress. I can't leave him."

Greg was surprised John remembered that at all. John's words were cutting, but he did his best to let them go. "You were never alone," he whispered, "Sherlock was always there, but yes, I understand. But this is different, he has Mycroft." 

His tone had dropped, cut by John's words, but he held steady.

"He does not have Mycroft! Mycroft goes to work. He leaves him for what, five hours a day? Leaves him with strangers!" John's chest was heaving and he looked around the room as if for assistance explaining. 

"Just stop telling me not to see him!"

Greg drew in a sharp breath and shut up, looking across the room without saying anything else.

John stared stubbornly for another moment before doubt trickled down his spine like cold water. Who was he to have an opinion against Greg's? Against anyone's, really? He brought his hands up to cover his mouth, but ended up abruptly digging his fingernails into his flesh. 

"I'm sorry," he gasped, looking stricken with terror. 

Greg reached out and grabbed John's hands to stop him from hurting himself. 

"Don't be. You want to see Sherlock, that's been the goal. I'm just...being pathetic. We will see him and I'll just...I'll always be here for as long as you need me. We'll just...handle it."

Greg could leave him at any time. He could just walk away. John held his hands together and shook his head. 

"I shouldn't be going against you," John whispered. 

"Shouldn't think things you don't think." 

It was an absolutely unhealthy way to think, but he did not have any other way of operating, and had no idea. "I shouldn't disagree with you." Not even in thought. 

Greg cracked a pained laugh and shook his head. "Um, no. John, you absolutely should have your own thoughts and feelings. I have...I'm not an expert, I'm just doing the best I can. You can and should go against what I'm saying if you don't agree."

"No, no, I'm not mentally sound, remember? I'm afraid of a glass of water. I can't shower. I just need to trust you. I shouldn't be arguing. I'm sorry." 

John's posture had faded from defensive, with his hands clenched and brow tight, to submissive and guilty, with his shoulders rounded and chin down. 

Greg drew in a deep breath and tried again. "You are of sound mind, John. Phobias do not negate your ability to make choices. If you want to call Sherlock in the evenings, we will do that. If you think physically going there is best, we'll keep trying that. It's your choice."

"I don't want to do things that upset you," John said and his hands crept forward to reach for Greg. "But I want to go help him. I don't know what to do and it hurts."

Greg opened his arms to swiftly welcome John back, pulling him in close. "Why don't we give it a few days, love? Let you get your head around all that's happened. You can call him. I just want to protect you."

John didn't want to think about what had happened. "I don't know. I feel bad. I thought about so many things I didn't want to think about. I just want to get rid of all of it. All those bad things."

Greg eased them down in the bed and gently rubbed John's back. "No more today. Let me get you tea and your medicine, and we will sleep. You've done more than enough for today."

"Can I r-record more poems for him?" John was slipping into the bitter self-loathing again. 

Greg nodded, letting John shift to the side so that he could get John's medicine. "Of course, I can send them all over and I'm sure that will help him," he said quietly, getting the cool thermos of tea and pouring John the cup, as well as all of John's pills.

John held the tea for a long while to make sure there was no heat coming off it, but the thermos generally meant cool. He took his pills and say with his head bowed. 

"When this is all over..." He shook his head. "Never mind. It won't ever be over."

Greg pulled John back into his arms, nuzzling him to try and ease John out of the mood Sherlock had put him down into, "when this is all over, what, John? What? It will be over someday, absolutely."

"We're going to be old and die someday." John wrinkled his nose. He hoped he died before Greg. "I don't think I'll like that."

Greg blinked in surprise. "Well, we've a bit of time before that, haven't we?" He combed his fingers through John's hair, trying to soothe him. "It's going to be okay, John."

"Yeah, but we'll be dead someday. I'm going to die. You're going to die. Jesus." 

John shuddered. He had no qualms with dying. None at all. But the thought that Greg might go fist was unnerving. Unlikely, but unnerving. 

"John...John what is this? We are okay, everything is alright. Everyone is safe. It's okay, love. How can I help you settle your mind?"

John's nerves were on end, and he shook his head. "What if you die before me? Or if Sherlock dies? Or what if I die and leave you two alone? What if you get sick? Or I get sick? What happens if we can't figure out a way to help him?"

Greg reached over and grabbed John's anxiety pills, speaking softly to him. "Hey...slow down, slow down." He handed over the tablets before starting to rock John, combing his fingers through John's hair. 

"You've enough to worry on, love. We need to focus on today, that's all. Just today. Slow down, John. Steady."

John took the tablets, but continued to rock himself. "A-And what if I-I mess up and ruin Sherlock forever? What if Mycroft stops paying and we need to get jobs? What if y-you get too sick and- or Sherlock is here but he gets sad when you hold me or-or-or I make you t-try to kill yourself again, or-" John coughed and wrapped his arms around himself. 

Greg held John's head to his chest and shook his head. "Stop, John stop. I have plans in place for your care if something happens to me. Sherlock...he's...those are for Mycroft to worry over. If I get sick, we have Miller. Calm down, love, please. Please calm down. We will sort it all out, one at a time." 

He rocked John slowly, trying to soothe him down from this panic. 

"I won't live a day longer than you do," John asserted and squeezed Greg tightly. "I won't. I'm sorry. But...what...what if w-we never find something that helps Sherlock and he stays the way he is? How am I going to keep going back there?"

Greg shook his head. "You won't. You won't keep going back. We only have gone thus far to try and help him. If he won't be helped then so be it, you'll live your life here with me without him." 

John swallowed hard. "If I hadn't gotten any better, is that what you would have done?" He raised tear-filled, heartbroken eyes to meet Greg's in silent question of how much he meant to the man who was his entire world.

Greg did not hesitate. "No. Not at all. No. You'd be right where you are now, John. Right where you are now.”

"And what if I hadn't progressed past where Sherlock is now? What if I could talk, sleep, eat a little, and could interact, but I had to be with you always, and couldn't get out of bed?" 

John kept his eyes locked on Greg's. "Would you have done what you're suggesting I do with Sherlock?"

Greg had no trouble holding John's eye, knowing the truth of this to the core of him. "No. I would not. You'd be right where you are right now." 

John nodded. "And so what do you suggest I do if Sherlock does not progress?"

Greg drew in a slow, deep breath and cuddled John to him, hoping very much that this day would not come for him ever. 

"I suggest you read him one last poem, give him a final hug, and very gently say goodbye." 

His voice was so hushed it hardly broke the silence of the room, weighed with the gravity of what he was suggesting. 

John put his hand over his mouth. "You love me so much more than you love him," he whispered. Perhaps that was good, but John couldn't be sure.

Greg opened his mouth to protest, but stopped a moment later. He supposed in a way that was true. If it came to a choice between Sherlock or John's well being, he'd never hesitate to ensure John was cared for. 

He closed his eyes, feeling terrible about it. 

"I'm sorry. I do care very much what happens to him, but you are my priority." 

John sighed and leaned up to give Greg a soft kiss. "I just want you to know that I'll always be happier when he's happy."

Greg looked down at his lap, feeling the words like blows. He took a minute to put his question together, absolutely needing the answer. "Does that mean that I have no hope of making you happy without him?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was disappointing everyone by simply trying to help. 

"Greg… _my love_...It does not mean that at all. You have made me so happy. You've made a place for me. You've made a beautiful life here for me. That's...I hate to say it, but that's not something Sherlock could have done, I don't think. All I meant to say was that I care about him very much, and I want him to be happy. That doesn't subtract from the love you've shown me, or the life you've given me."

Greg swiftly relaxed at that, nodding his understanding. It was an overwhelming relief to know he could still give John a good life even if Sherlock wasn't ever in it. "Okay...okay, thank you for telling me, I'm sorry I asked that of you." 

"I'm sorry you needed to ask." Since it was clear to John that Greg wasn't seeing his worth, John leaned in and kissed him again. When he drew away, he brushed his fingertips over his cheek lovingly. "You know you're my entire world, right?"

Greg nodded as he leaned into John's hand. There was no way to deny that truth. He hugged John to him, holding him tight. 

"I know it feels like everything is wrong right now, but that's not true. It's all going to be okay, and I love you."

"I've been trying to make your life bearable these past six months," John began softly. "I've really made it my whole focus, other than recovering personally. I know I'm not really useful yet, and...and Jesus, you didn't even know I love my life here...but I'm trying, I swear." 

He'd truly done everything in his power. Every day, he made sure Greg knew he was loved. It was only recently, with Sherlock taking up so much of his time, that his efforts had begun to slip.

Greg shook his head. "John, no, no you mistake my question. I know you love me. I know that you're happy here most days. You are very generous with your praise. You have been trying and I see it every day, all day. Please do not think that I'm not proud of you, than I feel unloved, because none of that is true." 

John ran his fingertips over Greg's cheeks and jawline, all loving and gentle affection. "I love you so much. So much. If there is anything I can ever do to help you, I'll do it. Let me know. I want you to be happy just as much as I want Sherlock to. You matter to me. Don't forget that."

Greg nodded and pulled John in closer. "You should sleep, love. You should sleep." 

"I'll record a few poems first, then send them, then we can rest. Okay? Today..." John whimpered. "Today was supposed to be an easy day."

Greg nodded and got out his phone. "We will make tomorrow a good day, alright? Tomorrow is a good day." 

John shook his head rapidly. "No! I can't do that. I can't go against the schedule. Remember when we made the schedule? This is important. I'll do good work tomorrow and be okay the next day."

Greg nodded swiftly, agreeing with John in short order. "Okay, okay, tomorrow we will work. I'm sorry. It will be alright."

John recorded a few more poems, and sent them to Sherlock with a short note. 

_I hope these help you. I love you. I'll be over again tomorrow._


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock remained asleep for the whole of the night, waking less than an hour the time Mycroft typically went to work. He opened his eyes with a gentle inhalation, and remained still.

Mycroft was dressed excepting his tie, shoes and jacket, and he curled himself back around Sherlock. "I'll be right back, okay? I promise. Could I show you something?"

Sherlock nodded quietly, directing his attention to his brother.

"Look, I have something for you to listen to. It's John reading some poetry." He'd listened to it already, just to be sure that it was safe.

Sherlock reached out and took the phone, watching John speak. He was very still and quiet, eyes touching on several parts of the screen.

When John closed the video down, Sherlock looked to Mycroft.

"It's t-too big, isn't it," he asked very softly, resigned.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "What...What's too big? The poem? What is it?"

Sherlock ran his thumb down the side of Mycroft's phone, starting at the blank screen. He did not respond immediately.

"The o-oceans between J-John and I...they s-stretch too v-vast."

Mycroft took a deep breath. "No, no, I don't think that's true at all. Any time you want, he'll come over."

Sherlock took in his brother's state of dress. "I'll s-see you in....in a f-few hours?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, you will. I won't be gone long. Jared's here, and I'll send him the poetry so you can listen to it if you want. Would that help?"

Sherlock drew in a slow breath and nodded, though he honestly didn't know the answer. He tucked in tighter in the bed, holding on to the blankets and staring across the room. 

Mycroft hated this part, but while going to work was stressful, and he loathed leaving Sherlock, he could not deny it was good for his mental health, and was keeping him from having a full blown mental breakdown. 

"I'll come right back. Should I play the video again? I can leave my phone with you."

Sherlock shook his head, clearly present though very still and quiet. He looked to Mycroft before looking away again. "I'll s-s-see you a-after w-work," he said quietly.

"See you after work," Mycroft echoed and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. 

"I'll be right back. I promise." He turned and got his tie from the drawer and his coat from the closet, but took them with him instead of dressing there. "Bye," he said and gave a small wave.

Sherlock stared at the door after Mycroft left, curling one hand up to his lips and keeping his body tucked down in his blankets. Time seemed to blur as his mind chased one thought process after another. 

_I've run out of time, I can't do all the things I need to..._

_Work on my hand flexibility, my fingers are a mess, I have to get them under control..._

_The situation and stop responding to John so he'll stop coming. That way he can be happy and you..._

_Will be so miserable without him, but he's miserable with you. It doesn't matter what helps..._

_Is John, sitting here, showing that it will all be alright. It will be alright. Everything will work out better..._

_If you would just kill yourself. This is absurd, he doesn't want you..._

_To sit here and wallow, he's recorded you poetry, he wants you..._

_To live and leave him alone, why can't you leave him alone, you're going to stay alone, alone…_

He made no outward movements as his mind raced in circles, simply existing in the void. 

Jared came in slowly and say down on the side is the bed in the chair. "Hey, Sherlock, how are you feeling today?"

Sherlock did not look at Jared as he spoke. "I g-gave John back t-to Greg. He...I m-made him h-hurt again."

"You gave him to Greg, and he crawled right back to you. He then let you fall asleep in his arms, and stayed for another hour and a half after you were down. He had to be carried off so he could have his medicine. He wouldn't let go. Mycroft told me the story just in case you forgot. Also, I have his poetry, if you want to read it."

Sherlock tucked his fingers to his lips and stayed quiet for a few minutes, starting at the door.  
"I did n-not forget," he whispered. "I s-selfishly asked h-him to stay. I d-didn't w-want to watch h-him go. He...He w-wants me b-better...but he....I h-hurt him."

He looked to Jared then. "T-Tell m-me what I....n-need to do today. I...I just n-need...I need...." He trailed off again, mind going in circles as he forced himself to sit up.

Jared wanted to make Sherlock comfortable, but the man was right. He did need to make improvement. 

"I believe if you can be a bit more independent with some of your movements it would make your quality of life better," Jared reasoned. "Why don't we try some water, then maybe we can get you in the chair for a bit. If anything hurts, let me know, and we can stop."

Sherlock said nothing else, drinking the water with shaking hands, dreading the day. He set the cup aside and looked over to the chair, trying to bolster himself up for this. 

"M-My brother was...r-relieved to g-go to w-work today. John d-doesn't like being here...but he c-comes o-out of g-guilt and duty. I n-need your h-help t-telling them I'm n-not going t-to s-see them anymore."

Jared opened his mouth, then closed it again. How was he to handle that?

"I don't think that is wise," he began. "You need them to recover, and they both genuinely want to be with you and help you."

Sherlock was doing his best to get the blankets off his legs, jaw set in determination. "I h-have burdened th-them enough. I w-will not s-see them until I h-have earned that p-privilege."

He looked over to Jared with a hard-set expression. "I don't w-want pain m-medication, j-just bring that d-damned ch-chair over here."

"You shouldn't punish yourself," Jared said and brought the painkiller. "It will be more constructive to your healing and therefore to their emotional health if you keep yourself out of pain."

"NO!" Sherlock snapped, slapping a hand over his port and glaring at Jared. 

"It m-makes me sloppy and unable to th-think. My _emotional health_ is i-irrelev-vant. I am h-harming e-e-everyone around m-me. You w-were correct. If y-you will n-not help m-me then l-leave and I will c-carry on alone." 

Jared drew away and put the cap back on. "Alright," he said gently, "I'm sorry. I'll let you decide. But if you start to be in too much pain, please do not hurt yourself."

Sherlock did not respond to him, instead staring at the wheelchair as he thought of how much distress he'd put John in yesterday, and the way Mycroft's face had relaxed when he'd said goodbye. His heart twisted but he ruthlessly tamped down on it, bitter and angry with himself. 

No more of this coddling. He was a grown man who'd lived independently his entire adult life. What John and Mycroft needed was for Sherlock not to need them. 

Remembering the way John had treated his leg years ago when it had pained him, he reached down and with the aid of his arm lifted one leg, and then the other, swinging them carefully over the side of the bed. 

"I'm m-moving out of this r-room today. I will not see M-Mycroft. I will n-not s-see John. I t-trust you will alert G-Greg before he d-drags the poor m-man back here." 

Jared let Sherlock go about it on his own, but stayed close by. "I don't agree with you there, but I'll let it be your choice. Having someone with you will help you emotionally. Mycroft might think he's done something wrong if you have him away. Same with John. Again, the choice is yours, but you need to ask yourself if this is really what is good for them, or if you're ignoring evidence and punishing yourself."

Sherlock reached with a shaking hand for his chair. 

"I c-cannot manage to pretend as though I am alr-right near them. I cannot m-mask sadness. I cannot do as y-you've s-said, therefore I do n-not deserve any h-help. I will do as I sh-should have been doing, and wh-when I c-can be less of a b-burden, if they've st-still interest in inflicting my p-presence on th-themselves they m-may do so." 

His self-loathing was enough of a motivator. He could not endure watching himself torture Mycroft and John any longer. He gripped the chair and began to edge himself forward, already worn out from moving himself as he had. 

Jared was deeply saddened by Sherlock's speech, and hung back as he worked. "That is very...very selfless of you. You're a good man. If I can help you in any way, I can."

Sherlock was right on the edge of the bed, holding the arms of the chair, but he had no idea how he was going to manage twisting his body around to get into it. 

_You're such a fucking idiot. How have you gone from one of the greatest minds of all time, to such grand incompetence that a bloody chair has you bested. It's only pain. Sit. Down._

Fire licked up his side, flashing a brilliant yellow bolt of light across his vision as he torqued himself and all but fell into the chair. He grit his teeth, breathing swift and shallow as pain enveloped him, leaving him bent double as he sat there trying to collect himself. Tears burned at his eyes but he could do nothing about them, involuntary as they were. 

"H-Have the s-st-" he abruptly stopped speaking as his stomach rolled, determined not to sick up. A few breaths later he carried on, "staff p-prepare a r-room for m-me on the g-ground l-level," he grit out as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. 

Jared hesitated. "I think Mycroft would prefer you be near him," he insisted. "But...if you're set on it, I'll have it done."

"M-Mycroft is c-compromised. He is h-hurting himself f-f-for m-me, which m-makes no sense whatsoever. H-Have it done." 

Sherlock's voice was already trembling with exhaustion as he tried to roll himself closer to the lav, intent on making it alone. 

Jared got behind the chair and pushed it just enough to give Sherlock the momentum to begin. "I'll let him know after work," he agreed. 

Sherlock wheeled into the bathroom, going to the sink and struggling to make his fingers wrap around his toothbrush. It took him nearly ten minutes, eventually he dragged it to the edge and grabbed hold of it. His arm shook horribly as he set to cleaning his teeth, avoiding looking in the mirror as long as possible.

He relieved himself and struggled to make his way back, damp with sweat. He looked to Jared, pale and angry with himself. 

"I n-need you...op schedule...ph-physical th-therapists. Do you know...o-occupational therapy?"

Jared, who had been waiting quietly outside, followed Sherlock once he exited. "Yes, I do. If you'd like to begin, we can, any time."

Sherlock nodded, mastering his breathing a few minutes later. "N-Now, I h-have to st-start n-now."

Jared walked over and got his phone. "I hope you won't mind me taking notes as I go. I need to assess your range of motion."

Sherlock shook his head. "Do w-whatever y-you n-need," he said quietly, gut churning in apprehension for what he was preparing to do. His body ached terribly, but it was still tolerable. 

Jared checked three things concerning Sherlock's range of motion with his shoulders; range unassisted and without pain, physical limit, and how far he could move the limb himself before it grew painful. He recorded the numbers and found that his weakness was hindering his range of motion more than the actual injuries.

Sherlock sat holding his wrists in a nearly bruising grip, shoulders lightly shaking from straining himself. His curls were sticking to his forehead, and he was heavily slumped in his chair. The tests had been depressing and he was swiftly losing hope in his ability to heal. He stared down at the floor, utterly enraged with himself. 

"We have data points now," Jared said cheerily. "We can start moving a bit more later. I know you're tired. For now, you can take a break while I move things."

Sherlock nodded, slightly less bold now that he was hurting and the road before him showed itself to be so very long. He rest his head in his hand, covering his eyes and speaking harshly to himself. 

_You don't deserve company. You don't deserve comfort. You've failed and this is what you must do. Dry it up and earn your keep for god's sake._

Jared gathered some of Sherlock's things, including a few printed pictures of John he found in the drawers. He got Sherlock's little medicine cabinet as well, and had the staff set up the room.

Sherlock watched as his things were removed from his brother's room, his fear growing with every moment. He would not allow himself to be weak any longer, though, and so ignored his rapidly pounding heart and kept quiet, still trembling in his chair, though he kept his expression hardened and nearly angry. 

When all of Sherlock's things were moved, Jared stood in the hall in front of him. "Can I carry you down the stairs?"

Sherlock gave a single nod, bracing himself to be lifted. He looked around Mycroft's room one last time, eyes lingering on the bed for a moment, accepting that his time of safety and comfort was over. 

"Y-Yes," he whispered, returning to the hard-set anger from before. 

Jared lifted him with the same barrier blanket he had before, and brought him downstairs into his new room. 

"If you want, we can hang those pictures of John I found."

Sherlock held tight to the blanket, very uncomfortable being held and moved. He did not object to the idea of them hanging pictures of John, though he found the idea a bit...counter productive. 

"If I...h-have m-made...acceptable p-progress...m-may I listen to h-his recording t-tonight?"

Jared wanted to tell him that he didn't need to make progress to have comforting things, but knew Sherlock wouldn't listen. "Of course you can. In fact, you've already done well enough, if you want it now."

Sherlock shook his head. "N-Now is the t-time f-for work. I've m-made n-no progress at all. None." He could hardly get the words out, nearly choking on loathing for his own intensive failure.

Jared sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you think you could tell me what you view as progress? Because to me, this-" he gestured around the room to give example, "-looks like progress."

Sherlock looked around the room in a state of denial. At least Jared approved of this move to isolate himself. He was finally doing something right. 

"I h-have to f-function. W-Without anyone. Th-this may be progress but it's n-not enough." 

"Then how about I get you a change of clothes and we work on that?" Jared didn't know how independent Sherlock wanted to be, but it was surely a start.

Sherlock nodded, giving himself over to whatever it was that Jared wanted him to do. "F-Fine," he said quietly, still trying to adjust to the idea of this new space. 

Jared had moved Sherlock's clothing and got out a pair of fresh pants and trousers. "If you need help, let me know. If not, I'll just leave the room for a bit."

Sherlock stared at the clothes for a few moments. "Oh...I...ok-kay," he whispered. He picked up a shirt and stared down at it, remembering the last time he'd tried to dress. He watched as Jared left, just holding the shirt in his lap. Five minutes later, he was in tears, honestly afraid to try on his own. 

"Enough," he growled at himself, shifting forward and making an attempt at pulling his shirt off. It was incredibly painful, and he'd had to double himself in half to manage it. He slumped sideways in his chair, breaths shuddering and wild, clutching to the new one as he whimpered in pain. 

_I can't do this. I can't do this._

He allowed himself a few minutes of defeat before sitting himself back upright, trembling and cold, making his first attempt at getting the new shirt over his head. Ten minutes of trying, he was still failing, bitter tears rolling down his cheeks and his hair slicked to the side of his head. He swore loudly and tried to throw the shirt across the room, only managing to land it on his foot. He covered his face with quaking hands and leaned forward, heart crushed under the hopelessness of his situation. 

Jared stepped back in then and saw the problem. "We can try again when you're in less pain," he said gently. "Can I help you? I won't do it for you. Just help."

Sherlock nodded as he dashed his hands across his face, trying to clear away the tears. He leaned down and grabbed the shirt, staring at it in his hands. 

_You are going to be alone forever._

"I- I c-can't make...m-my arms r-raise high enough t-to get it over m-my head." 

_You are fucking pathetic. It's a shirt. You can't even manage a shirt._

"I know. That was part of the range of motion. But since it doesn't cause you too much pain when I help, I'll help you with this until you do it yourself." 

Jared slid the shirt over his head and took a step back. "I think you need some rest."

Sherlock shook his head, openly angry. "I've n-no time t-to rest!" he shouted, his voice shaking right along with the rest of him, "I've accomplished n-nothing!" 

"You're out of Mycroft's room for the first time in months. Believe it or not, but a change of scenery can be stressful after so much time the way you were." 

Jared put it gently, but tried to think of something to 'accomplish'. "Alright. What would you like to try?"

Sherlock had no idea, looking around in a desperate attempt to find anything he could do to prove to himself he had a chance of recovering to some sort of acceptable level. 

"I- I d-don't know! I- this is _h-hopeless_! I- sh-should I t-try to st-stand or...or w-work on..." _on what? Reading? Eating? Dressing yourself? Where the hell do you even begin. Alone, alone, alone. This is what you knew your life would be. Day one of god only knows how many._

"Okay. Okay. Let's start with letters. Let's start with letters. I'll get a pad and pen." Jared took a few steps away. "Is that alright?"

Sherlock nodded without speaking, actively battling tears. He was not going to argue with anything that might help him progress. 

Jared fetched the pad and some thick markers. "Alright. Let's just start with a letter." He drew a large B on the paper.

Sherlock looked down at the pad and took it from Jared, tracing a finger over the bold lines. "Th-This is a B," he said quietly, handing it back. 

Jared grinned at him. "Yes, like 221B." He said it as Mycroft had, two-hundred-and-twenty-one-B. He drew another. X.

Sherlock looked down at the pad and without taking it simply said, "X," wringing his hands together, shaken from the mention of his former home. 

Jared took the pad again. He debated writing JOHN, a name Sherlock could probably recognize, but decided against it for now. Instead, he simply wrote DOG.

Sherlock stared at the pad. "Th-Three l-letters," he whispered, taking it and tracing each letter without recognizing it. He put one hand over the 'O' and 'G'. 

"D," he whispered, repeating the same with each successive letter, spelling out the word. When he looked at it as a whole, he was lost. "I- I don't know...I d-don't know wh-what it...I don't know."

Jared took the pad away. "You recognize the letters on their own. That's a big improvement from last time. Remember? Now you can identify letters. Do you remember what sound a 'D' makes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of c-course I know what s-sound..." He trailed off, stating in blank sock for a moment.

God help him. What sound did it make?

He looked back to Jared as his stomach twisted into knots. "It...oh god...I...I don't know," he breathed, looking back down at the word that meant nothing to him. "I d-don't know."

"Okay. We can fix that. It makes a 'duh' sound. 'D' 'duh'." He pointed to the first letter again. "What does this one make?" 

Sherlock had to lean forward and cover the letters on either side of the 'O' to identify it. Again, he could not recall the sound.

"It's...i-it's an 'o' but..." He takes a hand through his hair.

_This is primary school stuff, Sherlock! How can you not know?_

He rest his fingertips against his lips, starting at the page in disbelieving shock as tears began to slide down his face. How could he know the letter, but not the sound?

Jared explained the sound that a short 'O' made, then went back to the 'D'. "Do you remember what the 'D' makes?"

Sherlock thought back to their earlier conversation. The D was the first sound Jared had made, which Sherlock repeated, but when he looked at the letter, it did not fit.

"I...it doesn't...you said 'duh,' and then 'oh,' but they...th-they d-don't fit with the l-letters."

He looked up at Jared and then away. "I'm going t-to be alone f-for a v-very long t-time," he whispered, feeling his heart roll over in his chest.

"How about you memorize these three letters, then you listen to John's poetry? Come on, you can get this. 'ad' is 'duh'. 'O' is 'auh'. The last one, you figured out, is G. 'Gggg'. Can you try to put them together?"

Sherlock looked away, starring across the room with his knuckles against his lips. He shook his head, tears dripping off his jaw line.

"I- please, can w-we stop?"

"Okay," Jared responded and put the pad down. "That's fine. You've done very well today."

Sherlock did not respond to him at all. He kept his eyes averted, all his gusto from that morning gone away in the wake of failure.

Jared pulled the recording of John up and handed Sherlock his phone. "If you want to listen, you can. I think you deserve it."

Sherlock took the phone and hit play, focused on the screen. Tears tied down his face as he listened to join read to him, pushing his knuckles to his teeth.

He was making the right choice by isolating himself. It was right, but it was horrible for himself. His chest ached at the sight of John. When the video finally ended he reluctantly handed the phone back to Jared, saying nothing.

"You can listen to it as many times as you want." Jared took his phone and set it on the edge of the bed where Sherlock could reach it. He didn't keep it locked. 

 

Sherlock leaned forward, taking it off the bed and holding it in his lap, watching the video twice more before he had his breathing under control.

"H-he's happy...he's s-safe and happy...this is r-right, he g-gets so st-r-ressed coming h-here. I m-make his l-life harder...M-My's too."

"I disagree," Jared said gently. "But I won't try and convince you otherwise. I think you've done so much work today, and you deserve some rest."

Sherlock didn't feel he deserved anything good at all. He looked to the bed though, shivering and exhausted. "J-Just f-for a sh-short r-rest."

He shifted in the chair, honestly not knowing how to move himself over.

Jared helped him into the bed and lifted him up. "You've done amazing today. It's alright. My will be back in an hour or two. Should I tell him you want to be alone?"

Sherlock held his breath, indecisive. "I...I...He n-needs to r-rest. He...He n-needs to s-sleep."

"Maybe just a quick visit? That wouldn't harm anyone." Jared wanted to talk to Mycroft first and explain. 

Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips, biting down hard as he forced himself to be strong. "N-Not today...I...I w-won't be able to p-pretend...not t-today." He looked to Jared with watering eyes. It would be impossible to see his brother, to see the person who protected him most, and not beg to be kept. He could not pretend while so raw. 

"Pl-l-lease t-tell him I l-love h-him." This was the only way he knew how to protect his brother.

"Alright. I'm sorry this is happening to you, Sherlock. If there is anything I can do to help, let me know." Jared stepped back, but left his phone. "Where would you like me to be right now? We can play a game, or something."

Sherlock just took up the phone and rolled to his side, playing the video of John again. He pulled the blankets up over his head, wrapping an arm tight around himself and imagining someone was hiding him, that he and John were tucked away from the world. As John read, Sherlock imagined that he wasn't a source of pain for him, that John loved him as he did Greg.

But then, as always, the video stopped.

Again and again, Sherlock looped the feed. He wished he had one of his brother as well.

Sleep finally came for him as John read on, leaving the phone silent and the battery nearly dead as John finished the poem.

When the poetry finally stopped and did not immediately start up again, Jared took his phone back and put it on a charger. He continued to play the video over and over until Mycroft finally arrived, at which point he sent him a brief text explaining. 

_Sherlock has asked not to see you or John until he makes progress. He's quite set on it._

Mycroft, who was instantly struck with worry, headed straight for his bedroom. Upon finding it empty, panic hit him, even though he knew Sherlock was in the house. 

_Where are you?_

_Bottom floor, guest room._

Mycroft practically ran. 

Miller watched as Mycroft tore down the hallway, instantly worried. "Mycroft?" He called out, jogging to catch up with him. He followed the elder brother down the stairs to the lower level, keeping just far enough back that he wouldn't collide with him if Mycroft abruptly stopped. 

"Sherlock doesn't want to see me, or John. He's left my room. He's isolating himself until he makes progress." Mycroft nearly tripped over a rug and stopped abruptly to turn to Miller. 

"I can't let him be alone. He won't survive it. He needs John. He needs me. Why is he doing this?"

Miller reached out to steady Mycroft, utterly shocked at how frazzled the stoic man was. "I don't know. I don't know, Mycroft. He's got some very mixed messages about himself, and he's always unsteady on what he's thinking. I have no idea. I haven't seen him yet today, only Jared has been with him."

"He can't just lock himself away!" Mycroft grabbed fistfulls of his hair and paced back and forth. "He needs John. Why would he refuse John? He isn't a burden as much as he used to be! It could take him years to recover. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Miller watched Mycroft in sharp concern. 

"Sherlock is paralyzed every time he is told he is a burden. He's more afraid of hurting you and John than anything else on earth. He'd rather eat, and be reminded of that specific trauma, to the point of _vomiting_ , than cause you pain. This might be better for him, I don't know. I'm going to page Paul, see if he can't come consult. That, or perhaps a fresh set of eyes here would be good. I know a few excellent psychiatrists if you'd like a second opinion." 

"Better for him?" Mycroft staggered back as if he'd received a blow to the head. "I...It's better for him to be away from me?" His eyes were wide and he stared at his hands as if expecting to see blood on them.

Miller had not gone into psychiatry for a reason. He looked to Mycroft, shaking his head. 

"I only mean that in the sense that his concern over burdening you may be somewhat quieted. I- Mycroft go _talk to him_. Go talk to Sherlock, there is no good in speculation. He can't very well throw you out, now can he? Go speak to him." 

"Okay. Okay. I'll go talk to him." Mycroft turned and walked calmly to the room Sherlock was staying in and knocked. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock startled at the knock, waking and sitting up very swiftly. His eyes landed on his brother before he looked away. "M-My," he whispered, his throat swollen and very nearly in tears just at the sight of him.

Mycroft suppressed the urge to run to him, and instead took measured steps to his bedside. "Hello, 'Lock. Are you alright? I was told you didn't want to see me." 

His eyebrows pulled up and together a bit at that, but he schooled the pain from his face. 

Sherlock's eyes flicked from Mycroft to Jared, chin trembling. 

_I'm a terrible liar, what do I do?_

He forced himself to look back to Mycroft, struggling terribly to present a brave face. 

"I'm...I'm-m alr-r-right...I'm alr-right. I've b-been a d-drain on you and y-you n-n-need your sp-space. P-Progress, r-right? This- I'm- it's..." he looked back to Jared, repeating his words, "i-it's progress." 

Mycroft walked over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He held him to his chest in a tight embrace, and was wordless for a moment before collecting his thoughts. 

"I love you. If this is what you think is best, I'll allow it. But please don't shut yourself away from me. If you need time away, I'll understand, but please, don't do this to hurt yourself, or because you think you're hurting me."

Sherlock absolutely did _not_ need time away. He bit at his lips, torn horribly between doing what he thought best for Mycroft, and begging his brother to tell him he loved him enough to endure the burden that he was. 

"S-Surely y-y-you will h-have s-some...some r-relief l-like this," he whispered neutrally, though his voice cracked in his effort not to cry. 

"None," Mycroft gasped and held the back of Sherlock's head to keep him tucked into his shoulder. "I'm sorry you thought that. I love you. Please, let me help you. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Sherlock kept his face tucked against Mycroft and breathed as steady as he could. 

"N-None," he asked in distress, "I- y-you're s-so tired. I- I've b-been w-wearing you down. H-Having your own b-bed back...y-your schedule and..." he could not help the fall of tears, or the way his voice pulled down. He had no other way to protect his brother, this was all he could do. 

"I- I c-can e-earn visits and...a-and it w-will be b-better f-for everyone. You'll s-see." 

Mycroft continued to shake his head, but couldn't tell Sherlock not to do something he'd come up with on his own. "If...Let's try it for a week, okay? If it doesn't work, we stop. Okay? I don't like this. I want to stay with you."

A week. Surely he could learn to pull this off after a week. 

"Ok-kay," he agreed, letting go of his brother and leaning back. He looked to Jared for his approval, wringing his hands. He'd be alone at night. Jared was not on with him all the time. He'd not been well and truly alone for a long time. It would be...interesting. 

"I- I e-earned John's v-video and-" he swallowed, looking down at his hands. He hadn't accomplished anything worth noting. 

"I'll...I'll m-m-make you p-proud of m-me again...I w-will." 

"You never have to earn John's video," Mycroft responded immediately. "That is free. Absolutely free. We'll make other things for you to work for. But that is free."

Sherlock could not help reaching out and gathering his brother to him, clutching at Mycroft. "I'm s-sorry I d-didn't do as w-well as J-John...I hate that I'm d-disappointing. I'll do b-better," he whispered in tears, loathing himself.

"And I'm sorry I haven't done as well as Greg," Mycroft countered. "But you've improving now. That's all that matters."

Sherlock flinched and drew back away from Mycroft, utterly devastated. He kept his eyes down, refusing to look at his brother, drawing his hands in close.

"Y-You...you m-must be tired," he choked out as all the air seemed to drain from the room.

"No, no, I'm not tired. I'm sorry. Let me stay. Please? Please let me stay?" Mycroft could feel himself losing hold of the situation, and clung tighter to Sherlock to compensate.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around himself and began to rock in an effort to soothe himself. 

_You are a disappointment. It's only okay now that you've moved. You are a complete failure. He's been disappointed with you._

"You d-don't have to k-keep lying to m-me," he barely managed to say, growing incredibly faint.

"I'm not lying," Mycroft whispered and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not lying. I'm not. I'm proud of you for what you've done. I am. I swear. I don't know how to prove it to you. I'm sorry-" Mycroft shook his head. _Sorry I'm not Greg, or John, or anyone else who could have done this better._

Sherlock kept his eyes to the bed, feeling very much as he had when he was a young boy, scolded and failed. "I'll m-make it r-r-right," he whispered to his lap, actively fighting sicking up or dropping clean out. 

"I'm...y-you n-n-need me t-to...m-m-mak-ke progress," he breathed, swaying slightly in his acute stress. He glanced up to Jared for confirmation, watching his aid with tears free-flowing down his cheeks. 

"No, no I don't. I don't need that. I just want you to be happy. I do believe you'd be happier if you could eat nice things and drink, maybe find something to entertain you, but I don't want you to pull away from me." Mycroft adhered himself to Sherlock and prayed he was doing the right thing. 

His brother's sudden grip helped to steady him, allowing him to fill his lungs again. He looked up at Mycroft and then back down, tucking his head under his brother's chin and closing his eyes. He was shaking terribly, nausea and a cold sweat making him feel horrible. He'd been fishing for reassurance, and when his brother hadn't countered his apology he'd nearly gone unconscious with fear. 

"I- I'm t-t-taxing y-you," he whispered with a heartbroken whine to his voice, tugging sloppy at Mycroft's sleeve as his hearing distorted. 

"Nothing I can't handle," Mycroft responded gently. "Really, 'Lock, you're so upset about taxing me and scaring John, that you aren't seeing how much we want to help you."

Sherlock was struggling to keep breathing, nearly boneless now in his brother's arms, listening to Mycroft as though they were very far away from one another. 

"I- h-he al...already....r-rem-m-members s-s-o much p-pain when he....he l-looks at me. H-How c-can I...l-let myself a-add more?" he breathed, swallowing reflexively to keep from being sick. 

"I've h-hurt you s-s-so much...so m-much...I..." he took in a weak, shallow breath as his voice grew fainter still, leaving him conscious but just barely as he stopped talking. 

"You are getting so much better each time," Mycroft insisted. "You got him laughing last time. He wants to come see you more and more."

Sherlock kept quiet for a few minutes, just leaning heavy against his brother and breathing to keep conscious. 

"It's not enough," he breathed as his limbs went cold on him, "it's n-not enough. I'm n-not enough. I c-c-can't p-pretend w-well enough anymore." He swallowed hard and looked over to Jared. 

"I'm d-d-draining y-you and- and I d-don't d-d-deserve y-your c-company." 

"You don't have to pretend to be alright! Not at all! You don't need to worry about me. I'm your big brother. I can handle myself, remember? Everything is alright. You're okay. Nothing is going to happen that I can not handle." God, he hoped that was true.

Sherlock blindly reached up and held on to Mycroft's shirt-front.He knew he should let Mycroft go, lay down alone, have a short rest and then get back to work. 

It had felt like taking his skin off to gently push John back into Greg's arms, he genuinely did not know if he had the strength to do the same with Mycroft. 

"A w-w-week...I...I...c-can...b-be...." his vision was fading out on him as he viciously pushed himself through the seemingly solid wall of fear, "...b-better....'n-a..." his hand fell away from Mycroft's chest, though he pathetically tried to raise it back to grab him again, managing only to tap Mycroft's chest, "...'n-ah w-week." 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and held it to his chest. "If this is what you want, we'll try it. If not, then let's just go back to normal. You can come back and sleep in my room. And...If you need me at any time, you can call." He made absolutely no move to get up.

Sherlock did not want this at all, in the slightest. 

"I...h-have t-to," he whispered, keeping still as he could not at all find the strength to pull away. In a moment of overwhelming fear, Sherlock slipped completely under, going lax and heavy, all dead weight, in Mycroft's arms. 

Mycroft stayed with Sherlock for quite some time after. He completely ignored Jared's attempts at explaining, or suggestions, or worried remarks.

He stayed, rocking Sherlock, until he remembered he needed to do work.

Miller came forward after a few moments, helping to ease Sherlock to the bed. He put both his hands on Mycroft's shoulders, leveling a look at him. "You need to rest. As your resident physician, I highly recommend thinning out your work schedule or just take a few days off." He glanced over to Sherlock before looking back to Mycroft. "You are under incredible stress."

Mycroft held Miller's gaze for a few moments with his usual stoic demeanor before his eyes began to water. His bottom lip quivered and he abruptly dropped his head. 

"Am I making him worse?" Mycroft sounded much smaller than he ever had, much more vulnerable, and much more destroyed.

Miller looked over to Jared for a moment before crouching lower, speaking softly to Mycroft. "Absolutely not. No. You are the only person keeping his head above water. You are not making him worse."

Mycroft curled in on himself in disgust. "He thinks he's hurting me. I need to look less tired. I need to eat more and sleep more but I can't!"

Miller sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on Mycroft's back. "You've a family, yes? Perhaps it's time to call in some help, Mycroft. You are stretched too thin. Perhaps your parents can help a bit?"

"My parents?" Mycroft laughed bitterly. "No. Absolutely not. If I told mother what's happened...God, no. They still think John and Sherlock are living together! Mother thinks they're a couple, which I never confirmed, but she wouldn't let go of it. If they knew....god. No."

Miller nodded his understanding, desperate to find a solution. Mycroft needed help, terribly. "Take five days. Just five days. Let me care for you. You'll be all the better for it. Five days is all I ask. Stay in bed and let me help you. Jared can help Sherlock, or we can bring Sherlock up with you if you insist. Let me help you, please. I can make a difference in your current quality of life." 

Mycroft shook his head and stood shakily to his feet. "I don't need help! Sherlock does!" His vision blurred and spotted and he sat heavily back down. "Just a bit dehydrated. Forgot to have anything to drink this morning."

Miller shook his head, keeping a hand on Mycroft. "You're either going to let me help you now, or this is going to get so severe that you go down hard. What will he do if you're in hospital? Come now, a few sick days is all I'm asking you to do. Why don't you just lie down here? He feels unworthy, show him otherwise. Stay, let me help you." 

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his hands over them to clear the spots. "Alright," he finally whispered. "Okay. I'll go. I'll take five days off. I'm sorry I'm being difficult."

Miller was swift as he texted the staff. "I'm going to set you up in your room, I think you'll sleep much better alone. Sherlock doesn't stay asleep for long periods of time, and I would really just like for you to sleep as much as possible on your time off." 

He looked to Jared and spoke quietly, "Can you arrange aids to sit with Sherlock at night? He'll need someone keeping an eye." 

Mycroft shook his head sadly. "If he has a nightmare, wake me up. You have to. Alright?" Mycroft got slowly to his feet and went for the exit. "I also need something for migraines."

Miller walked with Mycroft, keeping close in the fear that he would fall. "Jared will be with Sherlock, and we will have a schedule for people to watch him around the clock. He'll be alright, let's get you sorted so that you can help him again in a few days."

Mycroft felt tired and depressed. He sulked up to his room and sat down on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap, eyes down, and voice silent. Sherlock's choice was his fault.

Sending John away, Mycroft would have understood, as John was clearly taxed by Sherlock's presence. But him? "Do I really look that bad?" Mycroft raised sad, red rimmed eyes to Miller.

Miller was setting up supplies to care for Mycroft. "You probably look much better than you actually feel, and that's honestly not saying a lot I'm afraid. Change into night clothes and let me get a line going on you." 

He looked up at Mycroft as he pulled out a bag of fluids for him. "Sherlock is doing the only thing he knows how to do to care for you, let that mean what it means." 

Mycroft changed into his night clothes and got back into bed. "Have I done acceptable? All things considering? After a year, have I held up well enough?"

Miller swiftly threaded a line into the back of Mycroft's hand, speaking as he secured it. 

"Mycroft, you've done better than any man I could ever imagine under this sort of stress. You've kept him alive and you kept him safe. You saved him from a complete madman. Mycroft if there were medals for this, you'd have them all. He'd never have survived without you. Not a chance. I know it seems that he's deteriorated," he said as he began to push a bit of morphine for Mycroft's migraine, "but remember how he was in hospital without you there? That would never have improved. You've done more than acceptable. Let yourself heal. How is your head?" 

Mycroft sighed and settled down into the euphoric release of the pain that had pounded at him all day. "Better," He said as the pressure faded. "But if you take into account how well Greg had done in a year, it makes what I've done laughable. John was up and walking at this stage. He wasn't eating or drinking anything...But he was at least holding conversations."

Miller hung a second bag to replace Mycroft's electrolytes, dimming the lights in the room to something soft and tolerable. 

"Sherlock's body is not capable of holding his weight. He could not be up and walking. John's trauma and Sherlock's are similar, but very, very different. If Greg had been here with Sherlock instead of you, I don't for a second believe that Sherlock would have had a chance. You are the only man...the only person at all..that Sherlock consistently connects to. He has long periods of being completely lucid. John- it's a very different situation, and I'll remind you that Greg had broken down several times at this point. All that without holding down outside work. Surely you must know you are the best person for him, Mycroft." 

Mycroft stared up at the ceiling and tears slowly slipped down the sides of his face. "I'd like to be alone now, if that's alright." He wasn't what was best for Sherlock. Clearly, Greg was better at this. He'd have to get more tips. He'd have to learn.

Miller ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I'd like to give you a sedative if that's acceptable to you. You're so exhausted I'm concerned you will have a difficult time falling asleep." 

Mycroft, soaking in grief, thought that a sedative would be very nice indeed. He wondered how much morphine he would need to have to get rid of his grief, or the buzzing, whirring sounds in his mind. He used to have clear walls for those. He had a short period of time when the constant pounding of information made it difficult to think straight. It was the way he imagined Sherlock might be struggling when he saw how bored the man got. But he had _walls_ , and _filters_ , and they were supposed to keep him from going insane. 

Mycroft looked at the ceiling and was bombarded with information. "I....sedative...yes."

Miller was glad that Mycroft allowed him to administer the sedative, pushing it slowly. "I'll contact Greg for you, keep John from coming today. You just rest, I'll make sure your brother is safe." 

Mycroft slowly closed his eyes as he felt his mind begin to slip. "If he starts to panic just sedate him. Don't let him hurt himself. Please."

Miller patted Mycroft's shoulder gently, staying with him until he was asleep. He called in a member of the staff to sit with Mycroft, keeping an eye on him as he slept. 

To Greg, he sent a text. 

_Sherlock has moved and isolated himself. He's refusing Mycroft or John, I'm afraid._

John woke up a few inches away from Greg on the bed, which happened occasionally now that he slept through the night more, and scooted back over to rest against Greg. 

He opened his eyes and watched Greg's face. He'd have to go see Sherlock today. That would be...Taxing.

Greg read the text several times and looked over at John. He drew in a slow breath and decided to just tackle this head-on, it wasn't as though John hadn't done the same before. 

"Sherlock is refusing to see anyone. He's moved out of Mycroft's room and is isolating. Seems we are staying home." 

John jumped and sat straight up. "What? What's- Is is Jared? Did Jared do something? What happened? I need to talk to him!"

Greg shrugged, texting Miller back. 

_What happened?_

He turned to John and spoke softly to him. "He's still in Mycroft's home, he's just moved out of Mycroft's room." 

The text from Miller was a bit more informative. 

_Sherlock's convinced he's hurting everyone. He's denying himself comfort until he 'deserves it,' whatever that means. Mycroft is down with a migraine, got him to take five days off to sleep and heal. Jared is with Sherlock, and we have night staff to sit with him as well._

Greg handed John the phone, trying to show him more freedom and independence, sheltering him less from the realities of dealing with the Holmes brothers. 

John handed Greg the phone back and closed his eyes. "I want to go to him. Five days? He said Mycroft is being refused. I could go to Sherlock and help."

Greg looked at John and then the phone. "He's refusing to see anyone. What if we get there and he won't see you? He's struggling, obviously, and without his brother. He's going to be very, very difficult, John." 

"Yeah, like how I was difficult when I first got back." John shook his head. "I'm going. I...How about I call him? I'll call him and just ask if I can come."

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face and looked to John. "But John...I wasn't effected as it...I was fresh, you are still healing." He drew in a deep breath and reminded himself that John had pointed out Sherlock was paying for them to be together. 

"Yes, we can call. Let me tell Miller so he can get to Sherlock." 

"Why does everything have to be so hard?" John scowled and his storm-blue eyes darkened. "I got out. Sherlock got me out. This shouldn't be a problem anymore. I've healed physically. I should have recovered quicker than this."

Greg set the phone down, looking to John. "Why are you attacking yourself right now, John? You've made incredible progress. I don't know why you are being so harsh with yourself? I'm sorry this is difficult, I really am, but this isn't...if he wants to shut himself off, that's not your fault now is it?"

"I'm not attacking myself," John snapped, though he had no idea where his anger came from. "Let's just call. I'm fine. I know you won't ever think it is my fault. I know. Let's just call. I'll try and fix it."

Miller answered the line when Greg called several minutes later. He was standing outside Sherlock's door, speaking softly. "He's still sleeping. I'll wake him now, but I've my doubts about this without Paul." 

Greg had taken the time between John's irritate speech and making the call to give John breakfast and a bit of tea. He looked over at him before answering, "John's set on it." 

He listened as the line rustled and there were soft voices in the background, Sherlock's low and gravely. He handed John the phone, sitting by his side and waiting. 

John softened his voice to velvet when he heard Sherlock. "Hey, Sherlock. It's me. It's John. Do you have time to talk today?"

Sherlock was still very heavy with sleep, holding the phone to his ear with his eyes closed. "I m-made...p-prog-gress today," he slurred, scrubbing a hand over his face and pulling in a deep breath. 

"I'm n-not s-supposed to b-be talking to y-you."

John's blood boiled and he wondered who had told Sherlock he couldn't talk. "Well, we can sneak it in anyway. Could you tell me about your progress? I've made some as well. We can both share."

Sherlock paused for a moment. If felt as though he'd been working all day, but what was there to report on? "I m-moved out of M-My's room," he said very quietly, realizing then that Mycroft had gone away. He looked over to where his brother had been, touching the cool sheets. 

"I'm g-going to st-stop being s-so...d-disappoint-ting," he whispered as his vision blurred, curling his hand back to his chest and holding it close in an effort to comfort himself. 

"Oh. Okay. Wow." John leaned back and stared on with a bemused expression. Was moving away something he was supposed to be working on? Was he supposed to be practicing sleeping in a different room from Greg? John looked to his love nervously before continuing. 

"I....Yeah, I haven't gotten there yet. That's very good of you. I'm proud. Yesterday I filled the kettle. Seems...Yeah, that seems like not a lot. But I don't like the sound it makes, and it sort of echoes, and I had to turn the water on...God, it sounds a bit pathetic, doesn't it?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, clutching the phone to his ear as Miller hooked up fluids, ensuring Sherlock kept hydrated. "Why...why would y-you be w-working on m-moving," he asked, noting how everyone had given him positive feedback on leaving Mycroft's room. Much as it was good to know he'd done the right thing, it was terrifying to know he needed to be in isolation. 

He cleared his throat, speaking a bit rougher. "The k-kettle is h-hard for you. It's...that's v-very good progress," he offered, looking to Jared and then looking swiftly away. 

John breathed a long, slow, sigh, through which he portrayed just how tired he was. "Yeah, the kettle is hard. And I did it while Greg was in the shower, so that was nice. I worked hard. I can't cook yet. Hot metal. You know." John was glad he didn't have to elaborate, and Sherlock would understand entirely.

Sherlock nodded, but pressed on, still worried over John's earlier comments. 

"I d-d--don't ever anticipate b-being able to c-cook. I don't even w-want to think about-" he cleared his throat, upset over the imagery. 

"Why would y-you be m-m-oving f-from G-Greg? Is there a pr-roblem? Are y-you two alr-right?" 

John's gaze went to Greg and immediately softened. "No, we're fine," he responded and kept the cheer out of his voice to avoid upsetting Sherlock. "I just didn't think we were supposed to be moving on like that. Are you alright? Do you need help?"

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes. "We? J-John...I'm...y-you see wh-what I'm d-doing to m-my brother. G-Greg loves y-you and he's b-better when y-you are with him. The..." he did his absolute best to keep his voice steady, "the opposite is t-true of m-my affect-t on M-My." 

John had said he'd come today. He'd offered to come sit and read, said all the progress Sherlock had to manage was to speak to him. His voice dropped to heavy defeat as he carried on. 

"I t-tried to d-d-dress today. I...I f-failed. I tr-ried to r-read today. A-Also f-failed. I've st-till g-got to e-eat...and wh-whatever else J-Jared w-wants me to w-w-work on. I don't d-deserve y-your help t-today." 

"No, Sherlock, no. It's not about trying and failing. It's that you tried. I tried to drink water for the first half a year and failed. But I got better. Can I come see you today?" John put a bit of eagerness in his voice. "Please?"

Sherlock looked to Jared and then over to Miller, down to his hand where the fluids were running in, and back to the spot where he'd been staring. 

"B-But...I've h-heard them...I...I know I've n-n-not done g-good enough," he said in very hushed, nearly urgent tones. 

"Bullshit," John whispered back. "You've made progress in principle by trying. Next time you try, you'll be better than you were when you started this time. That's how it works. I would like to come over."

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John. "I- I'm s-supposed t-to g-get better b-before...I earned y-your v-video...b-but I've d-d-one n-nothing to d-deserve a v-visit. I'm s-supposed t-to be w-walking and...r-reading and...d-dr-dressing myself. I c-can't even m-move w-without..." he scrubbed a hand over his face, hating himself. 

"I'm...I w-w-want to st-stop hurting e-everyone." 

"How about I come over and we have something to eat together? That would help your progress, and we'd get to see each other. How does that sound?"

Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. "I c-can't, John," he whispered through crushing fear, loathing telling John no, "I...I h-have to...I c-can't...I'm n-not..." he clipped out a sound of distress and went quiet, waiting for the downfall. 

John tried not to sound disappointed. "Okay...That's...That's okay. I'll...I'll come over tomorrow, then, alright?"

Panic swelled hard in Sherlock's chest and he had to put the phone down abruptly, bloodying his raw fingertips as he bit at them, breathing swift and fast. 

_This is why you can't see him_ , his mind whispered aggressively at him, _you scare him. You make him sad when you're like this._

He picked the phone back up a moment later, whispering a brittle, "Goodbye, John," before handing the phone back to Miller. 

John flinched and shook his head. "No, no, Sherlock, please, just let me see you. ...Sherlock?" John swore and hung up the phone. He dropped his head into his hands and shouted his irritation and frustration at his palms. 

"I should text him. I'll record another video. Damn it! I need to do more!"

Greg ran the flat of his hand gently over John's back. "Hey," he said gently, "easy...easy. He's going to be okay. He has help. He just needs...I don't know what he needs, I don't know what's going on with him. I'm...we can do whatever you think will help."  
"Jesus....no! He needs help! Let me call him again!" John grabbed the phone and dialed it again. 

"There's something going on. It might be just in his mind, but it's there, and we need to help."

Miller was helping Sherlock to sit up when his mobile rang again. He noted the number and answered the call, hearing John on the other end of the line. "John, one moment," he said before trying to hand the phone to Sherlock. 

Sherlock dragged the back of his hand across his face and stared at the proffered phone, indecisive and wavering. Finally he reached out and took it, cringing, very quietly speaking into the line. "Hello?"

"Sherlock," John said with a louder voice, full of worry and love. He'd spoken his name that way only a few times before.

"Please, I'm worried about you. Please let me see you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowing roughly. "I'm n-not supposed to," he whispered, again going through the motions of hauling his legs off the bed so that his feet were on the floor.

"And I don't give a shit," John countered. "Who says you aren't supposed to? I always make better progress when Greg is there. Maybe you'll make better progress if I'm there. Please. Let me try."

Sherlock leaned forward, baking hard against himself. "I- ok-kay," he whispered, "okay. I w-want to...to s-see you I....I just d-don't want to...k-keep h-hurting everyone."

John was up out of bed and getting dressed in proper clothing. "That is all I needed. I'm on my way. It's going to be okay. I'll come help you." John kept the phone to his ear with his shoulder. 

"Is there anything you need me to bring?"

Sherlock shook his head and then remembered he was in the phone. "I...are y-you sure it w-won't hurt y-you to come?"

"Course not," John reassured as he hopped on one leg, trying to get his trousers on. "I'll be on my way in just....five minutes. I'm just getting dressed. It won't hurt me to come see you. I'll bring Gladstone too, yeah?"

Sherlock whispered an "okay" into the phone before handing it back to Miller.

They spent the next few minutes talking about Mycroft, much to Sherlock's sharp worry. Miller tried to assure him that Mycroft was going to be alright, but the idea of his brother upstarts, sick and alone, was acutely upsetting. He looked to Jared in wide-eyed shock.

"I...y-you were r-right..."

Jared shook his head. "No, no I wasn't. I never meant this. I was trying to be honest with you, but it got all twisted. I never meant for you to shut yourself away."

 

Sherlock looked back to Miller. "He's...but he'll be...he's..."  
Miller helped Sherlock get back into his wheelchair, stopping him from attempting to do so without help. 

"He's just going to sleep. That will do him so much good, just to spend a few days asleep. He's okay."  
Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, looking back to Jared. 

"I...I n-need to be...d-dressing myself and...c-carrying for myself without h-help."

John arrived just then, and didn't bother to knock. Gladstone entered the room first and circled it once, checking everyone with cheerful attentiveness, before looking back to John. John smiled at the dog, then to Sherlock. 

"Is it alright if he stays? He likes you."

Sherlock looked sharply up at John, openly shocked. "Y-you..He's your...He's y-your..." he looked down at the beautiful dog, then back to John. "I c-can't take h-him from y-you."

John looked at Gladstone and smiled. He felt infinitely safer with the dog around, but Sherlock wasn't alright at all. Sherlock needed him more. 

"You're getting a dog soon. When you do, I can bring Gladstone home. You won't have to worry about hurting him. He can stay until you get your own dog." 

Greg lingered at John's back nervously, notat all liking this idea. It might benefit Sherlock, but at a cost to John.

Sherlock looked down at Gladstone for a long time, absently wringing his hands together. "I'll...I'll m-make h-him sick. What if...if h-he runs away? N-No...J-John thank y-you but I c-can't."

"He likes you. He won't run away. Mycroft has a fence, right? Jared can walk him. I can walk him when I visit. It will be okay." John was aching to keep his dog, but wanted to help Sherlock even more. 

Sherlock stared at the dog, how he sat at John's side without command to, how fluidly the pair moved with one another. "I c-can't. J-John he's y-your dog. He k-keeps y-you safe and...he...y-you n-need him." He was becoming visibly flustered by the whole thing, the day already having taken a massive toll and it was only half over. "P-Please...I c-can't t-take your d-dog." 

Greg stepped fully into the room and cleared his throat. "How about we come back to that later? I know John hasn't had lunch, should we do that?"

John walked over and sat on the bed with his legs crossed. He patted near Sherlock and Gladstone dutifully jumped up next to him. "Do you want anything for lunch?"

_No._

He nodded, watching John sit on the bed in front of him. He traced a finger over the wheel of his chair and looked over to Miller. "C-Can...can I h-have something?" 

Miller picked up his meaning, nodding as he looked to Jared. "Could you please get something for this lot to eat," he asked quietly as he drew up Sherlock's medications. "How have you been feeling, John?" He decided to take the focus of Sherlock, who seemed to be growing more and more reluctant to ask for help with pain and anxiety as time went on.   
John shrugged. "I've been trying to exercise. It's really hard. My muscles lock up weird sometimes and my range of motion is limited, especially on my smaller joints. But I'm managing. I get very sore, but we handle it. Mentally, I am improving as well. I still break down, have night terrors, and struggle with things I directly associate with the trauma, but overall I am improving." 

John gave his report of his own health in the same cadence he would any other case file. 

Sherlock watched John as he relayed the information, his heart swelling with pride as John so calmly and clinically explained himself. Those were encouraging improvements. He reached out as John was speaking, taking John's hand very tentatively and turning it over in his own. He leaned in, looking at the little scars along John's fingers, bending each joint very slowly and gently, relaxed more now that he had pain medication and anxiety meds flowing through his veins. 

John turned gentle, loving eyes to Sherlock and took his other hand. "Sherlock, you've made so much progress as well since I last saw you. I want you to know that I am very proud."

Sherlock looked over at the way John took his hand, watching John's fingers on his own, before looking up at him. He'd seen John yesterday, but he'd not made any progress that he could see. 

"I- I'm n-not...g-going to burden...I've- I'll be a-able to t-take c-care of m-myself," he said very quietly, honestly believing that was his only option in life. He'd taken his brother down to sickness, and run everyone else off. He wasn't allowed to die, and so he'd simply have to figure out how to do this on his own. 

"Th-Then no one w-will h-h-have to w-worry." 

John leaned over and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "That is very brave of you. Tell me, Sherlock, if you end up being independent, can we still hang out as friends?"

Sherlock looked down, nodding quietly. "Y-Yes..that w-would be v-very k-kind of you," he said in nearly a whisper. 

"Good. So let's keep at that, alright? I'll keep visiting. Not as your caretaker. It won't be a burden. We'll just hang out as friends." John smiled amiably. "That's a good solution, right?"

Sherlock looked up at John and was quiet for several minutes, long enough to make Greg shift uncomfortably. 

"You don't n-need me as a f-friend," his voice was very quiet, much resigned. "I- I'm t-terrible company. I've n-nothing to offer y-you any longer, J-John. You've a-asked me to k-keep alive...and s-s-so I am. You are n-not...you d-don't h-have to k-keep coming here."

John couldn't help a dramatic eye roll. "I want to be here! I really do! There is a reason I keep coming."

Sherlock kept his eyes down, wrestling with panic. It was only the first day, just the _first day_ , and already he was terrified of it. He spoke to his lap as though they'd not just had an exchange. 

"D-Disabled p-p-people...they...th-they c-can live w-well enough, yes? Y-You saw...saw patients who-" what was the word to use here? "w-were l-limited. They...I- I-" _am fucking terrified_ , "I'll...there...there are h-homes and-" he sank one hand into the material over his knee, squeezing tight as his palms sweat, intensely insecure about his unfolding future. 

John took Sherlock's hands in his and tried for his attention. "Hey. Hey. It's okay. I won't let you go to a home. I would much rather you live with me. It would make me sad for you to be in a home."

Sherlock let John take his hands, though he kept staring at his lap. No homes then, but surely he could live on his own. Maybe things could be done to Baker Street that would enable him to care for himself. He wouldn't need to leave often, where would he go? He'd have his view of the street, and his memories, and that could be a...a nice way for him to live out his days. 

"I m-made my b-brother s-sick," he whispered to his lap, "I'll j-just make y-you sick as well."

John refused to be depressed by Sherlock's attitude. "Well then it's a good thing I'm a doctor. I won't get sick like Mycroft. Besides, you're improving! How about this? We'll leave it open. We don't need to worry about plans for right now. Just focus on healing."

Sherlock nodded and kept his eyes downcast, already wanting to just lie back down and sleep. He'd done more in four days than in the last six months, and his body was fatigued. There was still eating to see to, and then of course the reality of what would naturally come after that, without Mycroft there to help him recover. 

He had no idea what to say, and so simply sat quietly and waited. 

The food was brought in shortly, and even though John had already eaten, he looked forward to it. Being able to eat without fear had drastically improved his quality of life. 

"Are you having some toast and eggs, or just your shake today?" John wanted Sherlock to know that either was an option, and either was fine.

Sherlock looked up, reaching out and taking the solid food. He ate without focus, the food itself not what he was afraid of. 

He looked to John as he ate, the food elevating his blood sugar and helping him to think with a bit more clarity.

"It's...I'm e-ever amazed that...y-you can stand to b-be near me, to l-listen to me speak or..." he cleared his throat before carrying on, "just that...all on i-it's own...I've often w-wondered h-how you do it. If you l-looked as Moran...I am sorry, J-John, for a-always coming to s-see you at the s-start. I- h-had the b-best intentions, misguided as th-they were."

"When I first got out, you looked like Moran to me." John gave a shallow nod. He tried not to think about that time. In fact, he couldn't remember most of it. The time of his actual rescue was blurred. 

"But I never wanted you dead. I always...I hated myself for it, but I could never hurt you, even then. I couldn't kill you. I see why now, but at the time it was very confusing."

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "But now I'm over it, and I see the facade for what it is."

Sherlock was very nearly in tears. "I feel s-so guilty," he confessed, "as though I'd...done all of it..." he looked back down to his lap, "I...do I m-make you r-remember?"

John took a deep breath. Bringing Sherlock into his home would be a constant reminder of what had happened. He would never escape it. But perhaps he could learn to live with it. 

"Don't I remind you of your torment? You had to watch videos of me. Do I not make you remember as well?"

Sherlock's expression crumpled, the air freezing in his lungs. John reminded him of a great many things, but he had not been abused by John's likeness.

If he recalled so sharply the way John looked when he was being for mercy, then John recalled how vicious Sherlock looked denying it.

"Go," he breathed before he realized he was speaking, "g-go home a-and f-forget. Don't c-come back." He looked up at John, sheet-white and horrified, "Go h-home."

John's face drained of color and his heart gave a violent, painful twinge in his chest. He was silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air before he confirmed that he'd actually and truly been sent home. 

"I...I don't want to," he whimpered and his strong demeanor instantly crumpled. "Don't want to," he repeated like a child.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, wanting to hide from John. 

"I c-can't do this to y-you! You don't n-need m-m-me, and oh g-god what y-you m-must see when...that's why y-you screamed at m-me- that's-" it made sense to him then, why John had always been so angry, why John had turned so regularly on him. 

"Oh god. I- that's wh-why I'm y-your hard days...how did I n-not s-see...I- you h-have to go. You have to go! F-Forget I e-exist, John! Greg- f-for god's s-sake why would y-you bring him h-here!" he pulled at his hair, thinking of all the times John had come to him when he was still in Mycroft's compound, "oh m-my god I _did_ t-torture y-you, I did...j-just by-" 

He turned a sickly green, head in his hands and fingers tearing at his hair. "I c-can't breathe," he gasped as an ocean of panic crashed over him. All this time...all this time he'd been hurting John. 

John wrapped Sherlock up in his arms and moved the trays of food off the bed. 

"Hey. Hey. Breathe. Breathe with me. It'll be alright. I've got you." 

He rubbed Sherlock's back and breathed slowly to give example. "I got over that. I moved on! You used to scare me, but I've moved on! I...I worked so hard! I'm here with you now. It'll be alright. Please stop doing this."

John looked back to Greg. He had no idea how to derail this panic.

Sherlock did not pull away from John, though he felt utterly disgusting for allowing himself to lean into him as he was. He struggled to breathe as John was instructing. 

Greg came to John's side, putting a hand on his shoulder and starting to rub his back. He had been shocked to hear Sherlock try and send John away, in a bit of a daze himself. 

Sherlock's voice was strained and muffled against John's shoulder, "I r-remind you...I am a- I'm- you s-see- I sound- oh god- y-you have t-to go! I c-can't do this to y-you- I- I thought- I thought-" he could not explain, breaking down into clipped, panic sobbing. 

" _Oh_ ," John whispered, and dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Jesus...I understand. Sherlock, you were tortured into thinking this was your fault, weren't you? That was what they were trying to get you to believe. They didn't get you to believe it...but you feel it, don't you? You feel guilty to be around me. You don't trigger me. I trigger you."

Sherlock's heart was thundering in his ears. He swallowed reflexively again and again, trying to keep himself from sicking up. 

"I h-hurt e-e-everyo-one," he whispered, "my b-brother...y-you...G-Greg by pr-roxy...I- I hurt y-you when I- I couldn't j-just l-l-leave you in h-hospital! I couldn't j-just leave! B-But I should h-have done! I should have done a-and I h-hurt-t you s-so terribly and- and- I-" he was taking in clipped, desperate little breaths, his mouth running away from him. 

"I thought- when I c-came back I thought- m-maybe if I'd- when I- if y-you could s-see that I w-was like y-you- but that's n-not what h-h-happened and I c-couldn't a-accept-" 

His stomach flexed hard as the eggs tried to come up, "and I st-still m-m-mean p-pain for you. I'll always m-m-mean pain. I- I- c-can't keep- I- I'm so sorry, John oh g-god-d I'm s-sorry." 

John could see this for what it was now. "You're irrationally guilty. You're thinking you hurt us more than you do." John tried to think of all the things Greg did to comfort him. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and down his face, stayed physically close to him and monitored his own breathing to keep calm. 

"Could you consider that maybe I just want to be here?"

Sherlock shook his head as he tried to catch his wild breathing back, "N-No! You d-don't miss m-me. You don't n-need me. I'm- I'm n-not- I'm _n-nothing_ n-now and-" he swallowed again as stars cracked along his vision. 

"I'm your h-hard days. I'm w-work. I'm- I've h-his skin on and his v-voice and I-" he cried out against John's shoulder, wanting nothing more than to peal out of his own skin, "all I am is _this_!" he shouted in bitter loathing for himself, "h-how could you w-want to be here?!"

John shook his head and nuzzled under Sherlock's chin. "No. No. Stop it. Please. I want to be here. I want to! I'm here of my own free will, with nobody persuading me! I just want to be here." 

John was beginning to cry, and he desperately blinked away the tears. "I'm sorry if I can't convince you of that. I'm not good like Greg. I'm not good at comforting people. But I'm trying. I want to be here. I want to help. Please, tell me how to help you."

Sherlock pushed John away from him just enough to see his face. "T-Tell me _why_. Why are y-you here? Why? T-Tell m-m-me what you c-come here f-for? Do y-you miss m-me? Do you think about m-me and w-want my company?" 

"When I think about you, my heart aches. I want to see you smile. I want you to laugh. I want to see you happy. I want to be around you and try to make you happy. I come here because I miss my best mate."

Sherlock stared at John for several heartbeats, tears streaming down his colorless cheeks. "Y-You wouldn't l-lie to me...John...n-not you. I c-can trust you...yes? I- it f-feels like y-you are here j-just to prove you're n-not what h-h-he said you'd be."

John's eyes slipped from Sherlock's in shame. "That's what it was at first. I was guilty and scared and trying to rebel. But...You've been asleep, but I've been awake this past half a year. I've grown. I needed to. You already liked me. You didn't need to work on remembering. I did. And I did. And I want to be here now."

Sherlock's heart dropped when John's eyes slid away from him. He listened to John speak on a pitching ride of highs and lows in a blindingly short amount of time. "I...y-you've left m-me very st-stressed several times in th-the last f-few days. I have you in t-tears every time you come. I-" he drew back from John, looking to Greg to try and read him as well. 

"You're n-not...not g-going to h-help me heal...you s-said you- you j-just w-want a v-visit. I...I thought y-you all w-wanted m-m-me dead and so I-" he dropped his eyes in shame, "E-everyone is so d-disappoint-ted w-with me. Everyone. I- w-would it not b-be easier f-for you if I...I l-left y-you alone until I've d-done something w-w-worth your t-time?" 

"Stop! No! I only said I just wanted a visit because I thought you would accept it! You told me I couldn't come today. You've sent me away twice. I am _trying_ to be your friend, and I know that won't be easy, but please, stop trying to convince me to leave. Every time we see each other, we spend eighty percent of the time arguing about whether or not I should be here. We've had this argument dozens of times before. I. Am. Staying. I am going to visit you as much as you will allow. Can you accept this?"

John held Sherlock's shoulders and held his eyes.

"I- I'd r-rather d-d-die than g-give you a m-moment's more d-distress," Sherlock breathed, watching John's face, " _swear_ to m-me that I d-d-don't c-cause you p-pain." 

"You don't cause me pain," John insisted. "I promise you. Please." How could he show Sherlock this? How could he explain? Prove himself?

Sherlock nodded then, having no choice other than blind trust or to send John away. He looked over to Jared then, seeking his approval. "H-He wants t-to stay," he said quietly, nearly begging. 

Jared smiled at him. "Good, good. I'm happy for you."

John lovingly brushed his lips over Sherlock's cheek and sighed quietly. "I can stay the night again with you, if you need it. This is your first night without Mycroft. It will be easier if I'm here."

Sherlock's brow knit, looking at John. "M-Mycroft l-leaves me all th-the time," he whispered. "There a-are people p-paid to d-deal with m-me." He glanced over at Jared and then away. "There's a...a schedule o-of p-people...I'm..." he cleared his throat and looked down, "q-quite accustomed to b-being p-p-passed about."

John instinctively wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's arms. "That's sick," he growled. "I won't do that. Can I stay tonight? Just because it's your first night?"

Sherlock nodded as tears slid down his face, looking at his lap. "Th-There w-was no...n-no one else. M-My has d-done his b-best. I- p-people don't l-like me, no one w-wants to b-be here. It's m-my fault, I- I'm..." he shook his head, taking in a few slow breaths, "I've e-earned alone...I d-did it to m-myself." 

John was pained by Sherlock's last statement. "I'm sorry you feel like you deserve to be alone. No man is an island unto himself. I am here. Despite everything that was done to me. You saw it. You _know_ what they did to me." 

John found himself battling tears again, and he wiped them from his eyes. "But I'm here now, aren't I? I am here. After all that. Tell me, does that not prove my loyalty to you?"

John's words felt like physical blows. Sherlock cringed, falling right back into that loop. It sounded to him that John was saying 'despite what _you've_ done to me.' He watched John's eyes water and held his breath, biting his lip and looking to Greg to see if he was angry or not. Greg's full focus was on John, though. 

"I- I know I d-don't deserve y-your loyalty," he said very quietly, not sure where John was going with this, looking down at his lap and wringing his hands together. "I- I know wh-what h-he did t-t-to you...He- w-we share m-many s-scars. M-Mine deserved, y-yours not." 

"No. Don't you start thinking like that." 

John grabbed Sherlock's face in his hands and tipped his forehead to touch Sherlock's. 

"Listen to me. I am loyal to you. I have been loyal to you from the very first day I met you. I was always your doctor, always your soldier. You do not deserve a single scar they gave you. If you deserved yours, then that means the men are just, and they give justice. That, in turn, means that I deserve it as well. See that logic? You didn't deserve it because I didn't."

Sherlock leaned against John and closed his eyes, wishing the 'was' had not always been true. Miller was his doctor now, and he had no soldier. 

But John wanted to stay, and John was offering him kindness. How was he to deny that? He tentatively reached up and took hold of John's shirt, leaning into him. He opened his mouth to tell John he loved him, swiftly closing it again. John didn't need to hear that, and Sherlock had no right to say it any longer. 

"Th-They w-were not j-just," Sherlock whispered, shaking his head, "n-not in the s-slightest."

"Then why do you insist you deserve it? If they were not just men, then their actions were not just. You did not deserve what happened to you." John was going to insist on that until Sherlock got it.

"B-Because y-you-" he dragged in a shuddering breath, "you s-suffered so t-terribly for knowing m-me. I-" it was so complex. 

He'd deserved to hurt to help right the balance, he'd deserved to hurt because he'd failed John, he'd deserved to hurt because Mycroft had warned him of making friends and caring and he'd not listened. There were so many reasons he'd deserved what had happened to him. 

"I h-had no other w-way to p-pay for wh-what happened..I- I h-had to sh-show you I-" he could not carry on like that, shuddering and going quiet again. 

"Shh...Shh..." John kissed his forehead again and continued to gently touch his face as Greg did when he was feeling as if he deserved his punishment. "I refuse to believe that you deserved this. You are a wonderful man. I don't believe you deserved it."

Sherlock stopped talking then, focusing on his breathing. He was in no way 'wonderful,' but if John thought so, he wasn't going to argue differently. 

John settled down. It was another ten hours before the time he usually went to sleep, but Sherlock did little else. "We should listen to music."

Sherlock drew in a slow, deep breath and nodded. "I- y-yes we can do that," he said roughly, trying to keep calm. They could listen to music, that wouldn't hurt. 

Jared got out the player they'd been using and set it to some soft violin that sounded vaguely like something Sherlock used to play, though it was clear Sherlock had taken liberties. 

"Do you remember that human skull you had on the mantle?"

Sherlock nodded, listening to the music and remembering the feel of violin strings under his fingers. "Of c-course," he whispered, surprised to hear John speak of it. 

"Did you really take that thing around places and talk to it?" John could imagine it, very clearly, down to the stupefied look on Anderson's face, but it seemed a bit strange. 

"You said you wanted to bring me because you thought better when talking out loud and the skull attracted attention." 

Sherlock was quiet as he considered his time walking around the yard chatting up the bones.

"Anderson accused m-me of i-insanity. I quite e-enjoyed confirming his d-diagnosis."

John laughed at the sight of it. "That must have been hilarious to see. I never really liked him. He went a bit mad himself after you jumped."

Sherlock scrubbed the back of his neck. "Yes....h-he...the effects of g-guilt are...interesting," he answered diplomatically.

John hummed and leaned back. "Yeah, he went absolutely bonkers. Kept pitching me ideas about how you were alive." 

It had been Hell. Every day, Anderson would come back, giving new ideas on how Sherlock was alive. John had wanted nothing but what he was proposing, but he had no hope, and was trying to move on. 

"Didn't like that much, but I'm glad he was right."

Sherlock looked down, wringing his hands. There was so much for John to be angry about, so many wrongs Sherlock had committed for the right reasons.

They’d been over that incident again and again. Was he to carry on apologizing? Or was he neglecting to say what John need to hear?  
"I- I w-was wrong to h-have left you in the d-dark," he tried, voice quiet and full of regret, "I a-allowed f-fear for your safety to...think f-for me. I am s-sorry."

John took Sherlock's hand casually and gave it a squeeze. "No, don't apologize. I didn't mean to start that up again. I'm sorry. I don't blame you. I know you were trying to protect me. It's alright."

Sherlock exhaled in quiet relief, glad they were dropping the subject. It all seemed too much, just far too much, and stacking his past transgressions on it just made the idea of healing even more impossible to him.

Greg suddenly moved over to the bed, sitting down next to John and wrapping an arm around John's shoulder. He reached forward and set his other hand on Sherlock's knee, intent to calm him. Sherlock flinched away, shoving Greg's fingers off of him even as he stammered an apology. 

"D-don't...I....s-sorry I don't...don't l-like that..."

He looked up at Greg and John, taking in how well they fit together as he clutched at his knee.

John took Greg's hand and shook his head. "It's alright, Sherlock. I understand. I really, really do. It's nothing to be ashamed of." John reached over and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's mop of curly hair. "You can always tell us if something bothers you."

Greg spoke very softly to him. "That's fine, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just want you to know I'm here too, yeah? Should I go up and check on your brother?"

Sherlock rest his face in his hands. "Please, yes...He...h-he's not well."

John curled up to stay with Sherlock even as Greg left. "That would be very nice of you, Greg."

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, reaching out tentatively and holding John's hand. He did not speak, allowing the silence to settle around them.

Greg made his way up the stairs, Miller at his side, filling him in. He knocked lightly at Mycroft's door.

Mycroft had a pounding headache, but the sleep had dulled it's sharpness to something more tolerable. He heard the knock and tried to speak up, but his voice was a croak. "Come in."

Greg suck his head in the room, followed by Miller. "It's Greg," he said quietly, walking over to the bedside and looking Mycroft over. Miller went to the other side, speaking softly to him. 

"Need another dose of morphine? Look like you are hurting."

"Yes," Mycroft breathed, "And it is good to see you Greg, but excuse me if I am confused by your visit. Sherlock shut himself away."

Greg sat down beside Mycroft, looking him over.

"Well...he tried to at least," Greg said in hushed tones, not wanting to exacerbate Mycroft's pain. "John wasn't having it. We've been here for a while, they are calm downstairs. Sherlock was in his wheelchair when we arrived. I don't think John's going to leave. Tried to get Sherlock to keep Gladstone."

Miller gave Mycroft a dose of morphine and slipped out of the room, leaving a fresh bag of fluids hanging.

"Ah. I see." Mycroft kept any trace of disappointment out of his voice. Of course Sherlock would see John. He didn't need to be hurt by it. "How is that going?" 

 

Greg shrugged, "Sherlock seems bound and determined to try and convince John not to see him anymore."

He looked around Mycroft's room for a moment before looking back to the man himself. "He's really upset with himself over this."

"This is my fault. I need to improve my own physical and mental health." Mycroft pushed himself to sit up and stared groggily at Greg. 

"I'm losing him."

Greg nearly began to argue with Mycroft, but swiftly closed his mouth. He'd been in a similar position several times, and this had to be handled with care. 

"What makes you say that?"

"He sent me away. Logically, I know it's because he believes himself a burden...but if I had been more cheerful around him, had been a better actor, this wouldn't have happened." 

Mycroft looked to the food tray that had been sitting on his bedside table for an hour, and begrudgingly took an apple off it. "Furthermore, he is set on this idea."

Greg inhaled slowly and was glad to see Mycroft eating. He'd personally put on a bit more weight now that John was doing better.

"Listen, Mycroft, take it from someone who's been there? This is the only way these men know how to help us. Sherlock would know if you were acting, your body is giving you away." He nudged the plate of food closer.

"You are not losing him. He's down there trying to pretend he's not terrified without you."

"I'll heal, and go back to him. That is the only sensible course of action." 

Mycroft took the tray and stared at all the foods he used to love, served to perfection by his loyal chef. 

"Should I try to convince him to come back once I've recovered?"

"To your room? Or to you? He's not going to leave with us, you know this, right?"

He kept his voice gentle, no trace of mockery there.

"To my room," Mycroft confirmed. "Our room. He's so lonely. So lonely. I hate this."

Greg drew in a long, deep breath. "I think that's a situation that is to be played by ear. It depends on how you are both doing, I think. Sherlock is incredibly attached to you, do you want that to continue?"

Mycroft explained to Greg that he wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to be in the room with him as he ate. He also explained that Sherlock wasn't going to do so easily.

Greg listened quietly.

"Sherlock might come up here if he believes you are being properly cared for. He's absolutely fixated on not hurting anyone that he loves. I've never seen him like this...I mean...I understand that this is a unique situation, but he's..he had no consideration for himself."

"Okay. I'll try to keep myself healthy." Mycroft muttered and took the orange juice off the desk. "I suggest you and John keep visiting him while I'm away. It will help."

Greg shook his head, huffing a laugh. "I have very little influence over John when it comes down to it. He's here out of stubborn determination."

He shifted slightly, watching the elder brother. "If it gets bad," he began, voice low and serious, "should I bring him up to you? Day is one thing, night is another."

Mycroft gestured to his drip line. "I don't want him to see me like this. If it gets bad, text me and I'll be down in a few minutes."

Greg stared at Mycroft without looking away. 

"See you like what? Mycroft, he...I guarantee whatever he has in his head is much, much worse than what is happening. He wouldn't even take the _dog_ he's so sure he destroys everything good. Sherlock is...I mean...you've seen John when he was like this, only this is Sherlock's hot-button issue. He's terrified of this. You with a drip isn't going to frighten him off. I don't know how to better explain this to you. You're putting far too much pressure on yourself."

"I don't want him to see me weak. If he is in terrors, text me." 

Mycroft got his phone from the table and turned it around to show Greg a picture. On screen there was a huge, shaggy, beautiful dog in a blue service harness. The Burmese Mountain dog was staring attentively at its handler, and had the intelligent look of a well trained animal.

"I'm getting him for Sherlock. He's a therapy dog, one of the specialty ones trained for war vets. What do you think?"

"Beautiful dog," Greg responded, nodding at the picture, "he's a beautiful dog. Sherlock will decidedly benefit from one of his own, though you're going to have your hands full convincing him he won't hurt it." 

He shook his head and leaned back, "You are allowed to show your weakness, Mycroft. You've been incredibly strong for a very long time and don't give me that 'rules don't apply to me' bullshit. You are a genius, but you are still a _man_. He's isolated to give you a chance to heal. You might just drive home that he has to go away from you any time he's difficult if you keep on like this." 

Mycroft scowled, but not at Greg. "Fine. I'll stay in my room, then. I'll recover, then go back to him. He won't be able to hurt the dog. I got him the draft breed of the dog world. I specifically asked for something massive. He comes well recommended."

 

Greg huffed a laugh. " _I_ know he isn't going to hurt the dog, Mycroft. And I'm not trying to keep you away, quite the opposite. If he needs you, I'm bringing him up, okay? John...he's much better, but Sherlock reads him wrong most of the time. He's...I often wonder if John is too stressful for him."

"I wonder that as well, too. But...It seems cruel, but what if this stress is what he needs? What if the pressure he feels to do better will help him in the end? He has improved more in the past four days than in the past year, all because he is worried about hurting us. Maybe, since we can't stop him thinking that way, we can just try to help him be comfortable and make progress until he realizes we all love him." Much as Mycroft despised that, he would use it to Sherlock’s advantage if necessary. 

Greg nodded. "That...sometimes we can't keep them feeling safe. That might be what needs to happen, but hell, Mycroft, we cannot reinforce this notion of his that he has to do this alone. He doesn't want John here, except that he _really_ does. He'd just rather suffer alone than hurt him. Or hurt you. He's...it's difficult, so very similar to John and so, so different." 

"Then I'll bring him the dog until I am well again." Mycroft had no other solution, and thus the one he had simply had to work.

With a deep breath, Greg again nodded in agreement. "Alright. Alright. I won't bring him up, we will do what we can for him. I doubt John will stay past tonight, if he stays at all, but you have a staff and he will manage. Let yourself get well, Mycroft. Let me know if I can help with anything else." 

"I'm sending Jared to pick the dog up tomorrow morning. I'm hoping that it helps. If Sherlock refuses it, we can just keep it here. I've a massive backyard. It was meant for mother's grandchildren, though I never saw the possibility." 

Mycroft was weary, and his eyes slid shut despite the fact that he was clearly not finished talking. "Do you think he would really send the dog away?"

Greg shrugged. "I don't know. I don't really know Sherlock that well anymore. John would be upset with him for doing so, and that may influence him. I think he's willing to do literally anything to keep from being a burden to any of us, and so if he sees the dog as a way to take stress off of you, that's more likely to make him keep it. He _wants_ a dog, I mean really, you've seen how he looks at Gladstone. He just...I don't know, it's a lot like John and a lot different."

"So we just pitch him the idea that him having a dog will take the stress off us." Mycroft shrugged and leaned back down onto the pillows. "Good. Right."

Greg got to his feet, sliding his hands in his pockets. Mycroft was...in a mood he did not quite understand. "If John and I leave, do you want me to text you?"

"Yes, just keep me updated." Mycroft stared blankly at Greg and did not truly take in his expression. "Tell Sherlock he's welcome back any time."

Greg scrubbed a hand over his hair and turned to leave. "Try to let yourself rest, Mycroft," he murmured, shutting the door behind him and making his way back down to Sherlock and John. 

John was curled up peacefully next to Sherlock. Their conversation was nothing important, and it drifted around from easy, light topic to casual remembrances.

Sherlock looked up when Greg came in, speaking before the door was closed. "Is h-he...h-how b-bad...is...h-has M-Miller-" Greg cut him off by raising his hand.

"He's just tried, Sherlock. He's alright, Miller is taking care of him. He wanted me to let you know you can go back anytime."

Sherlock started at Greg in an attempt to gauge if he was lying or not. After a few heartbeats he settled down, closing his eyes and trying to stay calm.

In the next moment, he eased to his side and tipped his forehead to John's shoulder, fighting back tears.

John was in the unique position to understand exactly what Sherlock was going through. "Remember when I left Greg? When I thought I was hurting him and I came here for a day?"

Sherlock nodded, becoming more distressed and wrapping his hand around John's bicep. Greg had been destroyed by that. Greg had…

The next heartbeat had Sherlock sitting up so fast he nearly toppled from the bed, wide-eyed and scrambling for his chair.

"What h-have I done," he lamented as he reached for Greg, obviously trying to get to his feet, "n-no! No! He...I w-wanted h-him to...Greg h-help me please!"

Greg stood there in shock, not yet putting together what had just connected in Sherlock's mind.

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, shhh..." John wrapped him in his arms and held him in place. "I need you to breathe with me for a moment. It's okay. Mycroft is doing just fine. Your brother is fine. Please take a moment to listen to me."

Sherlock stared with frightened eyes at Greg for another moment, watching as he nodded in confirmation. "He's okay, he's just resting, he's alright," he whispered, trying to help John ease Sherlock back before he toppled them.

Tears slid quiet and unnoticed down Sherlock's face as he allowed John to handle him. "I...I w-was...he's ill...I d-did that t-to him," he explained breathlessly, "h-he...he wouldn't...l-let Miller h-help him a-and I c-can't act and s-so I...I..." He covered his face with his hands, terribly frightened he'd done even more harm.

"No, you didn't. Mycroft ran himself into the ground. That was his fault. But he isn't going to hurt himself." 

John looked over to Greg and subtly pointed at him, then drew a line down his forearm. 

"You don't have to be afraid of anything happening," John whispered. "I just wanted you to know that staying away from him forever won't help. Let's let him rest up, then we can start visiting, okay?"

Greg had to sit down before guilt physically bowled him over. He held a hand over one of his scars, glad for his long sleeves. His voice was strained as he spoke. "He's...it's different than...me...Sherlock he isn't going to...no...that's not a danger here."

Sherlock clung to John, listening to him quietly. "It's n-not...not h-his fault. He's...h-he c-carries s-so m-much. I'm...I-" he swallowed reflexively, "I do th-this to h-him. He hasn't....no proper s-sleep and...h-hardly e-eats b-because I'm d-difficult and..." He exhaled again as he felt panic nipping at his heels, doing his best to rise above his fear.

John pressed his lips to the top of Sherlock's head and lingered there. 

"It's okay. You're in a panic, love. Just breathe for me. It'll be alright. Mycroft isn't going to hurt himself. He just needs a bit of rest, that's all. He's just run himself a bit thin. It happens. Sick days happen."

Sherlock stopped talking, breathing slow and staring off towards Greg.

"I...I f-feel wrong," he whispered, keeping his voice and breathing show and steady, "I'm...I'm s-supposed t-to be alone."

"You are not supposed to be alone. Never. You're supposed to have friends to help you. I'm going to help you. I'm here. You can't hurt me. Really, there's nothing you could accidentally do that would even come close to what I've already survived." 

John kissed Sherlock's temple. "You're doing really well not panicking right now. I'm very happy about that."

Sherlock nodded slowly, feeling weak and guilty, though indescribably glad that John was with him. It had been miserable without his company, especially without Mycroft.

"I'm s-so tired," he confessed. There was still do much work to be done, but all he wanted was sleep.

"I...I am s-so...so tired. 'M s-supposed to b-be working."

"Rest now," John pleaded. "You'll be fresher. It's better that way."

Permission from John to rest was exactly what he'd needed. Sherlock let the tension out of his muscles and tried to lie back down, his breath catching as he grimaced with sharp discomfort.

He felt as though he'd run a marathon and been run over by a lorry at the finish line. With a soft whimper, he rest his head on a pillow he wasn't familiar with, licking his lips in thirst.

John curled around him like a protective shell and nuzzled the side of his head. "I'll stay with you while you sleep. Gladstone is here to keep guard. Everything is alright. You can sleep now."

Greg got up and moved to sit next to Jared. "Could I have a word with you in private?"

Jared nodded and slipped out of the room. "What is it?"

Greg left the two men to rest, closing the door behind him. He Sept his eyes over Jared, attempting to get a read on him.

"Sherlock has been relaying some...troubling information. You seem like a good fellow, so I wanted to get your side before John tears into you."

"Tears into me?" Jared seemed genuinely confused. "I've never hurt Sherlock. Never. I've always been gentle with him, always kept a blanket between us when I need to carry him... Why would John be upset?"

Greg started hard at Jared. "Sherlock has been saying that you've told him he's hurting his brother, he's suddenly very fixated on the idea of hiding if he can't pretend to be alright. John is quiet sure you are responsible for this," he gestured to the guest room.

"I know they hear through filters, so I wanted to speak directly to you."

"No, no, I mean...I mean he asked if he was making Mycroft tired, and I said that he was just tired. I never said that it was Sherlock's fault. I suggested that he try to work on eating and dressing himself, but Hell, I've been trying to get him to do those things for months."

Greg nodded, "Alright...alright...I was surprised to hear that about you, I'd suspected he misunderstood something. He seemed quite fond of you before."

"I must have messed something up somewhere." Jared leaned against the wall. "Honestly, I'm used to more progress. I'm sure I've said things that have upset him, but I've always been incredibly careful."

Greg nodded, "He's...that bastard really did something to him. I'd have expected this from Moriarty but not Moran. Sherlock...that last episode with John...like a switch flipped." 

He shrugged and looked back at the room.

"I don't like this."

Jared looked back into the room to assure things were peaceful. "I don't like this either, but you can't convince him out of it."

Greg cracked a bit of a smile. "John could. He's doing so well, so incredibly well. John could do it." 

He allowed a moment of pride in his face before resting a hand on Jared's shoulder. "Are you still able to do this? Keep up with him? John might stay tonight, but I don't know beyond that."

"Yeah, I can. It's been easy for the past few months. He's basically been a vegetable, except for the crying. But there wasn't much I could ever do about that anyway." 

Jared was thoroughly depressed about Sherlock, but wouldn't let it dampen his hope. "John is doing a lot of good for Sherlock. You've done well with him."

Greg kept his eyes on John, smiling faintly. "He's done the work. It's been remarkable. I think he just had to stay away from Sherlock long enough to sort some things. I have to watch him very closely, remind him to eat, watch for panic before it takes hold, but that's all I've done really."

Jared checked the room again. "Yes, he's made clear progress. He seems happy now. That's good. Maybe Sherlock will see his happiness and be encouraged."

Sherlock shifted against John, trying to find a comfortable position. He finally spoke out, exhausted, "I'm...I n-need a drink a-and...I'm in p-pain." 

He looked down in shame, hoping he wouldn't upset John. With his muscles in atrophy, he was extremely taxed.

"Okay," John said casually. "I can get that for you, or get Jared if you would rather I stay in bed with you."

Sherlock bit at his lip, indecisive. "I...I'd...wh-whatever is...is easier f-for you," he whispered, looking up to meet John's eye, looking for disappointment and relieved to find none.

John could sense Sherlock's anxiety, and couldn't make himself let go. "Jared," he called, and the man excused himself from Greg to go in. 

"Yes?"

"Could we have some water and something for pain for Sherlock?"

Jared nodded and fetched it quickly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deep, making a concentrated effort to keep calm. John wasn't angry, Mycroft was being taken care of, and he was fairly sure he wasn't hurting anyone.

He leaned back and forced himself to relax, though his fingers went to his lips.

Jared got the water and the painkiller, the first of which he handed to John. 

John thanked him and held the cup of water for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock grit his teeth as he pushed up on an arm. He took the glass and swallowed down the pills, polishing off the water in the same sort of frenzied panic as always, logically knowing no one would take it from him but unable to refrain.

"Th-Thank you," he said to John as he handed back the empty glass, lying down and wrapping his arms tight around himself. "Y-you...you're quite sure M-My is...is alright?"

"Greg just saw Mycroft," John reassured. "You can go to sleep if you're tired. Or I can read to you. I'm here to help."

Sherlock closed his eyes and did not speak again, holding tight to his own shirt as he'd learned to do when he was away from Mycroft. He was exhausted, wanting to sleep.

Greg sat down beside John, leaning in and speaking softly to John. "We didn't come prepared to stay the night."

John shook his head at Greg. "I'm sorry if I'm being a pest, but I really think I should stay. I really do. He's...God, he's away from Mycroft. I can't leave him."

Greg's stomach churned with nerves. The idea of sleeping here again was unsettling, but he wasn't going to tell John no.

He texted Miller, asking for him to find someone to run to their flat and pick up a few things. "If you want to stay, we will," he whispered, scratching Gladstone behind the ears.

John breathed a sigh of relief and curled up next to Sherlock. He did, however, reach back on hand to take Greg's. It was still difficult to sleep without feeling the man's presence in some way.   
Greg squeezed John's hand and then leaned forward, settling John's hand more comfortably at his side. He looked over at Sherlock, watching the man quietly.

"Mycroft doesn't want him around while he's sick. I couldn't convince him otherwise."

"I understand," John said in return, but his eyes were on Sherlock. "I wish I could fix him."

Greg was quiet for a long while, considering that. "I think you are," he responded quietly, rubbing John's back. "I think you are."

"I've only just stopped hurting him." John traced his fingers over Sherlock's once proud face. "You always manage to derail my panic, but I can't seem to do that with Sherlock."

Greg leaned in a bit more, both hands comfortably on John. "He didn't panic though, did he? He is sleeping, he took medicine and drank water. He's not in a panic. It took me a long time to manage that with you. You're doing better than you think.”

"Could you tell me how you manage me? More in the beginning, towards the end of the secure facility. How did you keep me from panicking when I was already headed there?" 

John had tried everything he knew how to do. He hugged Sherlock, said nice things, was reassuring, physically comforting, loving...But he felt Sherlock's panic to still be his responsibility.

Greg pressed a soft kiss to John's head. "Sometimes you can't. Sometimes it just happens and you have to hang on and ride. I...I would watch you...still do, try to anticipate it before it got too big and...if it was pain tipping it over or anything like that, I try to fix it first. He...Mycroft is the person who knows Sherlock the best, but I don't think anyone really sees what's setting him off or what's...I mean...so many people handle him. It's...it's different. I don't really know how to help him. I suppose we just have to sort it as we go."

John sighed again. "Do you think he'll be happy with the life we could give him? Will he be happy with me as I am, or will I have to change?"

John was adding questions Greg had no answers for. "What do you think he'd want you to change, John?"

"He'll want me to love him like I love you, or like he loved me." 

John knew for an absolute fact that he loved Sherlock, but never as a spouse, and he just did not depend on him as much as he did Greg. 

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I love him, but...am I going to be enough? Will he be upset all the time if you and I share a bed?"

Greg pulled in a deep, slow breath. He'd been wondering the same for a very long time. "I don't know...I think he's going to be fine.. he's felt like that a long time." He paused for a moment, "would...would you change? Would you...is this...would he pull you away from me?"

John turned and faced Greg. He looked him very seriously in the eyes and shook his head. "Absolutely not. He would not take me from you. If he comes to our home, that's one thing. I'd like him there. It will be nice. But I need you. I won't be able to change."

Greg immediately felt like a complete idiot. "I'm sorry, John. That wasn't a fair question. I'm with you no matter, but I'm glad to hear that. I love you," he whispered, sweeping his fingers across John's hairline.

"If he can't handle it, he always has a home here."

John sat up a bit, leaned over, and gave Greg a soft kiss. 

"It's alright. I'd be worried about it too, if someone who was in love with you came to live with us." John wrinkled his nose.

"I mean...it's fine...but..." John did not know how he would handle Greg having a girlfriend. He used to swear it would be fine, and he still logically thought it would, but how would he ever be alright with sleeping away from Greg, knowing that someone else was in his arms? That was his spot. 

"You aren't worried about that, are you? That I'll focus more on Sherlock and drift away from you?"

Greg shook his head, immediately denying that fear. It was sick, and he could not entertain it. These men...well, it would be what it would be and he refused to interfere.

"No...no John, please don't worry about that. I love you, just as you are. I love you."

"Love," John said affectionately, "if it's worrying you, you can tell me. I understand. It is important for us to be honest with each other." 

Greg closed his eyes for a moment. "It would be difficult, but I'm always going to be here. I don't want you to worry about this."

He swept his fingers across John's temple before looking to Sherlock. They likely shouldn't be discussing this around him. "I just want you to be happy."

"Okay. I just want you to know that affection isn't finite. I can love both of you." John glanced to Sherlock, just to check, then leaned forward and brushed his lips over Greg's. 

"Don't worry, love," he whispered. "We'll sort it all out."

Greg nodded, kissing John back for a moment. "Yes...we will," he agreed, smiling at John. "I asked Miller to get things for us, I think he sent someone to the flat."

There were times when John simply needed affection, and this was one of them. In general, he'd grown less clingy and more independent, which was not to say he did not still require the therapeutic kindness Greg gave him. He leaned forward and dropped his head into the crook of Greg's neck. 

"That's good. Maybe we should just leave some stuff here just in case this happens again."

Greg tucked John to him, glad that Sherlock wasn't holding on to John at all. He held John to him, gently rubbing his back.

"We can do that. You are so selfless. I'm so impressed with what you are doing."

John reached back and put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I really do love that man. He's just so broken. I know what he's going through. He's in Hell. It hasn't ended for him yet. We need to get him out."

Greg watched as Sherlock leaned into John's touch, even in his sleep. 

"I know. I know we do. He's going to be okay. We'll sort it."

John reached for Greg and gave him one last long, slow, loving kiss before getting properly back into bed and curling himself back up around Sherlock. "He'll be okay. He's strong."

The room was quiet for the next hour. Sherlock slept, still and quiet until the silence broke on a keening whimper of distress. Greg looked over to see Sherlock in tears, though still asleep.

"Sherlock," he called out quietly, his hands occupied with rubbing John's back, "hey...Sherlock...it's alright," he tried again, watching as Sherlock tried to struggle awake.

John reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Shh... It's okay. You're alright. I've got you. You're safe." 

Sherlock's chest began to rapidly rise and fall, leaving him breathing too fast as he pulled away, eyes still closed, calling out for Mycroft.

The sound out his own voice in panic made him abruptly open his eyes, chest flailing as he locked eyes on John. 

"N-no," the denial slipped off his lips on a tight breath as he looked around the room he was not familiar with, "no..no pl-l-lease...n-no."

John curled up around Sherlock and folded him into his arms. He kept his own head below Sherlock's though, to keep him from feeling trapped. 

"We're safe. We're safe. Look, Gladstone's here. You've got me. I'm okay. You're okay."

Sherlock tipped his face down before he fell apart, sobbing with his cheek resting atop John's crown.

Greg leaned back, watching Sherlock closely and then looking over to Jared for help.

"Could you tell me about it?" John prompted gently. "Please? It would make it easier if you tell me if you had a nightmare."

Sherlock stilled then, tears still falling though his grief was interrupted.

"N-Nightmare? I-" he pulled his head up, looking around the room. "N-Nightmare?"

"You were stressed in your sleep, and you woke up scared. I assumed you'd had a nightmare." John smiled up at Sherlock sweetly from the bed. 

"See? You're home. Gladstone's here. I'm here. You're safe."

Sherlock pushed up on an elbow, looking around the room. "He's...but h-he's gone," Sherlock whispered, finding Greg and speaking again, "he's...he's gone."

"Yes..." John ventured, still unsure if he was rendering to Moriarty, Moran, or Mycroft. "Your brother is upstairs, and Moran is dead."

Sherlock looked to John as tears slid down his face, "M-My is...he's...ups-stairs? He's..." He looked back to  
Greg.

"Oh...Sherlock yeah.. he's okay, just resting. You've had a dream, he's alright."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rest back down against John, trying to call calm his breathing.

John leaned up to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "You are in a place where you are well loved, taken care of, and where you are not hurting anyone. It is safe for you to sleep, if you need to."

Sherlock's expression crumbled and he curled to John, reaching out and holding on to his shirt, tucking his head against John's shoulder. "Thank y-you," he managed before breaking down again, crying in exhaustion and relief.

John hummed and held Sherlock's head in place, as well as holding his hand over Sherlock's so he could fall asleep without letting go. "It's alright. You're loved. We love you. You can sleep, and we'll watch over you."

 

John holding on to him helped immeasurably, giving Sherlock permission to just be without expectation.

"I'm s-so t-tired...I'm so tired...when w-will this...when will it s-stop? I'm so t-tired...I'm so t-tired."

"It will keep getting easier. I promise. Everything will get easier." John nuzzled Sherlock affectionately. "I promise. I'll be right here for you when you wake up."

Sherlock buried himself in John's arms. Greg watched them without a word, waiting until Sherlock's breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep.

"Are you alright," he asked John, siding his fingers through his hair.

John turned and pressed his face into Greg's hand. 

"No, not really. I'm tired, but I'm just...I'm not alright because I'm sad. I'm sad for him. But it's nothing that you can help, and it's not panic, and it's not going to hurt Sherlock. So it's okay. It's just something I've got to live with."

John's phrasing was concerning to him. Greg leaned in and brushed a kiss to John's forehead, keeping in close.

"Live with? He still lives here, John. Tomorrow we will go home. You don't have to be sad all the time again," he whispered, trying to assure him.

"No, I mean the sadness. It just happens sometimes. Sometimes I get sad because I can't run or go outside with people or drink water normally and I can't look at myself in the mirror and my skin feels bad and stuff. But it's small things. I'm not being tortured. Nobody's whipped me today. I've eaten. I've had tea. I get painkillers. So all in all, not really something to complain about." 

John gave him a small smile. "I'm happy most of the time. I really, really am. I love you so much. I'm so grateful for the life you've given me."

Greg drew in a slow breath, looking to Sherlock and suddenly wanting to pull John away, wanted to take him home and make him happy.

The times Greg absently wished Sherlock had just died were disturbingly frequent.

He trailed his fingers through John's hair, trying to comfort him. "We will go home in the morning...it will be alright."

John reached out and caught Greg's hand. "Love, please, I know you don't like to see me hurting, but this is the right thing to do."

Greg held John's hand and sat quietly, keeping his mouth shut. How could there be a tight thing to do in a situation where everything was wrong? At home, they had peace, and John deserved every moment of it. It irritated him that they were here and John was suffering, growing the irrational bitterness toward Sherlock.

"Greg?" John prompted. "You know this is the right thing to be doing, right? You can't...please don't be upset with me for this."

"I'm not upset with you," Greg answered without hesitation, "not with you, not at all. I think you are selfless and wonderful."

He swept his thumb over John's knuckles in a bid to sooth him.

"Are you upset with Sherlock?"

John asked the question in a casual, flat tone without any aggression or accusation behind it. He wasn't going to listen to Greg's words, but rather, watch his expression.

Greg paused for a moment, looking at Sherlock. "I'm upset with the situation," he said quietly.

"Okay. Are you directing that frustration to Sherlock?" John spoke gently and without any hint of anger. 

"You can tell me how you feel."

A small sigh preceded Greg testing his forehead down to John's shoulder, regretful that John wasn't going to just let it go. "I'm trying not to,"he admitted, "I know it's not fair."

John gave a shallow nod. "It's alright, love. I understand. Sometimes I get so caught up in helping Sherlock that I forget to help you."

Greg sat back up and took John's face between his hands, rubbing the pads of his thumbs along John's cheekbones. "I'm upset because this hurts you, and that makes me angry. Not because I'm jealous for your attention. Not one bit of that, no. I don't want you sad it in pain and when he hurts you is very hard to accept it without reacting."  
John leaned forward once more to kiss Greg. "It's alright. I understand. I'm not upset with you, love. Just remember that I'm choosing to do this, and it's nothing I can't handle." 

Greg pulled John closer to him, ignoring how doing so shifted Sherlock. "I...please forgive me, but...what if you can't? We've worked so hard, and they haven't worked at all."

He immediately drew in a startled breath, shocked to hear himself say something like that. But it was true, it was. He and John had worked so, so hard, and Sherlock was still being fed with a goddamn tube.

"Then I will do exactly what you would have done if I had stopped progressing at this point." 

John kissed Greg once more on the lips, softly, slowly, to confirm that Greg indeed mattered to him, then settled back down next to Sherlock. 

"I won't give up on him."

Greg leaned back, closing his eyes and giving himself time to settle. Sherlock had grabbed hold of John when John curled back around him. It had set off a bolt of protective upset, which made no sense to him. He was all over the place in regards to how he felt about Sherlock.

John cast a worried glance to Greg before nuzzling back down against Sherlock. He himself was not entirely comforted by the action, but he knew Sherlock would be. "Shh...it's alright. It's okay."

Sherlock kept asleep, curled against John, while Greg passed the time in quiet thought.

He inhaled deeply an hour later, "Do you think he has a chance?"

John nodded and his nose rubbed in Sherlock's hair. "I think he does, if we keep working with him. But he's also got to decide on it."

Greg huffed a laugh, waving his hand across the room, "Yeah, think he has," he whispered, resting his cheek on his hand.

Sherlock murmured quietly, letting go of John's shirt. He would not open his eyes, voice rough and heavy with sleep.

"I...I'm...y-you don't...I c-can do this alone," he said without inflection, pulling his hands back to his chest. "Th-Thank y-you for v-visiting."

John froze. How much had he head? "It's okay. I want to be here. It's alright. Everything's alright. I can stay."

Sherlock shifted back and opened his sleep heavy eyes, glancing at John and then to Greg. He was quiet for a few moments. "I l-left my b-brother to k-keep...f-from pulling h-him down. I..." 

He exhaled and closed his eyes again. "I...I thought you w-wanted m-me dead. So I st-opped. Now y-you..are disappointed. I'll..." He cleared his throat, aching for Mycroft's help, "I h-have done e-everything I c-can...in the l-last few days."

He'd come awake at Greg's last question, feeling incredibly insufficient and a bit hopeless.

John pulled the blankets up almost over their heads and spoke directly into Sherlock's ear. "Hey. Hey. Be calm. I'm here. Trust me. Just trust me. You're doing everything right, you just can't see it."

Sherlock nearly pushed John from him, instead holding his hands to his chest and breathing slow and deep. "Y-You s-s-said..s-said I had to d-decide..." he was nearly in tears keeping himself as much in check as possible. 

"I've l-l-left my b-brother...I t-told you not to come...I've been up and t-trying to..." _What sound does the 'D' make?_

"I- if wh-what I'm doing is n-n-not enough then _I_ will n-never be enough and- and-" he closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together. "W-What m-more...what m-ore c-can I give to you? I- this is _all I h-have_ ," he broke, tears sliding down his cheeks, battling the urge to scream at the top of his lungs for Mycroft. 

"I never said you needed to be more than what you are right now." John was certain Sherlock would improve, but was willing to consider he might not. "I will always come for you. It's okay. Please, relax. You're in a safe place." 

Sherlock's breathing was swift and shallow as he lay there, wanting so terribly to trust John and utterly terrified to do so. John was such a risk...he never failed to turn on Sherlock eventually, and My wasn't there to hold his hand and remind him that he wasn't alone. He was holding his own hands instead, aggressively battling fear and doing his level best to keep his head above water. 

His eyes opened for a moment, looking at John and then over to Greg and Jared before pinching closed once more, grinding his teeth, tears tracking down his face. 

"I'm-m t-t-rying-g," he managed, wringing his hands together in sharp distress. 

John kissed Sherlock's head. "Shh...it's okay. I know. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you. You are a very strong man."

Sherlock held still, attempting to accept what John was saying to him.

Greg spoke very gently to Sherlock over John's shoulder. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm sorry if it sounded as though we were upset."

Sherlock opened his eyes enough to seek out Jared, desperate for safety. He set eyes on the man, saying nothing.

Jared stepped forward and gently nudged Greg's shoulder. "Maybe back up a bit," he whispered as he passed.   
"You're hovering over John."

He went to Sherlock's other side and sat calmly. "Sherlock, do you need help with anything? I agree with John. You've done very well."

Greg watched with a sinking heart as Sherlock relaxed when he gave a bit of ground.

Sherlock did not pull away from John, but he did reach over and grab Jared's hand in a cold, frightened grip. "I...is...is M-My still alr-right?"

"He's just fine," Jared returned gently and held Sherlock's hand. "I promise. He's just letting himself get a bit of rest. He'll be perfectly alright." 

John rubbed his face on Sherlock's head, a bit like a cat. "Yeah, he's just tired. Used to happen to you every once in awhile."

Sherlock drew in several slow, deep breaths I'm an effort to calm down. "It...it d-did?" He had no memory of such things.

Greg found that the further he backed off, the more at ease Sherlock seemed to be. He put a great deal of space between them, keeping his eye on John.

"Well...not on this scale," John amended. "But sometimes after a long case you'd crash. Especially if you hadn't been sleeping. Or eating. You said digestion slowed you down. So, sometimes you'd just crash. That's all Mycroft is doing, but for a little longer."

Sherlock looked to Jared for confirmation of this. "Y-you would...would t-tell m-me if...if he w-was worse, r-right?"

He just wanted to be secure for a few minutes. Greg seemed angry with him, and John duplicitous. It had not yet been a day, and he was nearly coming out of his shin with want of his brother.

"I would tell you. We're honest with each other, right?" Jared noted the way John was staring at him and wondered if the man ever had intentions of physically assaulting him. 

John had his chin on top of Sherlock's head, and prayed his friend would calm. 

Sherlock slowly eased his grip on Jared, eventually letting go of him. He reached out and took hold of John's shirt, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing.

After a while he was simply lying quietly next to John calmer and much more collected.

"There's a good man," John said softly. "I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much."

Sherlock did not make it to dinner, fading back asleep from his brief period of waking without another word. His fingers loosened on John's shirt, and his breathing was stay and even.

Greg cleared his throat and git up then, walking over with John's medication, nodding to Jared. "You were right, thank you for that."

"It will be a problem if he doesn't like Greg." John sat up a bit and rubbed at his eyes. "For the long term, I mean."

Greg ran a hand over the back of his neck before leaving in to brush a kiss to John's forehead.

"I need to take Gladstone out, Jared would you be willing to walk with me?"

"Of course," Jared answered and got up to follow. 

"Wait," John said and reached out to Greg. "I want to be a part of any decisions you two plan on making."  
Greg looked down at John, covering John's hand with his own. "I have no intention of making plans. I just want to get Jared's advise. I was upsetting Sherlock, I'm hoping Jared has some ideas or suggestions for me is all."

"Okay," John said hesitantly and pulled Greg into a hug once more. "Don't...Don't leave me here, alright? I shouldn't be worried, I know...Just promise you'll come back."

Greg reached down again and wrapped John in his arms, "I promise I'll come right back, just a few minutes."

John brought his arms up to his chest and made himself small, an action he hadn't done outside of an attack in weeks. "Okay. Just a few minutes."

Greg looked to John, watching him closely as he spoke to Jared. "Would you mind taking Gladstone out?" John was too upset with something and Greg was not interested in leaving him.

John shook his head. "You can go. It's okay. I'm just tired. Go on. You need to walk around and get away from all this for a bit."

Greg hesitated.

"Just a few minutes, I'll be back, I will."

He was quiet as he moved out to the yard with Jared and the dog, lost in his thoughts. "Do you believe Sherlock will be able to function without Mycroft at any point in the future?"

"He'll always be dependent on someone, I think," Jared responded. "He's scared of John, but also loves him. If we can make John more trustworthy, and get him less apprehensive around you, then...maybe. But he's been away from Mycroft for less than twenty four hours, and he's already struggling."

Greg sighed heavily, watching the dog race across the yard, stretching his legs. "I think John's in a much better position to be considered dependable now," he said quietly. "He's doing remarkable, in my opinion. I'm a bit shocked, really. How many people have been carrying for Sherlock?"

"I'm here mostly when Mycroft is away, but when Sherlock was sort of out of it, there were two others who rotated on my off days, or came in the morning and night. A man and a woman. Nice people."

Greg slid his hands in his pocket, watching Gladstone investigate the yard. "I can't imagine John being handled by anyone else, I really can't."

The sun was setting, letting a cool breeze slide over them. He looked to Jared fit a moment before returning his focus to the dog.

"He reached for you when he was afraid. That's good."

Jared gave a small, modest smile. "Yeah, when his brother is gone, he prefers me. I'm glad for it. I tried to get him to work on letters. He did better than he did last time with no work in between, which is a good sign. He knows the letters, but not their sounds. It's an improvement from just seeing squiggles." 

Several minutes passed before Greg spoke again. "He has...just an incredible amount of healing left to do...it's hard to even consider after all the work we did with John."  
He quieted his voice, looking down as he confessed, "I don't know if I have it in me, Jared."

Jared tracked the dog with his eyes as it explored the backyard. "I understand. There were days where I didn't think I could listen to Sherlock cry in his sleep one more day. But he woke up. He's doing better."

He sighed and looked long and hard at Greg. "I can't imagine doing what I do with someone I'm so emotionally invested with. It must eat at you. If you feel like you're going down, let us know."

Greg shrugged and kicked at a rock with his toe. "I will. I can do this with John, I know how, but adding Sherlock? I don't know if I can start all over again."

"Maybe you can shift some of the responsibility to John." Jared said it cautiously, though. "I mean, if he's made so much improvement, you can help Sherlock through him."

Greg looked to Jared to see if he was joking. "This is like sprinting for him. We'll go home tomorrow and he'll spend the day recovering. This...this I think, is temporary."

Gladstone ran up to sit beside him. "Sherlock is still...square one...I...he's not even at self care. I...god I don't know if I can do this."

"Just take baby steps. We aren't suggesting you take full care of Sherlock right away." Jared knew what a burden he could be, even more so now that he was awake. "We'll take it slow."

Greg looked back at the house. "John gets upset with me feeling like this. He's all over with Sherlock, protective and bitter, in love and afraid. And Sherlock...what sort of recovery could he have? He looks days away from dying."

"I doubt Sherlock will be emotionally independent. He can't be alone. Ever. He needs John to be gentle and loving, and he needs Mycroft to be there. Ideally, you'd all live in Baker Street, create a happy, safe environment for him, and he'd not feel like a burden. Realistically? More visits from John. Get him working on self-care." 

Jared was invested in Sherlock's attachment by now. 

"I can do that in you and John's absence."

Greg nodded. "I doubt John will ever go back to Baker Street. He just can't. We will be here more often. I don't know how much more I can offer. If he's afraid of me...I don't know what to do. I'm glad you're here for him."

"I think Sherlock sees you as a reminder of what's wrong with John, and when he sees you coming to comfort John, assumes that he is hurting him."

Greg swore. "Well...that's typically accurate. He doesn't mean to, poor sod, but he hurts John all the time. Makes it very hard to see him as Sherlock, honestly. I don't know how to fix his fear."

"Perhaps you can allow John to handle it for himself next time," Jared ventured. "If he's over stressed, by all means, comfort him, but perhaps Sherlock will be less stressed if he isn't worried about inciting your protective anger."

The idea of not responding to John was almost intolerable. "And if he sets John back, what then? He's fine it before." He thought of John going back into his head made Greg immediately ball up a fist. 

"No. He has to learn to stop causing John pain."

Jared let the silence hang for a moment. "Alright. I'm sorry. I realize that was insensitive of me. But Sherlock is trying very hard not to hurt John. Maybe if he wasn't nervous about you, he'd be less afraid, and less likely to respond negatively to John."

While Jared's advice was likely true, Greg did not want to hear it. He ground his teeth, reaching down to pet Gladstone in an effort to calm himself down. "I used to save Sherlock. I used to keep him safe. Now it terrifies me to see him anywhere near John. That's not fair, I know it's not fair. But John...oh...god he deserves comfort for the rest of his life. Sherlock hurts him."

He drew in a deep, slow breath. "I'll do my best. I'm shocked at my own behavior."

Jared remained calm. "I'm not shocked at your behavior at all. You've spent the past...what? Two years? All that time just protecting John and keeping him from pain. It's only natural that you want him away from Sherlock." 

Jared exhaled slowly. "That being said, Sherlock needs this. It's doing him good. Things will get easier."

 

Greg hummed and looked back to the house. "I should get back. John might be afraid."

After a few steps he added, "I'm glad he has you. It takes the pressure off, I'm glad he's got you."

Jared turned to go back with him. "It is an interesting profession, to be sure. But I think now that he's awake, I can be of more use than just turning him and feeding him."

As they walked through the house, Greg gave thought to what they had discussed. He paused outside of Sherlock's door.

"I love them both, I really do. Please don't mistake my...whatever this is...to mean that I don't care. I do. I was very worried about him, and it kills me to see that he is still...this."

"Then let's work on getting him better," Jared said simply, and knocked on the door. "Jared and Greg," he called to give warning before entering.

Sherlock started at the knock, having slept while Jared was gone. He grabbed hold of John proactively, breath tripping over itself until he caught sight if Jared and relaxed. 

"Oh," he exhaled in relief, swallowing hard, "oh..J-Jared...just...just you," he assured himself, watching as Miller caught up to Greg in the hall.

Greg suck his head in the door and spoke softly to John, "just right here love, talking to Miller."

John hadn't been able to sleep, and was relieved to see Greg again. 

"Alright," he returned and a peaceful smile graced his tired face. "Thanks. Everything is alright in here." John was turned sideways to avoid being on his back, and he looped his arms around Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock allowed John to hold on to him for a while, breathing show and deep. He looked to Jared. "Is..is M-My still alright?"

Jared nodded. "Yes, of course. He's just fine. Everything is alright."

Miller came in with Greg a moment later. "Sherlock, John, you both should eat if you're up to it, I've your medication, and John Greg has yours."

Sherlock pressed a hand over his eyes, breathing slow and deep, determined not to be given a feeding in front of John.

John knew this stressed Sherlock, and remained positive. "Okay. We'll eat. Sherlock, I'll be right here to help you if you need anything."

Sherlock nodded, quiet while Miller gave him medication. He sat up with help from the doctor and press his back against the headboard, hands shaking.

"I'm...it's f-fine...I'm...I'm alright," he whispered.

John sat up and helped Sherlock do the same. When the trays of food were brought in, breakfast, as usual, John casually looped one arm around Sherlock's shoulders like a teenager on a movie date. 

"You're making improvement faster than I did," John admitted. 

Sherlock had yet to put something in his mouth, starting at the eggs on his plate. This would be the second time that day he ate, meaning he'd soon be faced with what truly frightened him.

A thin sheen of sweat broke adding his brow as he forced himself to take a bite. "N-not really," he murmured, leaning against John.

"Well, if we don't count the time you weren't here with us, you have. You just took some time off. No shame in that. I've done it before, when I couldn't handle things. But you're with us now, and that is what matters." John put some eggs on a piece of toast. 

"Really, I am proud."

Sherlock allowed John's praise to soak in, eating his meal without focus. The slice if toast and egg were gone in a few minutes, and he let Miller take the plate, drinking down his water in the same panicked way.

Already his stomach gurgled in warning, though he did his best to ignore it.

John ate happily and smiled to himself at how easy it was for him to eat orange slices and sit with Sherlock. "This will get easier for you too," his voice smiled at Sherlock. 

Greg kept his eyes on Sherlock, watching as he grew more and more pale. He looked to Jared for help, not knowing how to help.

Sherlock's belly fussed at him, his system not able to handle food for long. John was so at ease at his side. He shifted his legs and tried to ignore his stomach. Miller was still in the room, too many eyes on him, none Mycroft's.

"You alright?" John was the first to speak up on the topic. He still had one arm around Sherlock, but it tightened from a casual position to one of worry. 

Sherlock very swiftly nodded, humiliated with his fear. "F-Fine," he said quietly, trying to will the problem away, "I'm...I'm f-fine...I'm fine," his voice was too unsteady though, palms sweating. He looked to Jared, panic nipping at his heels. How was he going to get through this without My?

John gathered Sherlock up in his arms and handed the tray away. "It's alright. You can tell me. I'm here for you."

Sherlock leaned against John, dissolving into quiet tears as he tried to find the words to explain to John that a trip to the lav was the source of his intense fear.

"I...I don't...it's so...s-so stupid...so s-stupid...I'm...I n-need...I..." He shook his head, completely humiliated.

"It's not stupid," John prompted. "Go on. It's okay. I promise. You can ask for whatever you need."

Sherlock hung his head and closed his eyes, covering his face. "I..." He shook his head as his belly growled at him, battling against the urge to beg for Mycroft.

Greg got up, unable to keep from responding to Sherlock's distress. He knew from what Mycroft had said that trips to the bathroom were extremely upsetting to Sherlock, crouching down and whispering as much in John's ear.

"Oh, Sherlock,"John whispered and clutched him for a moment. "It'll be okay. Do you need help?"

Sherlock looked up at Jared with wet, red-rimmed eyes. "I c-can't...I....I n-need help getting th-there," he explained, shivering and actively fighting the urge to scream for Mycroft.

Jared understood, and wrapped a blanket under Sherlock to make the move more comfortable.   
John got up and stood beside him for a moment. "I'll be right out here. You'll be alright."

Sherlock held on to Jared with a shaking first, rumpling his shirt. He remained in the bathroom for the next half hour, the last fifteen of which he simply rest on the floor, face pressed to the wall and arms wrapped tight around his stomach.

Greg had pulled John into his arms in a bid to comfort the man. He looked over to Jared eventually. "Should we...should someone go in?"

John took the time to cuddle up against Greg and drink in what affection he could while it lasted. 

When Sherlock still wasn't there, he walked over to the door. "Hey, Sherlock? It's me. Do you need help?"

_Heavy foot falls in the hall outside his door set Sherlock into immediate tears. Moran had already been at him that morning, leaving Sherlock and his broken body to soak in pain. Typically his tormenter did not come for him more than once in a day. Knifing shocks of pain lit up from his core, making his legs twitch, his belly aching from where the table had rocked into him over and over._

_Moran said nothing as he shoved Sherlock over on the table, rattling the chains. Sherlock's breathing stalled in his lungs, fear too sharp to breathe through keeping him silent._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the knock, his curls plastered to his forehead, nearly transparent in how pale he'd gone. John's voice was the last he'd expected and a sudden, cracking plea for help.

John opened the door then and saw Sherlock curled up on the ground. "Hey," he whispered, "hey, it's okay. I'm here. Sherlock, it's John." John sat on his heels a few feet away, and Jared let him try. 

Greg watched as Sherlock sluggishly turned his eyes towards John. Had Greg been collecting Sherlock off the street he'd have thought him high, perhaps overdosed. Sweat dripped off the tips of his hair and he looked ready to faint.

"W-Where is M-My," Sherlock rasped, sobbing in the next moment. "J-John...I'm...h-he's...I need h-help."

John reached out and pulled Sherlock over to him gently and cautiously. "We can get My, but he's sick. It might take a minute. Let's get you in bed first, yeah? We'll get you all safe and warm and covered, then bring My. Come with me?"

Sherlock instinctively attempted to get up, swiftly remembering himself. He started to reach out for John before remembering that John could not lift him.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and Jared was already there to help. He lifted Sherlock up and brought him over to the bed. 

John sat and pulled Sherlock into his lap. "It's okay. I've got you."

Sherlock rest his head down against John's chest, biting at his fingertips and aching for his brother. John helped, but he was long since far from familiar. He was quiet as tears streamed down his face.

Greg sat across the room, a hand over his mouth, starting at Sherlock. This was too much, entirely too much. Much as he loved Sherlock, he gave over to the wild escape of imagining him dead, helping John through the grief of it sounding much easier than going all the way back to the start again.

John wrapped himself up around Sherlock and breathed long and slow. He was tired, and Sherlock's specific grief was tangible. "I love you," he whispered. "Greg, could you talk to Mycroft?"

Greg nodded and got up without a word, grateful to be granted permission to leave. He left John with Jared to help with Sherlock's fear, slowly heading up to Mycroft's room.

He knocked lightly on the door, announcing himself.

Mycroft was asleep, but lightly so, and woke easily. "Is something wrong?" His voice was immediately upset and anxious. "Is Sherlock alright?"

Greg held up his hand, apologizing. "He's alright, he's safe," Greg assured, heart twinging in sympathy for Mycroft. "He's just...looks like the aftermath of a flashback, very...very frightened and sad but he's quiet and John's got him. Jared is there as well."

He sat down by Mycroft, looking the man over. "He's asking about you, but I don't think you should go."

Mycroft sat up slowly and capped his drip line. "I'm going. I can not let him think I've abandoned him."

Greg shook his head and put a hand I'm Mycroft's shoulder, easing him back down. "He's not calling for you, he's just asking after you. He's calm with John at the moment. That's what we wanted, right? They are handing it."

"Don't push me. I need to see him." Mycroft got up out of bed and stood. He looked down at Greg with a piercing but even stare. "I am fine. Just tired. I can go see him."

Greg put up his hands before raking them through his hair. "Fine, Mycroft, stop glaring at me for God's sake, I'm trying to help." 

He got up as well, shoving his hands in his pocket, grinding his teeth in frustration.

"You would have hit me if I tried to keep you from John," Mycroft snapped back and pulled a more sensible shirt over his faded grey t-shirt he'd been sleeping in. "You know that to be true."

"I'm not trying to keep you from him, Mycroft," he snapped, walking out of the room and waiting for Mycroft out in the hall while trying to calm down.

Mycroft went down the hall past Greg without looking at him. Sherlock needed him, and even if he was exhausted, he would go to him. 

He knocked on the door softly before sticking his head in. "Sherlock? Can I come in?"

Sherlock looked up sharply and nearly fell out of John's lap as he reached out for his brother, the nature of his grief shifting to something much more severe.

"My," he cried out, both hands straining like a child.

Mycroft rushed over and caught Sherlock up in his arms. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Sherlock into his lap. "Hey, hey," he whispered and rocked him, "I've got you. I'm right here."

Sherlock buried his face against Mycroft's chest, clutching at Mycroft's shirt, sobbing in relief as he shifted to get closer, hardly breathing.

Greg leaned against the door jamb, watching the brothers quietly.

For the next several minutes, Mycroft soothed Sherlock. He rocked him, spoke gently, and did his best to help ease his pain. "Thank you for letting me in."

Sherlock slowly pulled away from Mycroft at that, remembering himself with a heavy heart. "I...y-you're not w-well...you're n-not...you should be in b-bed..." He looked down at the port in Mycroft's hand, whimpering quietly as he covered it with his palm.

"Oh...oh M-My you're s-so ill...please...what...I'm s-sorry...please..."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm not ill. Just run down. My body is just throwing a fit because I haven't been getting enough sleep. Really, I'm fine."  
Sherlock leaned back against his brother, closing his eyes and listening to Mycroft's heart beating. "G-Go rest," he whispered, despite having just rested against him again, "y-you need rest."

"Okay. I'll go rest. But can I stay until you fall asleep first?" Mycroft eased them back so Sherlock would be easier to transfer.

Sherlock answered by clinging to his brother, burying his face to Mycroft's chest and hanging on. John and Greg forgotten, he curled as close to Mycroft as he could. 

"W-Would you t-talk to m-me? I don't...don't want t-to hear him anymore."

"Okay," Mycroft spoke in time to his rocking. He began a story from their childhood, one that was soft, kind, and sweet. It was a memory of the beach, and Mycroft described it in loquacious, elegant detail.

Sherlock was asleep by the time his brother stored talking, saline tracks dying on his blotchy, damp face, breath hitching. He sagged down against his brother, heavy in his arms.

Mycroft laid Sherlock back down into bed next to where John sat. "Be good to him," he instructed, to which John nodded.

Still exhausted, he turned to go back go his room. 

Greg stepped aside as Mycroft left the room, silent and weary. He slid his hands in his pockets, he watched Miller go adding with him.

Sherlock shifted enough to grab his own shirt, quiet and upset even in his sleep.

John breathed a slow sigh and reached out for Greg. Sherlock was asleep, which meant his window for showing Greg affection was open, even if it was narrow. John took Greg's hand, then trailed his fingers up his arm, and to the back of his neck where he sank his fingers into his hair. "I love you," he whispered to be cautious of Sherlock's sleep. "Thank you for helping me with this." John leaned forward and gave Greg a soft kiss. He rested his face against Greg's and relaxed for a moment. His position with his face on Greg's, lips barely touching and eyes closed, was more than affectionate. He was comfortable. 

So often had he been denied comfort, both physical and mental, that the feeling was euphoric. John had a comfort in Greg that he had nowhere else. He felt some guilt that Sherlock did not bring that same comfort, but he could not do anything about it, and so he rested against Greg in soft, quiet contentment. 

Greg was grateful that Sherlock tended to hold onto himself in sleep, leaving Greg able to pull John into his arms. "I love you," he whispered, nuzzling against him.

He trailed his fingers along John's back, resting his cheek against John's head. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to settle in how overwhelmed he was with all of this.

John settled into the warmth of his Greg and breathed slow and deep. "Love you too. This is getting easier. Well...I'm getting better. I think so, anyway." He still felt as if he were walking a tight rope, though. 

"Are you okay?"

Greg gathered John closer, taping a few minutes to breathe. "I'm alright," he whispered, not for a moment wanting John to see how deeply he was struggling with this. He felt more exhausted than he had in years. 

"I'm glad this is going so well."

"Yeah," John breathed with his face tucked against Greg's neck. "But it'll be okay. I promise. Things will get better, just like they did with me. Just remember that I love you, and that we can do this. In the long run, it'll be better for us."

Greg wasn't sure of that at all. He scrubbed his fingers over John's scalp and took a few deep breaths. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, "I'm sure they....they will. He's going really well with you. Are you ready for your night meds?"

John nodded and leaned back to stretch. "I forgot how tedious it is to be in bed all day. How did you manage it? You're healthy and capable, and you kept cooped up in my room for months." 

Greg settled more comfortably in his chair after handing John his pills. Gladstone sat beside Greg, heavy head on Greg's lap, giving something to do with his hands. He scratched at the dog as he looked up to John. "How could I not have? You were...I couldn't leave you. I love you," he stated matter-of-fact. That was the way it was. It had been difficult but John had been worth it. 

Sherlock should be worth it. Had he not had to do this with John already, he'd do so with Sherlock. But he was exhausted, had given every scrap of himself to Sherlock, and now he just wanted to enjoy some peace with his John. 

"I'll help you through this as best I can," John said quietly. "I know I don't have much to offer, but I want you to know I'll do everything I can to help you and him. You mean the world to me, Greg."

Greg nodded, leaning forward to rest a hand on John's shoulder. "You should sleep, John. You should sleep. I'll keep watch, okay?"


	26. Chapter 26

John set one hand back on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed. It was difficult to sleep next to him. He'd done everything he could to remember their old relationship, but even then there would have been reservations about this. Still, he wanted to help, and agreed. 

"Alright," John said softly and leaned in for one last kiss before Sherlock inevitably woke. 

Greg caught John's face in his hands and kissed him slowly, wanting to linger there. He eventually leaned back, rubbing at John's back as he curled around Sherlock.

_I can't do this._

The next few hours passed by without much activity, allowing Greg to kick his feet up and doze off. 

John had nightmares frequently. Usually, they were not something he couldn't handle. He'd jerk awake, find himself in Greg's arms, take some time to calm down, then go back to sleep. 

But this time when he jumped into alertness, disoriented and afraid, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock instead of his comforting Greg. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't frighten him, but John wasn't used to waking to see him. He was used to Greg. Things that were out of his routine were intensely stressful for John. His chest already heaving, John let out a yelp of surprise and jerked backwards.

Sherlock's eyes flew open just in time to see it. He sucked in a sharp breath, pulling his hands to his chest and crying out in confusion. 

Greg wrapped his arm around John, holding him to his chest and speaking swiftly. "Shh, shhh...I'm right here. You are safe...you are safe John," he assured, ignoring Sherlock as his whole world honed in on comforting his John. 

Sherlock was swallowing rapidly, looking across the room for Mycroft. It was dark, and he wasn't there. Sherlock's fingers went to his lips as he began to bite down on them in sharp distress, breathing fast and wild through his nose as he pinched his eyes shut. 

John's breath was already hitching when he grabbed hold of Greg. He crawled fully into his lap and hid his face into his shoulder. "Saw bad things," he whimpered and his heart leapt in his chest like a frightened rabbit. "I-I saw the b-bad things again. I-I...I'm-" 

John barely knew where he was, and didn't want to expand his reality beyond Greg. He nuzzled the side of his neck and whimpered again.

Sherlock sank a hand into his hair, doing his best not to scream. He shifted back and then back again, nearly in a full blown panic. What had he done? 

Greg rocked John as he held him, rubbing his back and trying to soothe him. "It's alright, only dreams. Only dreams now. You're safe." 

John nodded and made himself very small in Greg's arms. Grief still poured off him in waves, but the initial shock of the dream had mostly faded. 

"Only a dream," he echoed. "Only a dream. You've got me. I'm alright." 

John shuttered and moved his arms away from his chest to wrap around Greg's neck. "It feels bad," he whispered, but did not completely slip back into his old blanket term ' _hurts_ '.

Sherlock watched Greg and John with one another, soaking in guilt so thick his heart slammed into a panic. What had he done? He edged back as far away from the men as possible, tears sliding down his cheeks, burying under the blankets and fighting the urge to scream for Mycroft. 

Greg held John tight, rocking him gently. "You are alright, you're safe. I know it feels bad but it will pass, it will."

John began to calm, and nuzzled on the side of Greg's face. "Okay. Okay. Thank you." 

John was in the same routine he used every night to calm himself. Just the same as his tea temperature test ritual, he was comforted the same way whenever he woke up with a distressing dream. He'd scramble up to be as protected by Greg as he could, stay being held for a few minutes, calm, then go back to sleep. 

"Just a dream," he repeated and gave Greg a quick but loving kiss on the cheek. "I'm okay. I'm-" John stopped and squinted at the wall, which was not by any means the wall at his flat. He jumped a bit before remembering that he'd agreed to stay the night at Sherlock's. John turned and saw him, looking terrified with his finger tips in his mouth, and his heart shattered.

Greg brushed his fingers through John's hair. "Do you want a bit of tea? Can I get you anything?" He was still so focused on John that Sherlock was not even on his radar. The man was being quiet, and so he was out of Greg's mind as he tried to set John right.

John couldn't help but react positively to Greg's touch, and he leaned into his fingers. "Sherlock," he said to Greg. "I need to go help Sherlock." But, oh, he did not want to remove himself from Greg's arms. Not so quickly after a nightmare. 

He glanced over to Sherlock. "Hey, are you okay?"

Greg slid his arms around John once more when John neglected to pull away, settling John against his chest. Sherlock did not respond to them at all, which honestly was just fine with Greg. John's health was what mattered more than anything. 

Sherlock's heart was beating in his throat, a mix of fear and regret. John clung to Greg in a much different way than he reached for his brother. 

_They're like newly weds, and you're thinking of crashing their home. They should be in their own bed, not here in yours. How can you fit into this?_

Moran's vicious voice mocked him in his mind, his eyes touching on all the details of them. _You can't fit. You terrified John. Look how angry Greg is with you._

He remained just as he was, not daring to speak a word as he breathed around the lump in his throat. 

John looked at Sherlock with worry for another few moments before turning back and resting his face against the side of Greg's to catch his hitching breath. 

"I just had a bad dream," he told Sherlock. "Just a bad dream. You didn't scare me. I'm okay. I just have dreams sometimes." He wasn't going to move his face from Greg's if he didn't need to.

Greg rocked John slowly, stroking his fingers through John's hair and whispering comfort to him. 

Sherlock watched them with his heart in his toes, fear shifting slightly, more heartsick than anything after a while. He sucked at his bleeding fingers, pulling at his hair, keeping himself as quiet as he could. 

"Sherlock?" John turned to peer at him, though his eyes were red with tears and not well adjusted to the dim lighting. "You okay? I'm okay. I'm okay." 

He would have settled down to fall asleep against Greg's chest, but he was worried for his friend. So, instead, he settled with resting his forehead against his love's for a moment. 

"Should I go try to talk to him?" He breathed so quietly he could hardly hear it himself.

Greg tucked John back against him. Sherlock was quiet. "He'll likely go back to sleep," he answered in the same nearly inaudible register, "you can just rest. It will be fine in the morning." Or it wouldn't, but they were going to be leaving then anyhow so it truly didn't matter.

John let Greg move him. He had absolutely no heart to struggle against him. "Okay," he whispered back and kissed Greg's cheek before tucking his face under his chin. "But...Sherlock? If you can hear me, would you say something?"

Sherlock was focused on the feel of individual strands of his hair snapping free of the roots, fingertips burning between his lips as he ground his teeth down on them. He did not look up to John, safe behind closed eyes. 

"I'm s-sorry," he breathed around his fingers and the tight swelling in his throat, tears dripping down his cheeks. 

That was all John needed to hear of Sherlock's mental state, and he very slowly got up out of Greg's arms. He lingered for a moment with his head against Greg's to soak up the comfort, like a free diver before a deep mission takes a deep breath of air.

He slipped into bed beside Sherlock and sat very still. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

Sherlock did not move at all. "G-Go h-h-hom-me," he stammered, feeling as though he was tearing out his own heart, "I w-want you t-to go...g-g-o h-home." 

John's hand flew up to cover his mouth. "No," he whispered. "No. No. I don't want to. I..." John's heart twisted painfully. He'd messed it up again. He'd forgotten he wasn't supposed to be affectionate to Greg. He hadn't kissed him, but still, he should have been able to deal with the nightmare himself.

"I'm sorry," John gasped. "Please. I just forgot. Don't send me away."

Sherlock could not see through the tears, though he was still very quiet in his grief. 

"Go _h-home_ ," he said again, the words somewhat twisted around his fingers. He sucked in a sharp breath before his chest buckled on a silent sob.   
"Y-You're...you've g-g-got a l-life and...a-and y-you need to g-go where y-you feel s-safe and sl-sleep. Go h-home." 

John inched closer and opened his arms. "Please don't send me away." John could not force his voice above a rough whisper. 

"Let me try again. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so careless. We were having a good day. I just had a nightmare. Please forgive me. Please."

Oh, how he wanted to reach out for John and curl into his arms. But he would never be Greg, and John would never love him like that. How could he bear it? 

"N-Nothing...nothing t-to forgive," he sobbed, shaking his head, "y-you spent...t-the whole d-day...you sh-should go wh-where you f-f-feel safe, John. P-Please," god, asking John to go was hell. 

"I had a _nightmare_." John offered it up as his only excuse. 

"I didn't mean to leave you! We've been over this so many times. I'm not leaving. I'm sorry I triggered this. Please, just come back to me and I'll try not to react as badly next time."

Sherlock closed his eyes and curled in tighter on himself. It wasn't that John had a nightmare, not at all. He kept his hand in his hair, fingers in his mouth, and kept silent. 

John looked down and nodded. Right. He'd messed up. He'd been weak, and he'd ruined things again. "I'll...I'll just sleep, then." Slowly he pulled his arms back to his chest and turned so his face was in the pillow. 

It was only a few minutes before his grief got the better of him, and tiny, muffled sobs could be heard through the down of the pillow. John's shoulders shook slightly, and he tried desperately to silence himself.

Sherlock was about to reach for the crying man, steeped in bitter self-loathing, when Greg beat him to it. Greg shot him a glare before rubbing at John's back, carding his fingers through John's hair. He leaned in and whispered next to John's ear. 

"You're alright love, I'm right here. It's not your fault you had a disturbing dream. That's not your fault. You did nothing wrong," he assured, ignoring how Sherlock curled in tighter on himself, making his body as small as possible. 

John shook his head and pulled the blankets up to barrier himself from everyone in the room. "I'm sorry," he whispered and narrowly kept himself from sobbing it. "I'll just sleep. I'm okay. I'm sorry." 

He was apologizing to both of them; Greg for pulling away, and Sherlock for going to Greg the first time. He knew better now. He knew he had to remain completely still. He hadn't hurt anyone by sleeping.

Sherlock spent the remainder of the night wide awake, listening to the circling echoes of Moran in his head, knowing he'd done the wrong thing by asking John to go home. He kept himself tucked in a very small pocket of the bed and just waited for the sun to rise, knowing John was going to leave him in the morning. 

John stayed face down and trembling for the rest of the night. He wanted to sleep, but in a cruel paradox was afraid he would dream and hurt people. When the first bars of light brightened the room, he turned to look for Sherlock.   
"Are you okay?"

Sherlock's hands were a mess, bloodied and water-logged. He looked to John for just a moment before looking away. "I s-stole a n-night of sl-sleep f-from you," he croaked, hardly able to stand the way John and Greg looked. Greg had deep bags under his eyes, none of them having slept at all. 

"I'm...I'm j-just making y-y-you s-sick as w-well." 

John reached out to take hold of Sherlock's hands, but his earlier words _go home_ echoed in John's mind. He curled his fingers in the air and his face fell. 

"I just wanted to help you. I've made everything worse. I'm sorry. I'll leave if you want. I'd understand."

Sherlock nearly shouted in frustration, turning his tear-streaked face to the ceiling. " _I_ made it w-w-worse! M-ME! I s-scared you...I t-t-took you f-f-from-m your b-bed where you...y-you can f-f-feel s-safe and I'm in the w-way! You did n-nothing wrong, John!" 

"No! No! Things were fine until I had a nightmare and needed Greg. You don't like it when I'm with Greg. It triggers something. You get worse. I'm sorry. I'm trying so hard! I just got really scared because I had a nightmare!" 

John covered his face with the pillow. "I'm not afraid of you! I had a nightmare! Please, we were alright before that!"

Sherlock's mind immediately handed him the memory of how John had looked when he saw Sherlock next to him, just before he lurched away. 

"Y-You should g-g-go to Greg wh-when you're s-scared...or wh-when you n-need to. I know you l-love him. I'm...I'm h-happy y-you...you h-have...someone." 

He tucked his wrecked fingers back between his teeth, "I t-told you t-to go h-home...s-so that you c-could b-be comfortable."

"Well, yeah, of course I love Greg," John countered, "But it's not...It's not _exclusive_ or anything! Me loving Greg does not invalidate that I love you as well." 

It was a very different sort of love, but it was there nonetheless. John cautiously turned and opened his arms for Sherlock. "Please?"

Sherlock allowed John to put his arms around him, though he was still incredibly unsettled. John was hedging, but perhaps Sherlock would be able to send him on his way without John blaming himself for this. 

He thought it extremely likely that later in the day, he'd find a way to stop his own heart. He was so indescribably exhausted. 

John buried his face into Sherlock's neck and whimpered. "I'm so sorry. I love you. Are you angry with me for going to Greg? Because whenever I hug him or am held by him, it upsets you. I just want to work this out now so I know what's okay and what isn't."

Sherlock covered his face with his hands. 

"I'm n-not an-n-gry with y-you at all," he breathed, doing his best not to break down. 

He was hurting John so terribly. He did not have the energy to explain himself. 

"Y-You love h-him. He's...you...of c-c-course you love him. He's...he w-was there wh-when I was n-not. He's s-safe. I'm n-not. He's...he's y-yours and...and I'm...I'll al-always just b-be..." he swallowed hard, longing for his heart to quit. How was he to make this understandable? 

"I w-won't ever b-be like I w-was....a-and I won't e-ever be G-Greg."

"Yeah..." John admitted slowly. "You aren't Greg. We can agree to that. But that doesn't mean I don't love you. It doesn't mean I don't want to come see you. If everyone had been selfish when I first got back, I wouldn't have gotten out of the mental facility. I want to stay here with you because I know we can have a nice future. But I can't if you get upset that I love Greg, so let's clear things up. I am not any kind of exclusive with Greg. I want to see you. Is that simple enough?"

How he wanted it to be simple enough. 

"Th-Then v-visit m-me," he wept, keeping a hand over his eyes, "v-visit m-me and l-live with him."

John looked around the room. "Isn't that what we're doing? We're visiting until we work something else out. Let's just focus on this. We can do this. It's simple. We just enjoy each other's company. Easy."

"Y-You spent...the n-n-night in t-tears, you d-don't enjoy b-being here and G-Greg..." he looked to the first man he'd ever considered his friend grinding his teeth in the corner, swiftly averting his eyes, "d-doesn't c-care for...y-you to be n-near me anymore." 

He closed his eyes, sucking at the fissures along his fingertips. 

"Greg knows I want to be here," John said and directed his words towards the man in the corner. "Besides, I am not upset because I'm here. I'm just sad that I messed up again. We go over this every time. You need to accept that I'm here."

Sherlock rolled to his back and pressed trembling hands over his eyes, breaking down abruptly. In a moment of panic he began scratching at himself, nails biting in along his hairline as he let out a low, trailing sound of despair. 

He nearly spoke again but what was the point? He'd made John feel bad for having a nightmare, for god's sake. Greg was furious with him. Mycroft was so ill he was hooked to a line and under a doctor's care. All of this sourcing from himself. 

The worst part was that it _did_ hurt him to see John startle away from him and wrap himself up in Greg's arms as a bid for protection and shelter. It did hurt him to see how much John loved him. No matter how much John insisted it was simply the love between friends, any fool on the street could see otherwise. 

He dug deeper into his scalp, feeling it give under his nails. John shouldn't feel bad for loving someone. It was Sherlock who was behaving horribly. If John had let him, back in those early days, Sherlock would have never left his side. Sherlock would have been in Greg's place. But he was pushed out, replaced, and now he was _charity_ and how was he going to manage to put himself down with John insisting that he stay? The idea of surviving through another day was intolerable. 

"Sherlock, stop!" John pulled his hands away from his skin and held them at his own chest. "I said I was sorry. I'm trying. We can make this work. Just tell me what I'm doing wrong." 

He knew it was Greg. John knew damn well the comfort he found in Greg's arms and on his lips was what was killing Sherlock. John looked back to Greg for a moment and silently despaired at the look in his face. But he only looked for a moment. 

"Sherlock, I need you to look at me." He took his face in his hands and kept their faces close. "The fact that I care about Greg and that he helps me does not negate the fact that I want to be here with you."

Sherlock wanted to curl into John's arms, and to get up and run until his body stopped working. John was acting around him, was putting on a show and last night he'd gotten to peak behind the curtains. One look at Sherlock had John fleeing for protection. 

"N-Nothing!" Sherlock sobbed in heartbreak, "You're d-doing nothing w-wrong! I'm...I'm-" he was looking anywhere but at the one man he'd wanted back in his life more than anything, so painfully close but still so far away. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he searched for words, unable to do so. 

"I'm s-sorry," he managed, seconds before breaking down into quiet grief, "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry."

John grabbed Sherlock and hugged him. "Give it another month. We can make it through a month. There's no whips or burning or drowning here. You and I have nice beds and nice people. You can make it a month. By then, we'll have worked all this out, okay? I'll keep coming back, if you'll have me, and I'll get better at this."

Sherlock pressed his face down against John's shoulder and simply wept. He couldn't make it another month. He couldn't make it another _hour_. 

Greg watched the men silently from where he'd sat next to the bed and passed the night. Sherlock's aid should be back soon, enabling him to gather John into his arms and take them home, where he was likely to deal with unending rounds of self-loathing and self-blame from John. 

John ground his teeth. "Tell me what you want." He spoke calmly, but with no room for a different option. "Tell me what your ideal is at this point."

Sherlock’s reality swiftly shifted to the safe inside of his mind without his meaning to do so. 

_John looked up from his paper, sitting in his chair, exacerbation in his expression. 'Careful, Sherlock. You're irritating now.'_

_Sherlock looked around Baker Street, the same as it always had been only now the cane was resting against his own leg. When he looked down at himself his body was not a mess any longer. He was fleshed out, suit on and mostly normal save for some faded scars on his hands. The flat smelled as it had, and Gladstone sat at John's feet, happy and sleeping._

_John spoke softly from his chair, folding the paper and setting it aside. 'Sherlock. You and I both know this is never going to happen. Fix it. Fix what you are seeing.'_

_Before John finished speaking, Greg walked out of the kitchen, leaning down and smiling as John looked up at him moments before they shared a familiar kiss. Sherlock's heart lurched and twisted hard in his chest. Mary had been one thing. She was a woman. She provided what Sherlock had no chance of offering. But Greg? Greg was a man, which meant Sherlock was simply not enough._

_He watched as the pair of them got up, whispering a warm goodnight to him, Gladstone getting to his feet happily and following the couple up the stairs to John's bedroom. Sherlock watched them quietly, left to his own in the sitting room. No longer was he on the sofa, but back in a wheelchair, the furniture shifted so that he could get about. His violin sat up on the bookshelves with a layer of dust, no casework about, the kitchen table devoid of his lab equipment. Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs and began to fuss at him to take his pills. John's laughter dripped down through the ceiling, a joke he would not share with the man._

It was hateful. 

Sherlock had gone still and quiet as he rest against John, thinking in response to the man's irritated question. What was left to want at all? Even if John would be his friend, he'd still not be anything to him. He'd been completely replaced without hope of ever restoring himself.

"I- I don't..." _I want your Browning_ "I d-d-on't know." 

John exhaled sharply. "I need to know what you want. I need to know what I need to work on. I can do this. I'm really, really, trying. How about this? I'll tell you what I think would be ideal, then you tell me what you want, and we'll go in the middle."

Sherlock could feel the irritation rising off John in waves. He just nodded, keeping his face hidden away, neither holding on to John nor drawing back. 

"Okay. What I want is to live somewhere safe. Ideally, that would be at Greg's place, since I've already gotten used to it, and it's difficult for me to break routines. Now, I might get over that and be able to live somewhere else. I'd like to have my dog, and my tea. I'd like you and Greg to be there. I can't be alone. You and I could go outside and walk Gladstone. The three of us could watch movies and play games. I'd like that a lot. Things would be peaceful." 

John paused. He also wanted Sherlock to be okay with him cuddling with Greg. He would like for Sherlock to fit into his calm life so he didn't have to constantly tiptoe around him. "What is it you want?"

The last vestiges of Sherlock's composure crumbled like ash beneath his feet. He'd go stark raving mad living as a pathetic third wheel to Greg and John. All his little windows of hope slammed shut around him as he pressed his eyes closed, heavy tears sliding down his face. 

_John was once again in his chair with his paper, as always. He looked over to Sherlock, who was slouched in his wheelchair, staring wistfully at him. 'You knew this part was over, Sherlock. You did. No getting around it. I don't love you like I did, and I won't ever love you like that again.'_

Sherlock's voice was completely broken as he spoke, voice muffled in John's shoulder. "I want y-you to g-go home," he sobbed, leaning away in the next moment. "G-Go home...J-John." 

"Damnit," John breathed and covered his eyes. How had that been wrong? He had said exactly what he wanted, and been gentle about it. He'd said he wanted to live permanently with Sherlock when he wasn't even sure that was the case.   
"No, no, I- How was that wrong? What part of that do you not like?"

Sherlock held on to his own shirt, bracing against the headboard. 

"Why? W-What do y-you want m-me to say? I'm-" his breathing caught on a hitching sob, "I w-want to go h-home! I want...I w-want to m-matter to you as I once d-did. I- I want you in y-your ch-chair and I- I- don't want to move the f-f-furniture so that I c-can wheel about l-like an invalid! I don't w-want to listen to y-you p-pair laughing upstairs while Mrs. H-Hudson helps m-me b-bathe and eat! I- god I c-can't! I c-can't!" he was pulling at his hair, hopeless to the future. 

"Y-You opened your eyes and s-saw m-m-me and it made you p-panic! You are n-never g-going to...to f-feel...e-even as you did before towards me. I'm...you endure m-me. You l-love Greg and I'm s-s-selfish and I w-want you to l-love m-m-me like th-that! Is that wh-what you need to h-hear to leave me? That I l-love you and I know y-you don't l-love me?" 

John had known that it would come to this. He'd known, but he'd hoped otherwise. 

"Sherlock..." How did he explain? He loved Greg. Greg was his entire life. Sherlock was emotionally difficult at the most gracious. 

"I...I don't want you to be upset about this. I love you. I don't...Greg and I aren't a couple. We don't...I'm not _gay_ , Sherlock." John paused. It sounded strange saying that now, now that the last person he kissed was a man, the person he spent his nights with was a man, and the person whose arms he ran to was a man. 

But it wasn't romantic. It couldn't be. True, they did speak kindly and lovingly towards each other, and they were almost always in physical contact, but that didn't seem to matter. There had never been anything sexual about it. God, no. 

"It isn't like that," John insisted. "And before, you just wanted me to not be afraid of you. Now I'm not afraid. Then you wanted me to be able to come see you, and I did. Now...I've done my best to do everything you asked. I do not want to leave you. Listen to me now. I do not want to leave you. Is there any way that you and I can be friends? Is there any way that you and I can live together, and be friends? Is that...will you accept what I can offer you? Is there any way you and I can be friends?"

Sherlock simply listened to John speak, tears constantly dripping down his face. John had done everything he'd listed. Sherlock was a terrible man, and he wanted impossible things. 

"I've n-never stopped...b-being your friend," he breathed, looking down at his mangled hands. What he'd done for John would never be enough. He'd given his body and mind for John, but it would be Greg who would have John's heart. 

John whimpered and covered his face with his hands. 

"I know. I'm sorry I stopped being yours. You...you saw. You know what they...what they made me think was happening. But as soon as I learned it wasn't you, I fought back. I fought to be your friend. I have fought so hard and I will continue fighting to make you happy. Our relationship will grow. We were apart for six months. Over time, we'll become close again, just like we were. We can go back to that, like we were when we had cases." 

John kept himself from looking at Greg for help. He needed to do this on his own. 

"But...Sherlock...That's all I can promise right now. Maybe things will change, but I am offering to go back to the old bickering and banter and laughter we used to have. Do you want that? Could we work for that?"

Sherlock could not look at John as his gut twisted. 

"We only h-had that...b-because I c-could k-keep you busy. You p-put up w-with me because I e-entertained y-you, gave you b-back the battlefield. We c-c-can't go b-back...we c-can only go f-forward." 

He looked up at John then, forcing himself to look John right in the eye. 

"Can y-you...h-honestly tell m-me that...that I...wh-what's l-l-left of me...is s-someone you c-could ever...could y-you ever m-move past simply e-enduring m-me? I am y-your work hours...your p-peaceful d-day starts wh-when I am gone." 

John shook his head. "Stop. No. You and I are friends. You never were just the work. Believe me, that was amazing. But it wasn't all I liked about you. Even when we had no cases, you and I were friends. Good friends. I'd rather you and I be friends and have no cases." 

He reached out and took Sherlock's hands. "I accept you as you are."

Sherlock hung his head, sobbing as John's words sounded beautiful and meant precious little. He'd foolishly hoped that one day they'd go home. That if he worked hard enough there would be life in Baker Street once more. But all there was ahead of him was Greg's flat, if Greg even allowed him to come there, or his brother's home, sitting and waiting for something to happen during the day other than attempting children's books and struggling to feed himself. 

Suicide was his only real option, the only way to ensure the misery stopped. John had love and peace in his life, but Sherlock...that wasn't going to happen for him. 

John only heard Sherlock sobbing, and assumed once again he had ruined things. "Or, or not, or..." John could feel himself getting upset. Red hot energy surged in his veins and he shook his head. Anger was bad. He was likely to shout. 

"I need to go for a moment. I need to take a second outside. Greg, would you stay with Sherlock for a moment?"

Greg got to his feet, shaking his head. "I'll call Miller," he said with his phone already in hand, texting the doctor to come sit with Sherlock. 

Sherlock sank his hands into his hair, pulling hard at his curls and saying nothing. 

"No, no, I just need a minute." John got up out of the bed and walked swiftly out of the room. 

God. He hated this. 

He walked a few steps away and clenched his hands into fists. "Damnit," he muttered. Sherlock wasn't content with his friendship. That wasn't enough. It would never be. 

John loved Greg. He truly did. And he hated that he did not feel the same about Sherlock, but there seemed to be nothing he could do. He'd worked so hard, and for his efforts, he was only sent home. 

He took a moment to cool down. He walked up and down the halls and remembered that this wasn't Sherlock talking. This was the trauma.

Sherlock looked over to Greg, staring at him for a moment before looking away. "You...y-you used to b-be my friend," he said through his tears, the sound of his heart breaking clear and unmistakable. 

Greg ran a hand over the back of his neck, incredibly uncomfortable being left alone with Sherlock. "I ah...I still am. I just...it's difficult to see John hurting. He's trying-" 

Sherlock looked up with tears streaming down his face. " _So h-hard_ , yes...I know th-that, G-Greg. I know. I w-was supposed t-to die and I didn't." 

Greg drew in a slow breath, thinking back to the day Sherlock had gone willingly, already full of bullets, to Moran. He'd honestly never expected to see him again. 

"I....Sherlock I don't know what to say. I don't. You...I care about you, yeah? I just...John has clawed his way back and you're knocking him down, and I don't understand why." 

He swore to himself as Sherlock flinched as though Greg had gotten up and struck him. "Sherlock- no- that's not-" but Sherlock waved a hand to stop him, curling down on his side and opening the fissures in his fingertips with his teeth. 

John took a few minutes to be calm. He breathed slow and deep, then opened the door. He saw Sherlock's state of pain and rushed over. 

"Jesus Greg," John breathed, "I was gone two minutes!" It was harsh, but John was already angry. "Sherlock, stop. Don't hurt yourself. You're safe. Please, look at me. I'm back. I'm sorry."

Greg had gotten up to go to Sherlock, but sat back down as John rushed in. He sat back down, chastised. He looked to the floor as John spoke softly to Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked at John, taking in the anger rolling off of him. He'd done this. If he'd simply been quiet and nodded along with the fantasy of them in the future, John wouldn't be so upset. Greg wouldn't have laid out the truth so harshly, and Sherlock might have been able to quietly send them home for the day so that he could find a way to take himself out of the mix. 

He struggled for something to say, but could find nothing. He kept his eyes to John's face and otherwise remained silent. 

John sat on the bed and pulled Sherlock possessively into his lap. His back was to Greg, and he clenched his jaw to keep from lashing out at anyone. "It's alright. I've got you. Just stay calm. I will make this work. Just trust me."

Sherlock was silent as John moved him, his breathing changing over the flash of pain at being shifted, but otherwise he was still. 

Greg, likewise, did not dare speak, unwilling to incite John's anger any further.  
"You don't want to live with Greg and I. You don't like that I love Greg. You want me to live only with you. But I don't want to leave Greg. The three of us _can_ live together, but it has to be your choice. We can...Where do you want to live? Baker Street? I can probably do that. Probably will be fine."

Sherlock slowly shook his head, growing more and more numb as the minutes ticked by. "G-Greg's f-flat 's fine," he said so thickly he was nearly slurring. He'd been thinking of going home with the ability to walk again. The short visit he'd had there, where he'd been allowed to lie in his dusty bed and renew the familiar scent of his home had stripped away his logic. He just wanted to go back, ached terribly for the warm comfort of Mrs. Hudson, for John's attention and company, for the quiet peace they had there. 

But it wasn't to be. Not ever again. He'd been in a state of denial for nearly a year and not realized it. Waking up was brutal. 

"Sherlock?" John nudged him. "I will live at Baker Street if that is what you want, just not yet, alright? Please. Please don't have such a bad outlook on things. It'll be like our old life, but with Greg. That'll be nice."

Sherlock simply rest his head against John's chest, listening to John's heart beating steady behind his ribs. His old life was dead and gone. It would never be like that again. He inhaled deeply and remained very quiet, pained with the knowledge that he'd lost Greg too. _You keep pushing him down, and I don't understand why._

His breathing caught and he was doing his level best to keep quiet. "Okay," he whispered, trying to pacify John, "that...ok-kay...n-nice...yes...it...it w-will be n-nice." 

"I'm sorry you don't want me to love Greg," John whispered and his chest ached. "I don't want to hurt you. But...I wouldn't...I just don't want you to be uncomfortable for the rest of your life, and I think Greg and I can make a good life for you. And I do love you."

Sherlock sluggishly shook his head, staring across the room. "I'm g-glad you h-have someone to l-love," he whispered, meaning that as a whole truth. he was very glad of that. It hurt that it would never be him again, and he did not for one second believe that John loved him, but it was kind of him to lie. 

Greg sat in his chair, watching them both and grinding his teeth, furious with Sherlock for making John feel guilty over this. "He's doing his best, Sherlock. What more do you want from him? Don't make him feel guilty for having a bit of love in his life. For god's sake." 

Sherlock's lower lip trembled as Greg's words struck like a whip. "I'm n-not," he choked out while heavy tears began to roll down his face again, "I- I'm n-not...I'm not...I-" he covered his face with a shaking hand and ached for anyone to come help him, be it Jared or his brother...hell even one of his night aids. "I- I'm s-sorry." 

"Greg!" John turned to look at him with surprise and anger written clear on his face. " _Shut up_. You can't say that to him! Don't you dare talk to Sherlock like that! You have _no idea_ what he's been through." 

John wrapped himself around Sherlock and pulled the blankets up over them both. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's okay. You're okay. Just ignore him. He's being mean."

Greg got up and left the room without another word, heart thundering in his ears, needing a moment to cool down. 

Sherlock was biting furiously at his fingers, shamed and cut to the quick. "I- I'm- y-you sh-should h-have..." his breathing caught and he could not help the sob that tore out of him, nearly doubling him in half, "I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry! I- I w-want it to be _me_ , I h-hate m-m-mys-sself for losing wh-what I h-had with y-you!" 

_I think I loved you once. If you'd just said something, this wouldn't have happened._

He tore at his hair before biting at his bleeding fingers, desperate for some form of relief, choking on his words, "I'm sorry! I- I- wh-what did I _do_?! E-Everyth-thing is wr-rong!" 

John was going to be sick with himself later, but for right now, he had to focus on Sherlock. "You want to be my Greg. I understand. I'm so sorry. We can go back to what we had! I offered that! I tried! Why don't we just go back to the way we were?"

Sherlock struggled to catch his breath enough to speak. 

"W-We were...only e-e-ever l-like that b-because y-you n-needed m-me too,” and oh, how John did not need him now, not at all, not in any sense. "Pl-lease- please! I- I h-have tr-r-ried to do e-everything y-you wanted! Please! I- I'm s-sorry I- I don't know wh-what-" he was going to pass out if he did not calm down. Could Mycroft hear him if he screamed? Would any of them hear him? 

Greg walked quietly back into the room, taking his seat back, wanting nothing more than to pull John into his arms and take him the hell away from here. 

John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I am not upset with you. I think I should go. I'm making you worse. I came to help and I'm only making things worse. I'm going to go. I love you. Please, please, please, don't resent me. I'm going to come back, if you will allow me to. I love you. I'm going to go."

Sherlock eased himself off John's lap, saying nothing at all in response to that. He curled down on his side, fingers in his lips, desperately crawling back into his own mind for want of any form of comfort. 

Greg patted his side for Gladstone and moved forward, arms out to John to help him off the bed if he needed it. 

John bent over and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I'll come back and sort this all out," he whispered. "I promise." John pulled the covers up over Sherlock's shoulders and turned to leave without acknowledging Greg. 

While he led the way down the hallway he was several paces ahead, and remained that way until they got to the car. He opened the door for Gladstone, scooted over to the furthest seat on the right, and sat quietly.

Greg was so preoccupied with John's upset towards him that he neglected to let anyone know they were leaving. Sherlock was alone in the foreign room, beyond considering suicide to the point of actively planning it. The door had been quietly closed out of habit, and he had a few minutes at the very least to himself. 

"I'm sorry, John," he said as he slid in the car next to the man, his voice soft with regret, "I didn't mean to make that worse. I'm sorry. I was worried about you."

John ground his teeth and did not look at Greg. He stared directly ahead as his jaw flexed and his hands clenched. "It's fine," he clipped out. "Just drop it."

Greg inhaled slowly and nodded, looking out the window as they began to drive. For five minutes, there was nothing but silence in the car. Greg broke it with an attempt at an explanation. 

"I'm- I'm accustomed to protecting you. I love you and he was hurting you. I was wrong, it's not an excuse, I just...John please, talk to me?"

John took a short breath. "Stop. You were cruel to him. You told him everything he was afraid of hearing. You confirmed that he was hurting me, and that you hold animosity towards him. He's sensitive. It'll take us weeks to get past that, which means more work for both of us. I need to think about things. I can't talk right now, alright?"

Greg looked down at his lap, silent as his heart squeezed. John was right, he'd done exactly that. He closed his eyes and said nothing for the remainder of the trip home. 

When they were up in their flat, he moved silently into the kitchen to make John a cuppa. They were both exhausted, and Greg had generated more work for them inadvertently. 

John did not want to be angry with Greg, but he was. He was also angry with Sherlock, Jared, Mycroft, and himself. Gladstone followed at his heels, and John scowled at the dog without meaning to. He went out on the porch and sat down on the bench with his arms crossed.

Greg walked out a few minutes later and hovered in the doorway, a mug of tea in hand. "You don't have to talk to me. Will you please drink this and eat something?" 

John shook his head. "No. I don't want to talk to anyone right now." John chose isolation over the idea that going into Greg's arms would hurt Sherlock. He was also very, very bitter towards Greg. "Please leave me alone."

A moment of hurt flashed across Greg's face and he set the tea down beside John without a word, turning and walking back into the flat. Now was as good of time as any to bathe, he desperately needed a shower and a shave and would handle it then. Perhaps John would be willing to talk to him after. 

While the water ran, he forced himself to think about all of this. He was more sure now than ever that he did not want Sherlock living with them. It was always upsetting, always, and he did not have the energy to keep up with him. He let himself soak, trying to come up with a solution. 

Half an hour later he stepped back out onto the patio, sitting down across from John without speaking. 

John had his chin propped up on his hand and his eyes fixed on somewhere far past the walls. "You can't.....mmm...." John pressed his lips in a tight, thin line. "Please explain why you said what you did."

Greg nodded, dropping his head slightly. He absolutely owed John an explanation. 

"You've worked so hard. You've worked so hard, and you deserve love, and I could not stand hearing you feel guilty for having it. I lost my head. It was the wrong way to go about defending you. I was afraid you'd pull away from me if he got to you, and I was trying to tell him that what he was upset about wasn't fair."

John kept his jaw clamped shut until he had organized his words in a neat, single file line. 

"Sherlock has earned love. He deserves it. He went to Hell for me. He lost his legs, mind, hands, violin, work, and life for me. I've done nothing to deserve your love. I've done nothing for you personally. I need you with me. I love you. I can't imagine a life without you. I don't plan on living an hour longer than you do. That's the way things are. But Sherlock won't be happy when we're together. I can't understand it. I mean, I understand the feeling. He is jealous and pining. But people don't get this suicidal when the bloke they love loves someone else. Generally people just....move on." 

John stood up and paced. 

"Except I'm not asking him to! I'm just asking him to accept that I do not love him romantically or sexually. I just don't...Why can't he accept what I've offered? I've offered him everything! If he asked me to have off my hands and give them to him, I would not tell him no."

Greg nodded, fully agreeing with John. "I don't know why, John. I don't get it either, and it makes me angry that he's like that with you. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, but he likely needed to hear it. You didn't need to earn love from me, as a side note. You've been my best mate for years, I already loved you. I'm so proud of all the progress you've made." 

How was he going to go about this? He sat quietly, trying to get his thoughts together.

"I don't think he should live with us, John." 

"If you won't allow him to live with us, please give me at least a month's warning so I can work something else out. And could you text Mycroft what happened? Jared will be in, but he needs Mycroft more." 

John looked at Greg with equal parts anger and love. He wanted to crawl into his lap and be rocked, but couldn't shake the feeling that it would actively wound Sherlock. So instead he got up and went back into the house to the kitchen table, which was hardly used due to the fact that it was on the other side of the kitchen he avoided in general, and they ate in the living room. It was a very passive way of hiding.

Greg fired off a swift text to Mycroft. 

_Went bad. Had to leave. Will talk later._

He then followed John into the kitchen, "If you're angry with me, then talk. Please don't sit uncomfortably in the kitchen. It's not about allowing him to live with us or not, John. I'm trying to open a dialog here."

"I don't want you to be mean to him again," John's voice returned in a much quieter tone. His anger was slowly giving way to sadness, and he kept his eyes on the table. "It makes me sad when you're mean to him. I don't want anyone to hurt Sherlock. Please don't."

Greg nodded, breathing in deep. "I didn't intend to be cruel, though I suppose I was. Hey..." He gentled his voice and held out a hand for John, "please, come to bed with me. It's been a hard day."

John shook his head. The energy that had pulled his sadness into anger dissipated like an unraveling hurricane. "I-I just don't want you to hurt him anymore. I don't like it. I really don't like it. I want him to be happy. I know he's difficult and makes things harder for me, but I still care about him."

Greg leaned down and very gently pulled John up out of his chair. "I know, love, I know. You staying up and being upset isn't helping anyone. Let's go to bed, sleep will make this easier. You had a very hard night." 

John did not struggle against Greg, but he did not lean into him. He stayed as he was directed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

"I don't know what to do," he whimpered. "I thought that I could just help him, but now I can't help him unless I stop loving you, which I can't do. I can't do what he's asking. I can't." 

John's eyes brimmed with tears. "I can't do it."

Greg pulled John to his chest, holding him close and rocking him very slowly. "I don't know what to say about Sherlock, love. I don't understand him either. Maybe he just needs more time to get his head right. We can give him space, let him sort himself out. Jared seems like a nice enough fellow so he isn't alone. Come on, John, let's go to bed. Let's just try and rest."

"I just keep hurting him. I do. I really am not doing any good at all." John was struck with the same feeling of hopeless worthlessness he always was after an unsuccessful visit. 

"I didn't see why you aren't ever mad at me for always hurting him, but now I see it's because you don't like him."

That struck Greg silent for a moment. "No. God, no John that's not- I love Sherlock, I really do. I've...it's just been you and I these last few months and I- I stop seeing him as Sherlock and I just saw him as someone hurting you. It's not about- god you've done everything you can to keep him safe and happy. It's not your fault. I think he's just...there is too much broken with him. I-" he stopped himself before he called Sherlock a _lost cause_ , though he very much felt like the man was. 

"I love you, you've done him more good than harm, even Mycroft says that again and again."

"I don't believe you. I think you want to love Sherlock, and you remember that you did, and you pity him, but you don't love him." 

John didn't have any accusation in his tone. "And you scare him now, which means I have to go see him without you next time."

The solid weight of his failure dropped down on Greg like a ton of bricks, stealing his breath away. "No. No...give me another chance. Let me have another chance. I was fine with him last time. I do love him, I just get blinded sometimes. I'm sorry. John I'm sorry, we have to get him used to the pair of us if he's going to stay here."

"No." John hated opposing Greg. It was so very, incredibly, mortally contrary to what his core was. He needed to not be trouble. He needed to go with what Greg said so there was no pain for anyone. He wasn't afraid of Greg hurting him, in fact, it was the exact opposite, but he was still afraid. 

"I'm going to go in alone. Take some time to yourself."

Greg closed his eyes and let his arms drop away from John. He'd seriously messed up here. He could feel his eyes burning as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

"Okay," he said roughly, feeling a wall forming between them. He'd been afraid that he'd lose John when Sherlock came into the picture, even though that had always been the plan. 

"Will...will you still...come to bed or should..." he cleared his throat, looking down at his feet, "should I kip on the sofa?"

John shook his head and went to sit on the couch. "You go on to bed. I'll join you later. I just need some more time to figure things out." 

What he needed was to make a plan without the comfort of Greg to cloud him. If he were to get in bed and be warm and safe, he'd be more likely to think _sod Sherlock_ and just stay with Greg forever. 

Greg's heart froze for a moment as his palms grew damp. He stared at John in open shock and hurt before remembering himself. "Oh...I- I see." He slid his hands into his pockets, vision blurring. "I'll...I'll just go then."

He walked slowly to the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed and dropping his face in his hands. 

John began to cry as soon as Greg left. He was overly frustrated and there was far too much riding on his choices. Now he couldn't trust Greg to help him with Sherlock. He couldn't trust Sherlock with anything. He didn't even like Mycroft.

For the first time since he'd bonded to Greg, John felt well and truly on his own.

He did not handle stress well. John rocked himself on the couch with his eyes wild and his hands in fists. He tried to think, but got nowhere.

He spent a full hour trying to force his mind to do something useful, but stress, guilt and fear drove all useful thoughts from his mind.

Eventually, John got up and walked slowly to the bedroom. He stood outside the door, his eyes puffy and red and his arms wrapped around his ribs.

"I feel alone," John choked.

Greg hadn't moved from his position on the bed. He got up, nearly falling in his haste, and wrapped his arms around John. "You're not. You're not alone. I'll do better. If you want him here, I'll be very careful with him. I swear I'll do better. You're not alone. I'm with you if you'll let me. Please, John. You're not alone. I love you, I'm so sorry I messed up today."

"I am! I want to help Sherlock, but you don't like me being near him, and I don't like Mycroft, and Sherlock is afraid of me, and Mycroft hates me, and Sherlock distrusts Jared, and I don't know what t-to do because nobody is on my side! I hate this! H-How can Sherlock want m-me to love him? He saw! He fucking saw what they did! H-He should be happy that I am offering to live with him, not be sending me home for not being in love with him!" 

John collapsed against Greg and grief rolled off him in waves.

Greg held John to him, taking his weight. "I'm on your side. I'm on your side, John. Come to bed and sleep. You are exhausted and we are not going to find a solution right this moment. Just come to bed and sleep." 

"Y-You've been trying to get me to leave Sherlock for a year! You we're mean to him!" John broke away and got into bed, where he curled into a tiny ball. "I can't do this!"  
Greg raked a hand through his hair and sat down on the edge of the bed, not touching John. "And this is why," he said gently, "you are always like this when we see him. You hate yourself and you feel bad. I haven't been trying to get you to leave him, I've been trying to get you to not see him as an obligation. I don't think you love him either, John. I think you feel guilty about it, and still go out of a sense of duty." 

"I just want my friend back!" John shouted and curled up tighter. 

"I just want a happy life and for people to be nice to each other. I don't like stress. I'm so tired. I can't handle this. I can't. I need to help him but he wants me to be in love with him and I feel like he'll accept nothing less. Just...I can't do this! I can't!" 

John was shouting loudly now. His voice echoed in their usually peaceful home and John bit down on the edge of a pillowcase to keep himself from biting through his cheek.

Greg wavered on what to do. He sat there, listening to John, letting several minutes pass before responding out of fear of escalating things. 

"John...he's only been functioning a few days. He said he was happy you had love. Maybe his thinking is tangled up right now? You've had some spells of thinking in strange patterns. Jared said that Sherlock was displaying strange behavior, and Sherlock didn't have Mycroft with him...there is a lot on right now. You had a good day with him a few days ago. Maybe this is just a difficult spot?"

John was crying in full force now. He turned around and reverted to his base state, which was to cling to Greg. "I-I don't know! I-I CAN'T DO THIS!" John tore at his hair. "I CAN'T!!"

Greg grabbed John's hands to stop him from hurting himself. "Don't. Don't do that. You don't need to do anything but sleep, John. I'm giving you a pill for your nerves, please don't fight me on this. Take the pill and we will rest. That's all you need to do right now." 

"I hate this!" John tore his hands away from Greg and sat up. His chest was tight. His breathing was strained and shallow. "I-I can't! I-I d-don't know what t-to do!"

Greg viciously tamped down on the urge to panic right alongside John. He grabbed the pills, handing over two of them. "John Watson, calm down and take these. You are too wound up right now to think about anything productive. Take these and we will sleep. You've got to _stop_. Let's rest, you just need to sleep."

After grabbing the pills, John rocked himself and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He muttered to himself in a pitchy, panicked voice in a desperate bit to keep himself from breaking down. It was times like these that he foolishly wished for suicide to be an option again. 

It wasn't that he disliked his life with Greg, but he couldn't make a decision. 

Greg wrapped John up in his arms, pulling them down to their sides. "Shh," he tried to soothe, running his fingers through John's hair, "you are basing the experience of one visit as your need to rework all of our plans. Everyone was tired. It will be better tomorrow, John. It will. Just rest with me, let the medicine work. It will be better, just relax...calm down for me, John. Let's breathe, it's alright."

It took nearly fifteen minutes for the anti-anxieties to kick in, which was an eternity to John. Thousands of negative thoughts pounded against his mind as he struggled for air. 

"I-I feel like I'm drowning," John gasped once he had the breath to do so. "And I just keep getting m-more and more tired of treading water."

Greg had rocked and soothed John through as much of it as he could. "Then rest on me. Do what feels good, instead of what you think you need to do. Love, you've had happy days, your head is just clouded right now. You are not going to drown. Just rest John, please."

"No," John wailed. "I can't lean on you because you'll try to pull me away from Sherlock. And...and I'll let you! I need to be there for him."

Greg closed his eyes and held on to John. "I won't suggest that you not go to him, not ever again, okay? I'll leave it, you decide. I won't say a word on it. I have always wanted you two to get back together, John. Always. It's only when that didn't seem to be an option that I started questioning it. If you miss him, then I'm not going to say anything again. Now...if that's my promise to you, can you lean on me?"

John hesitated. "And you can't say mean things to him or pull me away from him."

"I promise," he whispered against the top of John's head, rocking him slightly, "I promise, John." He could get a handle on himself if it alleviated this burden to John. 

John nodded and leaned against Greg. "Okay. Okay. You'll help me with him?"

Greg closed his eyes and really thought on it before he spoke. 

"I will do my absolute best, John. My absolute best." 

He honestly didn't know if he could survive walking another man through this level of recovery, but for John he'd try. 

"I'll still try to help you," John continued. "I'll still make sure you're alright. And if this is too much for you, then you don't need to help. I can do it with Mycroft and Jared."

Greg nodded, though the words held little weight. He'd made a mistake today, and nearly lost John over it. 

"Okay," he said quietly, apprehensive and exhausted. 

"Thank you," he added, rubbing gently at John's back and hoping his mistake would be forgiven. 

"I'm sorry I messed up so badly today."

Shame was setting in deep in John's bones. 

"I'm sorry I got angry. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. Please don't be upset with me. I love you." 

John leaned up to nuzzle under Greg's chin, then stopped. His age old argument was starting to sound a bit weak. 

"Greg, I...I don't think I'm _gay_ , or anything." 

Greg inhaled slowly and held John to his chest. "I'm not asking anything of you, John," he whispered back, not quite sure where John was going with this. "I mean...I've a wife and kids...I'm not gay, but I don't always say no to men. It's a fluid thing, for me at least, but...but you know I'm not expecting anything from you, yeah?"

John was relieved to at least have it out on the table. "I know. Thanks for not expecting that of me. I couldn't. It's...yeah, that's just not something I could ever do." 

He was growing calmer now that he had some medication in him, and closed his eyes. "Wait, does that mean you've gotten with blokes before?" John's tone was curious, and perhaps just a bit amused.

Greg huffed a laugh, nuzzling against John's head. "Nosy," he murmured fondly. "Yes, a few, but not in many years if you must know." 

John snickered. "I bet Sherlock knew. He always knew. He knew everything. God, it was horrible trying to keep things from him. I never knew that about you. I suppose that makes me a bit boring. I've only ever had girlfriends. And a wife. And you. But that's different." 

John gave a small laugh. It might be different, but other than the lack of anything sexual, Greg and John did live a lot like newlyweds.

Greg cracked a smile against the side of John's head. 

"Tried to date Sherlock once, if you can believe that. Too dull for him, of course, but yeah. He's a handsome bloke. No luck there for me. I...John I don't think Sherlock expects romantic love from you, or even hopes for that. I think he just knows he's...he's different than me. If we swapped positions here, and my love for you was still there, but had changed...I think it would be a bit hard for you to take. I know I would struggle. I'm not telling you you're doing anything wrong, because you are not, but I do think that's what he's working through." 

John couldn't get past the first statement. "You tried to date Sherlock?" A laugh bunker up from John's chest and he shook his head. "Why the hell...I mean, that's...God, I hope I'm not stepping on any hurt feelings by winning him over so quickly." John's voice held a smirk.

Greg shook his head, though found the joke a bit cold for John, when they'd left Sherlock in misery pining after John. 

"No, I knew I never had a chance. Long time ago, ancient history." He stroked his hand through John's hair, very relieved to have him laughing. "He hasn't teased me about it in ages, was great fun for him for a while." 

"Oh, God, that must have been a nightmare. I mean, he found things to tease me about, but never that." John couldn't imagine Greg, who he'd always seen as very masculine, hitting on Sherlock, of all people. "I'm surprised he never mentioned that to me. Suppose it doesn't really matter. I wonder why he went after me and not you. I mean, we aren't all that different. Or we weren't."

Greg huffed a laugh at that. "You're brilliant. Much smarter than I am. Much more fire in you than I ever had. I was the bloke making him be sober with the audacity of being boring as well. You settled his mind, he always said as much. I was always a uniform to him, but you were this brilliant fellow who fell out of the sky and didn't think he was a freak. How could he not have fallen for you?"

"I mean, after everything you did for him, always looking out for him, getting him in cases, letting him in private investigations...I suppose there's no logic in love."   
John didn't think of himself as brilliant in any stretch of the word. 

"And you said you were just a uniform, but Sherlock does care about you. And I think he liked uniforms, too. He had a ton of them in a disguise closet. Fireman, valet, cop...it's like a halloween store."

Greg shrugged. "Love doesn't ask your permission before it hits you. He just didn't like me like that, I've not thought on it in years. He never owed me anything. I fancied him, I asked, he said no in as many ways as I think possible." 

He dropped his head back, allowing himself to stretch for a moment. "I've seen the closet, he's solved many cases with all of that in there. Who knows if he likes them?"

John cracked another short laugh. "Jesus, I didn't mean he liked them like that. I just meant he had a ton. I truly don't think he ever had a sex drive. I never saw it. I mean, he kept an entirely straight face with Irene naked in the room. Have you _seen_ her?"

Greg laughed as well. "I have no idea about his drive, John. I don't think he gets attracted right off the bat, needs to know someone to feel that way. That, and I just don't think women do it for him."

John thought back to his time at Baker Street. "I never knew he was attracted to me. If he even was. I mean, I walked from the shower to my bedroom in my pants or a towel all the time. It's strange."

John shrugged. It didn't really matter. "I think I'm going to go to sleep now."

Greg talked his fingers through John's hair, snuggling him deeper into the blankets. "Good, let's sleep. I love you." He pressed a kiss to John's temple and closed his eyes.

"I love you too. Sorry I was mean to you. You don't deserve that." John sighed deeply and dropped almost instantly to sleep. 

Greg was swiftly off to sleep with John, no thought to the chaos they'd left at Mycroft's home.

Miller was in a sweat as he breathed for Sherlock, trying to get enough air in his own lungs to shout for help, praying for Jared to arrive.

Jared heard the commotion and sprinted down the hall. "What's happened? Where's Greg and John?" How had they left without telling anyone? 

Miller shook his head as he carried on breathing for Sherlock. "I don't know," he said between breaths, "grab the kit, he's still got a pulse."

Jared fetched the kit and opened it by Miller. "Should I alert Mycroft? Paramedics?"

Miller put a bag over Sherlock's mouth, squeezing slow breaths in for him. "Here, squeeze this slowly," he instructed, drawing up a syringe of medication and swiftly injecting it into Sherlock's vein.

The result was immediate and explosive. Sherlock dragged in a wild breath, eyes opening in startled shock. In the next moment he dissolved into tears, weakly pushing Jared away from him.

"Overdose," Miller explained, nodding to an empty pill bottle, "tried to overdose."

Jared did as he was told and resisted Sherlock's frantic shoving. "He was with John and Greg. They were here when my shift ended, and were supposed to stay the night."

Miller grabbed a monitor and hooked it up to him, avoiding where Sherlock had vomited over the side of the bed. "No one was here when I came to give him morning medication, I don't know what happened. Lucky he tossed up most of the pills."

Sherlock was deliriously fighting against them, sobbing behind the mask, trying to fight Jared off.

Jared tried to hush Sherlock. "It's alright. It's alright. Could you tell me what happened?" 

He assumed something had to have happened for Greg and John to leave without warning and Sherlock attempt suicide. 

Miller kept a close eye on Sherlock as Jared tried to call him down. His vitals were all over the place.

Sherlock tried to get enough of a bath to speak, but all he managed was John's name before his eyes rolled back and he began to seize.

"Damn it," Miller swore, turning Sherlock to his side. "You need to get Mycroft."

Jared dialed the number first, and, as always, Mycroft was prompt to respond. It was clear from his groggy, slow voice, however, that he was still tired. 

"Hello? What is it?"

"Sherlock attempted to overdose. He's alive and breathing, but seizing. We need you down here."

There was the sound of ruffling blankets and the phone was clicked off. Mycroft arrived not forty seconds later, in his night clothes, with his hair ruffled and wild. "Sherlock!"

Miller was working diligently to get the seizure under control, medicating Sherlock as Jared kept him held to the bed.

"We might need to transfer him, I'm not sure yet and I've not gotten him stable," he explained over the controlled chaos.

Mycroft couldn't think of anything he could do to help besides call for an ambulance. He'd rather have one on hand if he needed to be transferred. 

"I'll call," he said in a trembling voice. "God...how did this happen? Who was watching him?"

"He was alone when I came in," Miller said as Sherlock's body went still after the latest injection. "Greg and John had been here overnight. He wasn't breathing when I got here, but he had a pulse."

Sherlock went still for a moment before a low, keening wail bubbled up, wet and muffled, from his chest.

"Hey, hey, I'm here." Mycroft swept his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "It's okay. Everything is okay." He then spoke to Miller. "I've an ambulance on the way in case you need him transferred."

Sherlock did not appropriately respond, pushing at the mask on his face before going unconscious. Miller nodded to him, "We might," he said swiftly, working to get Sherlock stable. "He took a hell of a lot of them, if he can't wake up we're going to have to get his stomach pumped."

Mycroft caught Sherlock's hand and had to actively keep himself from crying. "I thought he was doing better," he lamented. 

"I honestly thought this would be a turnaround for him."

Miller swore as Sherlock quit breathing on them again. "We need to go," he said to Jared, "get them in here, he's got to go, I can't get him stable here." 

In a terrible return to the past, Miller took up the bag and began breathing for Sherlock, keeping a sharp eye on his pulse. "He must have been like this for a while before we found him, it's not good, Mycroft." 

Mycroft called the paramedics up, and a gurney was in the room in three minutes.

"Is he going to live?"

Miller kept the mask and air over Sherlock's face. "I don't know, I don't know Mycroft, we have to go. We have to go."

Mycroft watched from the corner as Sherlock was moved onto the gurney to be taken to the hospital. "You have to save him," he begged until the words became a mantra.

Miller left with the medics, leaving Jared to handle Mycroft.

By the time they'd arrived at Bart's, Sherlock was in a full arrest. Miller waited out in the hall while fresh doctors ran the code.

Mycroft paced outside the hospital doors while Jared hovered nervously in case he collapsed. He'd put on sensible trousers, but was still in a faded t-shirt he'd slept in. After a few minutes of pacing, he text Greg. 

_You left him alone._

_You left a suicidal man alone in a room full of medication._

_I'm sure you know what happened._

_He's overdosed. He's in hospital._

_He is not breathing and his heart has stopped._

_If he lives through the next fifteen minutes, it will be a miracle._

Miller came out, finding Mycroft. His face was somber, eyes downcast.

"Mycroft," he called very quietly, "Mycroft, come sit down with me."

Mycroft took a few steps back to distance himself. "Is he alright? Is Sherlock alright?"

Miller shook his head, trying to get him to sit. 

"We have some choices to make, Mycroft. I need you to come speak with me."

Mycroft could hear his heart pounding in his ears and he numbly followed. When they were seated, he asked again. "If..if there's choices, he can't be..he isn't dead, is he?"

Miller wrung his hands together for a moment. 

"We stop life saving efforts, or we put him on life support and try to give him time."

"Life support. He'll pull out of it. He has to. I mean...We can't just let him die!" Mycroft heart was still pounding. What if Sherlock never pulled out of it?

Miller looked at Mycroft for a minute. "He's..this is bad, Mycroft. This isn't...Mycroft I don't know if he has a chance...I don't know if he's going to come out of this. It's...he...his heart is already so weak. He honestly might not come back, I...Mycroft I think we may have lost him."

"But he isn't dead, right? You can pull him out of this. You have to. You...Jesus...you need to save him. Please." Mycroft clasped his hands together. "This can't be the end for him. You have to do something!"

"Okay...okay...you choose life support..we will give him time. They are trying, Mycroft, they are trying."

He made a call, speaking for a few minutes. He rang off and looked to the older brother. "Okay, they are moving him to ICU. He's on full life support. Mycroft, this...you should prepare yourself. I...I think you need to say goodbye, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't want to say goodbye." He tried to sound stubborn, but he choked on the last word. "I...I can't. I can't say goodbye. Just buy him time. Please. Please."

Miller nodded, "They are, they are..he's on support, they are giving him time. Let's go up....He is up there now, but Mycroft...this, he's...ten percent or less. He's really...Mycroft I'm sorry."

Mycroft would hear none of it. He went to the room where Sherlock was set up and took stock of his brother. Sherlock was essentially dead at this point. Machines were doing all the work for him. He looked deathly pale and ashen about the lips, and it took Mycroft a full minute to advance into the doorway. 

He took Sherlock's hand carefully and held it to his chest. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry."

Miller stood at the doorway, speaking to the team. It was several minutes until he came back to Mycroft. 

"He's in renal failure. Whatever he tossed up was negligible, he managed almost every empty bottle. Mycroft...if your family wants a chance to say goodbye to him, this is the time." 

"No...No, I can't...They think he's with John. They don't know. I haven't...I can't tell them now. It would kill them." Mycroft was going to kill Greg. He thought about it. How he would go about it. He'd shoot him in the legs. The knees. Through the shins. He'd let him bleed to death for what he'd allowed to happen. 

Mycroft shook his head again. "I can't. Just keep him alive."

Miller looked to the bypass machine that was doing the job of Sherlock's heart. "I don't think we can, Mycroft," he said softly, deeply regretting the words, "I think this is just...too much. It's too much on his system. He was so weak before this, and now..." he closed his eyes and took a moment to himself, far too emotionally invested.

"Mycroft...take the time you need, but I don't see this going another way."

" _Shut up_. I'll bring John here, and John will ask Sherlock to wake up, and he'll do it." Mycroft was grasping at straws. "He'll just...John will call him and he'll just wake up."

Miller sat back, letting Mycroft go through the phases. Sherlock's body had nearly completely shut down. Nothing was working on its own. He lay there, buried under wires and blankets, ashen and hardly looking of himself. 

"Okay Mycroft. Okay."

Mycroft sent another text to Greg, it's intention to verbally maim. 

_Must you break everything you touch? Sherlock is dying. He has less than a few days. He's on life support, and I've been told to say goodbye. Would you like to bring John in and let him say goodbye? Would you like him to see what you two have done?_

Greg woke and looked to his blinking phone. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and read the messages, taking a few minutes to absorb them. 

"John," he said in a panic, "John wake up." 

John was wrenched from sleep by the tone in Greg's voice and his eyes flew open. "What? What is it? What happened?" He already had handfuls of Greg's shirt to anchor himself as his heart rate violently spiked.

"I...I didn't think of...we left so fast. We left so fast John I'm sorry. I...god, John, I made a mistake. He...John he..." his voice broke, tears sliding down his face. "John..."

John's heart paused for a moment, then, like a racehorse at a starting gate, galloped on. "What happened?" His voice rose high. "What happened to Sherlock? What- God, is he alive? Is he alive?"

Greg pressed a shaking hand over his face, "They are telling Mycroft to say goodbye."

John's world narrowed and his vision nearly snapped off. "No," he was muttering, but did not hear his own voice. _No, no, no, no, no, no._

"We did this," he gasped. "I left! I left him! I- We have to go to him! Right now!"

Greg was already getting up and dressed. He handed over a pair of clothes to John, trying to breathe. This was on him. 

"I am so sorry, John I'm so sorry, I was so stupid. I- I was- tunnel vision I forgot the pills Miller brought in. I'm sorry, John, god I'm sorry." 

John wanted to be angry with Greg, and perhaps he already was deeply enraged, but it was vastly overshadowed by his fear. He changed quickly and went for the door. "Hurry. He's...god, how much time?"

Greg shook his head as he sent a text to Mycroft. 

_We are on our way. Will we have time? I won't insult you with excuses, I made an error I'll let you beat me to death for. We are coming, will John have time to say goodbye?_

Mycroft was not accepting that he would have to say goodbye. Besides, Sherlock wouldn't hear him. 

_I don't know what good it will do. I think he has time. But not much._

John looked out the window and his brow furrowed. "This isn't the way to Mycroft's. He's in a hospital?" 

Greg leaned his head against the glass. "Yes, he's....they've got him on support. John I'm sorry." 

John's eyes widened and he tucked against Greg. "I don't like doctors," he whispered as reminded. "You'll make sure they don't touch me, right?"

Greg let his head drop back against the seat. "John...we should go home. Mycroft needs a chance to say goodbye to his brother." 

John's eyes abruptly misted over and a heavy sob wracked him. "No, I c-cannot just leave him. Not after all this. He'll recover. He has to."

But, as they grew closer to the hospital, John grew increasingly nervous. He did not know these streets well. They were not part of his routine.

When it was time to get out of the car, John looked in sheer horror at the sidewalk with people on it.

Greg looked on in quiet. "Can you do this, John? I'll be with you, but Mycroft is furious."

John looked to the side of the street where they were supposed to get out. "I don't like it," he stammered as a man walked by. Not a frightening man. Just a regular bloke minding his own business. But it was still terrifying. 

"I'm sorry," John gasped and reached for the door. "I've got to go see him. I've..." A young couple strolled by and John flinched. 

"Just help me get into his room."

\---

Sherlock's monitors began to scream and Miller pulled Mycroft bodily into Sherlock's room. "Hold his hand, Mycroft. Talk to him. Hold his hand."

Mycroft dropped by Sherlock and took his hand. "Hey, hey, Sherlock, it's me. It's me. I...they want me to say goodbye." 

The words stuck in his throat and tears fell down his cheeks. 

"They want me to say goodbye to you. I don't want that. I think you can fight this. I think you can prove them wrong like you prove everyone else wrong."

\----

The trip up to Sherlock's room was hell for John. They stopped in nooks, Greg holding John's face to his chest and waiting for him to get his breathing back. Almost forty five minutes passed before the made it inside the dark room full of the sounds of a ventilator.

John was absolutely horrified. He hid himself under Greg's shoulder and narrowly kept himself from screaming. There were people everywhere, and even though he had his Greg, John was petrified. It was like swimming in a tank of sharks, or balancing over the edge of a cliff. He fell in the room where Sherlock was and screamed against Greg's chest. It was muffled and frustrated, but he eventually silenced himself and stood trembling. He couldn't face Sherlock yet. He couldn't-

"What the hell were you thinking?" 

Mycroft's voice stabbed the air and John looked up just in time to see him grab Greg by the shirt and jerk him away. 

Greg let Mycroft grab hold of him, hands up in surrender. "I am sorry, I'm sorry, I never thought he'd be alone so long."

"You can't leave him alone for a _second_!!" 

Mycroft was shouting now and had shoved Greg against the wall. His hands were shaking, and his entire posture screamed violence. If they weren't in a hospital, or if Greg didn't look submissive, he would have done everything he could to beat the living shit out of him. 

John sensed this. He was emotionally frayed, bordering confusion, in a place he deemed incredibly hostile, and had just had the one person he clung to pulled away from him aggressively.

He did not speak, but in fluid motion grabbed Mycroft by the shoulder, turned him, and snaked his other hand behind the back of his head at the nape of his neck. In the span of about two seconds, he got clinch, threw a heavy knee to Mycroft's ribs, jerked his head to the side, and caught his foot with his own as he tried to step. It was a tiny little trip, but it denied the step, and Mycroft toppled over onto the floor. 

It was over as quickly as it had started, and Jared seemed to have blinked and missed it according to his bewildered look. 

John shrank back and pressed himself against Greg again, still wordless and angry that he'd been removed from his place.  
Greg went right down to the floor to help Mycroft up. "I'm sorry, John is frightened, I'm sorry. Tell us about Sherlock."

John followed Greg down and a choked sob escaped him. He didn't understand. He was scared and confused and did not like where he was. 

But at the mention of Sherlock, he looked up. 

Sherlock looked nothing like the vibrant man he'd once known. His heart wasn't beating on it's own. His lungs did not draw breath. It was abhorrent. 

John got up and shuffled over. "Sherlock?" He asked as if hoping he would wake up. "Mycroft, what happened?"

Mycroft stood with one arm wrapped around his ribs. He narrowed his eyes at John as if to blame him, but his expression softened after a moment. He noted the massive scars on John's arms and the smaller ones on his face. He noted the way he held himself and the way his eyes held just as much pain as Sherlock's had. John was a victim too. He couldn't blame John. 

"He overdosed," Mycroft breathed. "Because you and Greg hurt him then left him alone." 

Harsh. Very harsh.

Greg moved over to the side of the bed and looked down at the man. He started for a long while, full of conflicting emotion.

"What are his chances?"

"Negligible." 

John reached out and touched Sherlock's hand carefully. "Sherlock?" He asked with a tone that expected an answer. "Hey, Sherlock?" 

When none came, John broke into fresh tears. 

"You...You can't. God, I'm so sorry. Please don't go. I'm sorry I was mean. I'm sorry. You can't leave. Hey, Sherlock, please. You can't leave me." 

John looked frantically to the people in the room. "Someone do something!"

Miller spoke softly. "We've done everything, John. We've done everything." 

Greg closed his eyes, hanging onto the railing of Sherlock's bed. He would not offer an apology, not today, not for this. What excuse did he have? He'd failed, and it cost Sherlock his life. 

"No, no, it can't be. You should do more. You need to save him." 

John took Sherlock's hand again and entreated with him. "Please. I can't lose you. I can't. You're the only one who knows. You know all the things I can't say. You know why I can't have water at certain temperatures and why people standing over me is frightening and why the little circular scars are worse than the long ones and why vacuums sound bad. You...I need you to stay awake. Please live. Please. I'm not ready to let go. I..." 

John broke down and set his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "I-I'm n-not ready!" He cried through tears. "G-God, I'm not ready!"

Greg hung back, lingering near Mycroft. "I'll only ask that you let me live long enough to get John somewhere he feels safe," he whispered quietly, tears rolling down his face at the sight of Sherlock. 

"I won't insult you with an apology. Please let me get John somewhere safe, it's more than I deserve but it's all I ask."

"Shut up," Mycroft hissed and turned his back on Greg. "If Sherlock does not live through this, I'm cutting you off."

John wept over Sherlock. "I'm not ready," he cried again. "I can't let go. I-I n-need you t-to stay with me! Please! P-Please! Y-You...You remember how much fun we had, yeah? Y-You remember the cases, and the s-stupid things we used to do?" 

John pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder and wept openly. "Stay! Please stay!"

Greg moved into the hallway, leaving John for a moment but lingering where he could see him. He rang Molly, a number he'd not dialed in a long while. 

Over the next half hour he explained to her what had occurred, and what he desperately needed. He and John needed a backup. Sherlock was dead, machines or no, he'd died and now Greg was going to have to find a solution for John. 

While he was outside, Miller was intentionally working as a buffer between Mycroft and John. 

John was still making feeble and futile attempts at rousing Sherlock. "Please," he gasped, when his sobs had taken his voice and made it raspy, "I can't do this. I can't let you go."

Molly, the sympathetic and kind hearted woman that she was, immediately offered to help in any way she could. She was already on her way by the end of the conversation.

Greg came back into the room and walked over to John, rubbing a hand over his back. "Love, I think we should go now," he whispered, sensing that Mycroft did not want them in the room any longer, "Mycroft will tell us if there is a change, I'm sure." 

John looked back up with tears in his eyes. "No! This i-is my fault! I-I can't! I-I-" John broke fresh again and let out a mournful cry. "I can't! I-I can't lose him! I CAN'T!"

Greg pulled John tighter to him, shaking his head. "My fault, I should have checked before we left. It's my fault, not yours. I love you. He loved you. We need to let Mycroft be with his brother."

John shook his head and clutched Sherlock around the machinery. "NO! Stop it! Leave me alone!" He was bitter towards Greg, though he knew he shouldn't be. "Get away! You can't make me leave him!"

Greg let him go and stepped back, looking to Mycroft. "Do you want us here or not," he asked quietly, if not with a bit of an edge. 

Mycroft grit his teeth. "Get out," he seethed. 

John turned and snarled at him. "Fuck off. You can't make me leave. I'll fucking kill you. You know I can. Even as a broken and ruined mess I'll still kill you."

Mycroft looked to Greg. "Get him out."

Greg took a deep, resigned breath and went to John, speaking to him quietly. 

"John...if this is all the time Mycroft has with him, we owe it to him to leave peaceably. Please come with me, take a minute to say goodbye to him, and then come with me. I don't want to move you out of here. Please."

"I don't want to say goodbye!" John stayed bent over Sherlock and frantically took his face in his hands. "Hey, hey, Sherlock, I need you to wake up. Please. I need you to wake up. Just look at me. Okay? Just for a second. Please. P-Please." 

His own tears fell onto Sherlock's face and he sobbed again. "PLEASE!"

"John," Greg warned again, missing the way Sherlock's fingers twisted on the side closest to his brother,   
"John...Mycroft wants us to leave. Please, please don't make me carry you out of here." 

As he spoke, Sherlock's fingers shifted along his thigh nearest his brother, though otherwise he remained unchanged. 

John did not notice either, as he was focused on keeping himself near Sherlock. 

"No! No! I've bloody earned this! I've earned the right to stay here after everything I've done!" 

He brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek and kissed his forehead. 

"Please don't leave me. Don't go. I need you here with me, yeah? I need your badgering and your mysterious use of all the milk and the random scientific explanation of why I can't get a date. Come on. I need you." 

John was beginning to lose hope, but kept his back turned to Greg anyway.

Miller hung back, watching them all sadly. He had no hope this would end well. 

Greg kept close to John, looking to Mycroft. "A few minutes, just give him a few minutes more, please?" 

"Fine!" Mycroft shouted. "Because John get whatever he wants, doesn't he?"

John turned around and glared at him. "When you have drilled holes in your own flesh to avoid rape, you may speak to me. Until then, shut up."

He turned gently back to Sherlock and dropped tears onto his shoulder. He didn't want to leave. Sherlock was warm and alive, even if just barely. He couldn't stand the idea of leaving and Sherlock's body going cold soon after.  
"What the hell does that mean, 'John gets whatever he wants?" Greg demanded, suddenly bristling, "how to you even figure that?" He looked over at Sherlock and then to Mycroft, "let them say goodbye for god's sake."

 

Mycroft was seething with hatred for these two men, but allowed them to be near his brother just a few moments longer. 

"John comes and emotionally abuses Sherlock every damn time, but you keep bringing him so he can feel useful or something! And now you two have driven him to kill himself! You didn't even bother calling to tell me that there was a problem! You didn't even text an aid!"

Greg bristled terribly at that. "He does not _abuse him_ Mycroft! My god what's gotten into you? The error was mine, not his! I thought Jared would be right in, John promised to come back some other time!"

"John is why all of this happened!" Mycroft shouted. He was beyond reason. He knew he was being damaging, that he was not in control of his anger, and did not give a damn. 

"If John did not exist, Sherlock would be alive. If John hadn't left, they would be happy. if John had recovered faster, or hadn't _screamed at Sherlock_ on multiple occasions that it was _somehow his fault_ , things would be resolved!"

Pressed against Sherlock, John had his trembling, scarred hands over his ears.

Greg had Mycroft by the collar in the next second, dragging him out into the hall and pinning him to the wall. 

"I know you are fucking scared, Mycroft. But my god I'll not let you abuse John like this. Enough. You are going to stay out here with me until you damned well calm down, am I clear?" 

Mycroft shoved Greg off him roughly. "Just because you've gone all Florence Nightingale on John doesn't mean you can always defend him! He sent Sherlock into a catatonic state for six fucking months!"

Greg grabbed him back, pushing him to the wall. "He was terrified! Stop this, Mycroft, my _god_. Let John say goodbye!"

"He doesn't want to say goodbye! He's just in there crying over Sherlock, and that'll go on for hours if we let it!" 

Mycroft stared at Greg with hard, expressionless eyes that were red rimmed and underlined with dark circles. 

"Get him out. Sherlock is my brother. I've known him far longer. I should be allowed a peaceful goodbye."

Greg gentled, looking at the floor. "How long will you give him before you cut off life support?" 

Mycroft's anger deflated and he dropped his head. "I don't know," he whispered. "How can I make that decision?"

Greg shook his head. "I have no idea. I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I'm so sorry. Molly will come help John, and you...you can do with me as you see fit. I made an inexcusable error."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Greg. "I want to kill you," he said flatly. 

"I could do it, too. I know how to order a hit. I've done it countless times." 

He sighed and pressed his fingers over his eyes. "But you only made a mistake. You didn't mean to. I know that. You don't have to be worried I'll hurt you. Just....How could you? How could you just leave him? How could you take my brother away from me?"

Greg hung his head in shame, tears brimming along his eyes. "It was a bad visit...I was so caught up in ending it that I lost myself. I never meant to hurt him, Mycroft. I never...I won't make you take the hit. I'm so sorry."

Mycroft wanted to hurt Greg, so he continued. "You've ruined everything. Do you really think John will recover from this? You caused Sherlock's death. He won't forgive you. You'll lose him too."

Greg kept his eyes to the floor, nodding. 

"Molly is on her way. I already know this." He looked back up to Mycroft. "I only ever wanted to help. I'm so sorry I did this." 

He was tempted to turn and walk away then and there, but if Mycroft was going to attack John, he had to save him from that first. 

"How long do you think you'll keep John alive after this?" 

Mycroft said heartlessly. "How long do you think he'll be able to look at you without hatred? How long until you've got to bury him like I'm going to have to bury Sherlock?"

Greg turned and left Mycroft in the hall, unable to face what he'd done. "John, we have to go. Molly is on her way, and she'll stay with you, but I have to go."

John felt the sentence physically as if it had slapped him. "You're going to leave me here alone?'

"Only if you want to be left here. Come home, John. We can't help him. Please come home. Molly is coming, but if she's not enough, I need you to come home with me."

John thought it might be nice to see Molly, if he was at home, with Greg. But he didn't want to be without Greg. Not in a hospital full of doctors and people he didn't know. 

"No! I..." His attention faded back to Sherlock and he pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you," he whispered and brushed his fingers through his hair. 

"I miss you. I...I've got to go now, love. You've been...hmmm....You've been my best friend, and you're the strongest man I know. I'm sorry I made this happen. I'm s-so sorry. I love you Sherlock. Goodbye." John tipped his forehead against Sherlock's and exhaled slowly. "Goodbye."

Greg wrapped an arm around John, in tears himself, taking a last look at Sherlock before walking them out of the room. What was there to say to the man? He was careful as he navigated them through the hospital, leaving Mycroft and Miller with Sherlock. 

Miller stood next to Mycroft, watching the many monitors the younger Holmes was connected to. He gave Mycroft a few moments to himself before speaking softly. 

"He's surprised us before, Mycroft."

"If he was going to wake up, it would have been for John, not me." Mycroft deflated and his shoulders sagged.

"You don't know how much he adores you. Sit with him and hold his hand, he may yet come back to us. His body is tired." Miller patted Mycroft lightly on the shoulder and kept himself quiet. 

Mycroft took his seat next to Sherlock and held his hand. "Will you come back to me?" He whispered. "Please, come back to me. I need you here. I need you alive. Please, 'Lock. Just open your eyes."

Several hours slipped by with no change at all. The machines worked, Sherlock's body did not. He was cool from their efforts to save his brain, but unlike last time, they'd not given him any sedatives. He had just...stopped. 

It wasn't until somewhere around three the next morning that anything at all happened. Miller shook Mycroft, whispering for him to wake up. Sherlock's fingers were flexing on his brother's hand, though his monitors had not yet made any change.

Mycroft was immediately animated and he rubbed Sherlock's hand. "Hey, hey, I'm here. It's safe for you here. You can wake up. It's safe here. Please. Just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Sherlock clamped down on Mycroft's hand with all that he had, holding on tight for half a minute before his strength failed him. He did not open his eyes or try and breathe with the machines, but it was something.

Mycroft cried out in relief. "Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm here! I'm here! Oh, thank God!" 

He held Sherlock's hand to his forehead and let it a shuddering breath. "You're okay. It's okay now. Thank you. Thank you."

Miller paged in the team to come look Sherlock over. Mycroft was allowed to remain at the head of Sherlock's bed as they gave him a bit of adrenalin to bolster his heart, pulling it off bypass and trying to get him into a rhythm. He inhaled a deep breath, sharp and panicked against the machine as frightened tears rolled down his face and he began to bite at the tube in his mouth. 

"It's alright," Mycroft continued and gently touched his face. "You can relax. It isn't going to hurt you. It's just helping you breathe. Thank you for coming back to me. I'm here. It's My. You're safe."

Sherlock was in silent, frightened tears for several minutes more, never opening his eyes in all that time. He held tight to Mycroft's hand until his strength left him, the team of doctors doing what they would to bolster him up. 

He fell unconscious in the middle of fighting the tube, going limp and cold once again, though his heart was beating on its own while he was taking occasional breaths with the machines. 

Mycroft leaned back on his chair when Sherlock went limp again. "And what are his chances now?" He asked of Miller.  
Miller shrugged. "I don't know, Mycroft. Next day or so will tell. That could have been reflex, I don't know. Good that he's off bypass though, you can take comfort in that." 

"His heart is beating on it's own. He squeezed my hand. And, I hate to mark it as a positive, but he was afraid. He was at least active in his mind, even if it was only reflective." Mycroft refused to give up hope.

Miller nodded. "All good signs, Mycroft, all good." He sat down next to Mycroft. "He's likely just very tired, toxicity takes a while to move out of the system and we don't know how his liver is doing. Should I tell Greg?"

"No. Let's make sure Sherlock is truly on the up before giving him hope." Mycroft felt a pang of guilt in his chest. "I was harsh to him."

Miller had no way to counter that. "I'll make sure he's okay later. You are scared, it's understandable."

"I blame him. I still blame him. As I've said before, I've had men killed for threatening him less. Sherlock seems to attract the entirely wrong type of person from time to time. There had been several potential Moriartys, never as successful, but all with the same goals. I used to monitor chatter and track his name. Every few years I'd find someone who was obsessed with Sherlock and get them arrested on a minor crime, then keep them in jail and away from him." 

Miller nodded, looking at Sherlock. "Then perhaps you should not allow them visits, if he survives."

"Maybe not." Mycroft knew he couldn't keep John and Sherlock apart if they wanted to be together, but he doubted Sherlock would ask for John after this. 

Miller nodded, "I suppose not. Do we know what happened? They'd been getting on so well.”

"I don't know. I'll ask."

Mycroft sent the text and purposefully omitted any mention of Sherlock's small step forward. 

_I need to know exactly what happened._

Sherlock was very upset that John would never love him in the same way Sherlock thinks he loves me. John panicked. John only wanted to know why being Sherlock's friend wasn’t good enough. Sherlock kept asking John to go home.

Greg read his text and tried to better explain. 

_Sherlock was trying to save John from himself._

Mycroft’s temper surged. 

_So it's the same argument then? That's the same thing that set them off last time. Were you being romantic with John in front of him?_

Greg’s reply was swift despite the circumstances. 

_I am never romantic with him. Sherlock just was mourning what he lost with John, acknowledging that he won't have the same relationship with John as I do. John wanted Sherlock to be happy with them going back to how they were, Sherlock does not believe that possible anymore. He feels useless and without value. John was upset that Sherlock wants love that John can't give. It got out of hand._

Without mercy, Mycroft pushed forward. 

_Are you capable of transferring John's affections to Sherlock? You know, the original plan?  
_

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, pressing a kiss to the side of John's head. 

_Yes..they need a common enemy. I'll be gone, someone will need to be a threat to Sherlock, and believe it will work. You can't be the enemy.It has to be someone new, a new aid or something. If John can get protective of Sherlock, and Sherlock of him, they will be fine._

Mycroft’s response was simple. 

_Sherlock is already afraid of you._

What Mycroft was suggesting was absolutely evil. After all Greg's work, he deserved to live a nice life with John. Mycroft knew this. Bus Sherlock was simply more important. 

_If you are harsh or mean to Sherlock, I have no doubt John will jump to his aid._

Greg could not breathe for several minutes. It was a perfect plan. He would drive John to hate him, pushing him back to Sherlock where he belonged. He owed this to Mycroft after his mistake. 

_I...I'll...yes, that...that would work. I'll send a list of instructions for John's care._

In truth, Mycroft was disgusted with himself. He saw Greg as the victim now, and John as well, but what did it matter if it worked? What mattered was _Sherlock_. It had always been Sherlock, and it would always be Sherlock. 

_Good. Let’s not rush it. He could rebound if we go too quickly._

Greg was deeply glad John was asleep, dissolved now into tears. 

_I can't do it slow, I can't. I'm sorry. I'll scare the both of them and then go away. I don’t have the strength to do this slowly. I’m weak. You must swear to me that one day, when they are more healed, that you tell them I did this for love. Tell me you will let them know how deeply I cared. Swear that to me. Please._

Mycroft put one hand over his mouth. He knew how Greg must be feeling. If he were asked to make himself out to be the villain to save Sherlock, would he? Of course he would. But Greg wasn't doing this for John. John would be fine without Sherlock, Mycroft was certain. 

_Thank you. I'm sorry. If you can come up with something else, I'll not hesitate to change. I don't want you to have to do this._

Greg could not help his reply. 

_Let's not lie to one another, you very much want me to have to do this. I made a terrible mistake, I should pay. Be gentle with John when I'm gone, and I want you to promise you'll tell him why I did this when he's ready._

He cuddled John to him, soaking in the peace. It was over now, their time had drawn to an end. Greg kissed him and got up, going to the kitchen and starting in on a bottle of scotch.

_I don't want you to do this, but I want Sherlock to have a secure future. If it were John, you would do the same to me. I would not judge you for it._

Greg took to the bottle. He spent the next hour penning a note to John, tossing one and writing another, over and over until he could not see straight. 

It was too much. He could not calm himself, sobbing as he clutched the bottle. This wasn't going to work. He couldn't do it. 

_Come get John._

He picked up his pistol and went into their room, wrapping his shirt around John and pressing a lingering kiss to his head. 

He left the door open, sure that Mycroft would have someone there before he walked to the little park around the corner and pulled the trigger. 

Mycroft did not like how this was going down. If Greg simply gave him up, it wouldn't be a transfer. John would be unstable and even worse to Sherlock. 

_Wait. You need to wait until Sherlock is better. We don't even know if he'll live yet. Be reasonable._

Greg sat down on the curb, holding his head in his hands, tears flooding down his face

_Fine..then I want heroin. I can't do this to Sherlock or John sober. When your brother wakes up, we'll come back, and I'll do it then. Go ahead and move his things, I don't suspect you'll see me sober again._

Mycroft sighed and responded. 

_I will get you heroin, if you promise to behave reasonably until this happens, and execute it in the way we discussed. The doctors still don't know if Sherlock will pull out of it. Please remain calm._

John drifted in and out of light sleep until he realized the pillow he had one arm around was not Greg. He sat up, silent as he had been before, and looked around. He did not speak. He didn't want to talk. He was thoroughly depressed, and could not even begin to cope with having just seen Sherlock for the last time. Was he dead already? John sat up and looked around the room with a perplexed sadness on his face, very close to that of a lost puppy, but he did not call out.

Greg went back inside, taking a minute to polish off the last of the bottle. He owed his children a letter, and then went to the sofa, not to John. He wasn't allowed to love John anymore.

John stood cautiously in the doorway when he recognized Greg's footsteps. He had his arms held tightly around his stomach and stared quietly, his eyes not quite focused on Greg. He couldn't draw up the energy or will to speak. He couldn't draw up the will to do much of anything.

With his heart shattering, Greg snipped at him. "Sit down or go to bed, John."

John flinched a bit at the tone, but didn't otherwise move. He was sad. That is an incredibly understated, simplified way to put it, but John was sad. He dipped his chin a bit, and his lower lip trembled, but he didn't speak. 

Greg ignored him, dying inside. "He's not dead. Sit or sleep but for God's sake don't hover."

John shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the ground. He'd said goodbye to Sherlock. Sherlock was dying. He'd left so Mycroft could say goodbye. 

John couldn't think properly. He was operating on a very basic level, and blinked at Greg for a few moments before it sluggishly came to his mind that Greg had been drinking. He must be sad about Sherlock. 

John also made the connection that perhaps he wasn't wanted at the moment. His bottom lip trembled again for a moment, his head hung down, and he turned back to go to the bedroom. John shuffled in and got into bed silently. He wrapped his arms and legs around a pillow, then sank into blissful numbness of a disconnected mind. 

Greg watched him go, giving Gladstone the command to follow him. He got up and grabbed another bottle, drinking before the tears came. It was going to be one hell of a night.

John stayed curled up in his bed. He knew Greg was drinking. It frightened him, but in the disconnected, numb way that a mildly frightening movie is scary. He didn't actually feel it. 

Gladstone curled up next to him after nosing his face for a reaction, and only stopped when John slowly reached out one hand to set on his head. 

He was unaware of time passing.

Nothing changed for several hours. Greg fell asleep loaded and in tears right there on the sofa.

At Bart's, however, Sherlock had come up from sleep fighting with all his strength, unresponsive to everyone.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock and tried to calm him. "Hey. Hey. I've got you. It's Mycroft. I'm here. Please!" But he was moving. Sherlock was moving.

Sherlock was in abject horror, confused and biting at the tube between his teeth. He screamed, though no one could hear him, fighting as hard as he could against the restraints.

Mycroft shouted to Miller. "Can we take the tube out? It's scaring him!"

Miller was already working on it. Sherlock's eyes were wide with abject fear, locked to his brother. Tears flowed down his face, chest heaving, doing anything he could to get free.

"Talk to him," Miller instructed.  
Mycroft took Sherlock's face in his hands. "It's My. My is here. That means you're safe. You are safe. I am here. Nobody is hurting you right now."

Sherlock looked to his brother, breathing fast and panicked before the tube was pulled from his throat. He screamed, the sound shattered and rough, gagging and sputtering as he tried to catch his breath.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock and shielded him from whatever it was that was frightening him. "I'm here! I'm here! Please! Breathe, Sherlock! Breathe!"

Sherlock clung to his brother, screaming against his shoulder before falling apart in pathetic, broken sobbing. He could not speak, clutching at Mycroft's shirt.

Miller was watching his vitals, cautious to let him out off his focus.

"Oh, God," Mycroft cried in both sadness and overwhelming relief. "Thank you. I've got you, Thank you for coming back. Oh, God, thank you."

Sherlock could not calm down, heart rate through the roof, horrified by what he was seeing. He clirng to Mycroft, doing what he could to breathe.

"You're in hospital," Mycroft explained and tried to fill up Sherlock's field of view. "I've got you. You are safe. Do you see me? I'm here."

Sherlock stared at his brother, sobbing. "I'm supposed t-to be d-dead! I'm...I'm...w-why did they...dead! I w-was supposed to d-die!"

"I didn't want you to die! None of us wanted you to die! John- John actually came to the hospital and visited you!" 

Mycroft was still grateful to hear Sherlock speaking. "You'll be alright."

Sherlock grabbed hold of his brother as soon as his restraints were loosed, wrapping around him and burying his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck. He held there, sobbing like a child grieving, desperately wanting to be held. 

"Hurts," he managed with a wobbling chin, "M-My it h-hurts." He had no thoughts of John or anyone else at that point, only wanting his brother. 

Miller moved aside as the physicians went about getting their bloodwork to check on his liver function, worrying over how yellowed Sherlock's eyes were. 

Mycroft broke and began to sob into Sherlock's shoulder. "It won't always hurt. I promise. Thank you for coming back to me. Oh, God, thank you:"

Medication was given to ease Sherlock's pain as consultants came in to evaluate him. Mycroft was informed that Sherlock was still toxic, but had a very good chance of recovery, at least to a functioning degree. All the while, Sherlock would cry out if separated from Mycroft, even for a moment, unable to articulate what he was feeling other than fear.

Mycroft kept contact with Sherlock for as much of the time as he could. When there was finally a moment of peace, he tried to get him speaking again. "Sherlock, do you know who I am, and where you are?"

Sherlock tried to get enough air to speak. "M-My," he sobbed, "y-you're M-My...." He looked around the medical room at the machines and the wire walls, lower lip trembling.

"Yeah, I'm My. I'm My. And you're at Bart's. It's safe here. I'm here." Mycroft was happy to hear him speaking. At least there was some damage that they avoided. 

Sherlock could not calm himself down, reaching for his brother in a panic. "Was supposed to die, I'm n-not supposed to be here!"

Mycroft shook his head. "No. You weren't. We're all very glad you are alive. John will be so relieved."

As soon as John was mentioned, Sherlock fell apart. "No," he sobbed, shaking his head, sobbing as he covered his face, "no J-John...John is...he l-left, he w-was so m-mad. No he...he h-hates me."

Mycroft wished then that he had filmed John earlier, when he'd been weeping over Sherlock, begging for him to stay. "He doesn't hate you. I promise."

Sherlock's strength was very rapidly flagging, making him sag against his brother. He closed his eyes tight and made a valiant attempt to settle down, breath hitching hard enough to hurt his ribs.

"I w-want to g-go home," he wept, clinging as hard as he could to Mycroft.

"We'll go home as soon as you're better," Mycroft promised. "We've just got to make sure we won't have any more complications. You...you've been on life support. We almost lost you."

Sherlock did not speak after that, already falling back asleep. He tightened his hold on Mycroft before a pain shot through his chest, leaving him clutching at his heart, whispering his brother's name before completely blacking out.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and let his pounding heart slow a bit. "Is his survival probable?" Mycroft needed to hear something positive.

"His heart's a bit stressed, but it's not surprising. It will always be fragile. He looks...acceptable according to his vitals. Labs are not back yet but this is a good sign. Him tossing up the last of the pills likely saved his life. I cautiously am optimistic."

Mycroft sighed. "Good. Good. Okay. Alright. I'll stay with him. He's so tired. He's not to be alone with John ever again. Or alone at all."

Miller ran a hand over his face and then nodded. "That had been the plan. Greg is compromised. Understandable, but still an issue. However, this matter of Sherlock feeling love for John in a way that likely will never be returned...I have concerns over this."

"John is not in love with Sherlock. That is clear. But he does love him. I've seen him come in looking almost happy, spend an hour with Sherlock, then have to be carried out and sedated. Then, he comes back the next day smiling again. We also must remember that he did not love Greg the way he currently does when all this started, and he is healed enough that he probably won't imprint as strongly onto Sherlock, but if Greg is too compromised, he might go to Sherlock just for lack of other option."

Miller frowned, quiet for a while. 

"That is a risky gamble. I don't know that John would ever voluntarily leave Greg, even if he were dangerous. I am not sure how you could manage that, Mycroft. I hate to say this, but I think the opportunity to ever reunite Sherlock and John was lost. If Sherlock was as healed as John, they would have a chance, but I don't know that it's possible for John to endure Sherlock as he is now."

Mycroft shook his head. "I know. I know. But we have time now. We can keep going as we have been. Greg, however, is not allowed near Sherlock any more." Mycroft stood and stretched. His headache was still bothering him, but it was a disconnected sort of pain. He truly did not care.

Miller startled at that. "Then John will not come. There will be no chance of that's the case. Perhaps it is time to retire the idea of John and Sherlock sharing a life."

_Not if we make Greg the enemy._

Mycroft could feel himself slipping into a horrible, ugly sort of desperation. He would do anything, damage anyone, to get Sherlock a life he could live. 

"Alright, then," Mycroft relented. "Alright."

Miller stood up and stepped out into the hall, speaking to a nurse.

"Okay, Mycroft. You are getting a bed in here, and you're going back on your fluids. You still need building up, and you can do a bit of that here. Let's just take it all as it comes."

When the bed was brought, Mycroft lied down on his back and let Miller hook him back up on fluids and something for pain. 

He did not sleep, though he did rest.

The night was difficult with Sherlock. Twice he required help regulating his breathing, and more than once he was in such a confused panic he had to be sedated.

By ten the next morning, he was sitting up, watching his brother with exhausted eyes.

Mycroft woke shortly after Sherlock and stood by his bed. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock inhaled, exhaled, and shook his head. "I sh-should be d-dead," he whispered, "e-everything is...is r-ruined."

"I would be very sad if you had died. So would John, and Greg." Mycroft took Sherlock's hand. "Please, just give it a few days."

Sherlock hung his head as slow tears fell, nodding simply for his brother's benefit.

"He w-won't ever l-love me again. I...I am a d-drain. You're h-hurt...s-suffering because of m-me."  
"I am suffering because you almost left me." Mycroft dropped his head.

"John came and cried. He begged you to come back. For a second, I thought you were going to wake up for him."

Sherlock pulled at his hair, torn and hurting. "Why is he t-toying w-with m-me? He was s-so angry..."  
He pulled at Mycroft's hand, trying to apologize without words.

"He came and wept. He begged you to return to him. He said he was sorry, and asked to be forgiven." Mycroft dropped his head and sighed. "His behavior is erratic because he is so...damaged."

Sherlock closed his eyes and was quiet for a long while. He finally whispered, "b-because if m-me. He's happy w-with Greg."

"He is happy with Greg. But that doesn't matter. He can love you as well. And lately..." Mycroft shook his head. "Lately there has been tension between them. John wants to talk to you more and more. Let's just be calm about it."

Sherlock pressed his hands to his face, quiet and still for a few moments before it all became too much. He shouted into his palms, thumping his head hard back against the bed and balling his hands into fists. Again he shouted, making his monitors jump, pulling Miller to his feet. 

"Easy," Miller responded, hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pushed him away, suddenly trying to get up out of the bed, grabbing any wire he could reach and tearing it off of him. He could not be calm, he could not endure this for another day, another _hour_. John did not love him anymore, he would never love him, and Sherlock's brother was running himself into the ground caring for an animated, useless carcass. 

He shoved hard at any hand that touched him, shouting and using all of his energy to move forward, where he was trying to go he had no idea. 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands and pressed them against his chest. "Stop. Stop! Sherlock, stop! Please! I can't stand it when you hurt yourself! Please stop! Please!"

Sherlock tried for a moment to pull away from his brother, but it was too difficult to deny Mycroft anything. He struggled and then dropped his head, a pained, broken cry cracking up from his chest, arms bleeding from where he'd ripped off his lines, monitors blaring from being disconnected. 

"I c-cannot endure th-this," he wailed, entire body shuddering, "I cannot endure...I cannot! I c-can't see h-h-him again, not e-ever again. N-No more of th-this, My, pl-lease." 

"Maybe...Sherlock, he thinks you're dead. It would be cruel to make him live knowing that his anger killed you. Maybe...if you said goodbye to him, for the last time, will I lose you? Will you go away into your mind again, or will you stay and try to get better?"

Sherlock looked at his brother with a mix of confused anguish. "G-Get b-better? There is n-no b-better! This is all I am n-now! Leave m-me here and g-go back t-to your l-life! Text John and t-tell him I d-didn't die and he c-can go on in p-peace! Th-there is n-no better! I am n-not even a g-goldfish any longer, I'm _nothing_!" 

He shouted the word with such loathing he could have sworn his heart dropped right out of his chest and into his lap. 

"No," Mycroft insisted and tears burned his eyes. "You aren't nothing. You're wonderful, and you're my brother. I am so sorry you're feeling this way. Please, just tell me. Will you be motivated to live without John in your life?"

"No," Mycroft insisted and tears burned his eyes. "You aren't nothing. You're wonderful, and you're my brother. I am so sorry you're feeling this way. Please, just tell me. Will you be motivated to live without John in your life?"

Sherlock looked down at his lap, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. 

_That's brilliant._

_Do you really think so?_

_Yes, of course, it's brilliant and remarkable._

"I'll do w-whatever y-you want, My. I'll...wh-whatever y-you want."

"I want you to be happy. I want you and John to bicker about milk and show up to Buckingham Palace without pants on. I..." Mycroft shook his head. 

"I want you to understand that you don't hurt him as much as you think you do."

Sherlock looked up with tears flowing down his face. 

"Do y-you imagine that I...that I d-don't want those th-things as well? Why a-are you doing th-this to me? I c-can't have John b-back! I _always_ h-hurt him. He comes in s-smiling and I m-make him leave in a-anger or tears. I m-m-make his l-life terrible. He...G-Greg s-serves my p-purpose now. I am irrelevant." 

"No. No, no, no. You don't hurt him like you think you do. He's damaged. He shows sadness easily. You...when you get worried you're hurting him, and send him away, that is what hurts him most. You two just need more time. Don't give up on your happiness."

"H-He left m-me! He left! He took G-Greg and the d-dog and he s-said...said it w-was always upsetting and h-he came to h-help but I w-was upsetting and h-he _left_. He always l-leaves! I c-cannot s-see him again!" 

"Okay. Okay. I'll tell him. I..." Mycroft changed subjects. "I got you a dog. Would you like to see a picture?"

Sherlock blinked a few times at the rapid transition. He stared at Mycroft, still in flowing tears, and silently nodded his head. 

Mycroft found a picture of the dog looking attentively up at it's trainer. Even sitting, it was clearly massive, and had a beautiful, lustrous coat. "See? Any time we're ready, I can pick it up."

Sherlock looked at the picture, staring for a long while without speaking. 

Miller watched as an odd sort of calm settled over him, leaving Sherlock still in tears, but less flustered. Sherlock looked to his brother, and then back to the picture. "Y-You're sure I...I w-won't hurt h-her?"

"Sherlock, she's massive. I don't think you could hurt her if you tried." Mycroft thumbed through a few more photos. "She's laid back, and a fully capable service dog. She's highly protective and intelligent."

Sherlock spent a few minutes more looking at pictures of the dog before closing his eyes. 

"Th-Thank y-you. W-Will sh-she l-live here w-with me? Or...or will y-you bring h-her on visits?" 

"She'll stay with you wherever you go." Mycroft hoped the certainty of that would help. "She'll have papers and everything."

Sherlock's gut twisted, but he nodded to his brother. It was more than he could hope for. 

"I...I'll...th-thank y-you. She...it will b-be nice to h-have a c-companion." 

He could not help how his chin wavered, tears sliding down his face once more. 

"I'm sure she'll love you." Mycroft settled in his chair and watched his mess of a brother. How he wished they had the old John back, the one who didn't cry and scream.

Sherlock curled down on his side as Miller hooked him back up to his lines and monitors. Several long minutes passed before Sherlock asked in a very quiet voice, "W-Will...will you v-visit o-often?"

"I'll visit as often and for as long as you want." Mycroft wanted to say that he would be there constantly, but at this point that would only stress Sherlock to hear. 

Sherlock handed the phone back to Mycroft and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. His brother was doing the right thing, leaving him in hospital. A care facility was a much more fitting place for him that Mycroft's home. 

Still, the reality that he'd not be going home seemed to suck the air from the room. He closed his eyes, trying not to panic. "C-Can I...p-please s-something f-for n-nerves. P-Please, I- please." 

"Yeah, of course." Mycroft was a wreck next to Sherlock, but waved Miller forward. "How much longer do you think it will be until he can come home?"

Miller was pushing the sedative as Mycroft spoke, but Sherlock was zoned out of the conversation. He let the medication take him away, tears sliding down his face as he fell asleep. 

"A few days, likely a week," Miller explained gently. 

"He is going to protest," Mycroft whispered. "He'll want to stay here to protect me. I'd much rather have him at home. It's more expensive, but he hates unfamiliar doctors, and places like this."

Miller sighed and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "He can learn to adapt, he always has. It would take a massive amount of pressure off of you." 

"I won't have him in a care facility. He'd just numb out. He wouldn't make any progress with strangers." Mycroft was adamant about this one topic, at the least. 

Miller nodded. "Okay, then in about a week, maybe sooner, he can likely come home." He paused for a moment before speaking again. "Mycroft...perhaps he's right about letting John just...go?" 

"Maybe he is. But I just need to try one more time." Mycroft wouldn't settle for Sherlock being alone his whole life. "Just once, then I'll drop it."

Miller just let it lie. Mycroft had something in his head, and there would be no dissuading him from it. He settled Sherlock in better and then went to sit across the room, leaving the brothers to themselves. 

Mycroft dropped straight to sleep on his bed near Sherlock's. He was intensely relieved that his brother was even alive. 

He could worry about Greg and John later.


	27. Chapter 27

Greg came awake nearly ten hours later, jerking up from the sofa and nearly falling over himself trying to get to John, massively hung over. He'd forgotten his new suicide mission and was only thinking of the man in the other room. 

"John," he called out breathlessly, stumbling through the door. 

John hadn't slept, and it showed on his face in the form of hard lines and dark circles. He looked sadly up to Greg from where he sat over the spot where he usually slept. Again, he was wordless. Saying goodbye and leaving Sherlock to die had taken it's toll on John's weary mind.

He silently looked at Greg, and vaguely wondered why he was so animated. Perhaps Sherlock had just died.

Greg nearly fell over himself getting to John, sitting down beside him and pulling him into his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry love I'm sorry. I behaved terribly, please, oh I'm sorry." 

John fell sideways and leaned on Greg. Tears slipped down his face, but still he was silent. John nuzzled the side of Greg's face and briefly considered asking if Sherlock had passed yet, but decided he did not want to know the answer, and thus stayed mute.

Greg wrapped John up tight in his arms and laid them down, dragging the blankets up over them. "Oh, my John, you've not slept. Please sleep, I'm so sorry. Let's rest, I'm so sorry I behaved like that."

John reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hem of Greg's shirt in a silent bid for him to stay before his eyes slid shut and he nearly gave in to sleep. One thing kept him awake. He wanted to know if Sherlock had made it the night, or if his friend was dead. John couldn't ask. He struggled against sleep in his restful, peaceful place on Greg's chest.

Greg rubbed John's back, feeling how restless he was. "Hey...hey, talk to me, John." 

John didn't have the energy to talk. He didn't want to speak, or be awake, or go to sleep , or even exist. He wanted to float away into numbness and find a place he could exist where Sherlock wasn't on life support. But he wasn't supposed to leave Greg. He thought on this for a full ten minutes before he remembered that Greg had asked him something. 

He raised sad, weary eyes to meet Greg's, but only stared, dumb and unmoving.

Greg was too slow on the uptake. He abruptly texted Mycroft with John still in his arms. 

_How is Sherlock? John is nearly catatonic._

Mycroft frowned. A catatonic John would not do. 

_He's alive. We've had a bit of a miracle. He woke up. He's talking. The doctors are carefully optimistic._

_Of course this means we'll need to go through with our plan._

Greg looked to John. "He's alive. Woke up. Talking," he explained, even around the lump in his throat, "he's alive. It's alright, they think he's going to be alright." 

John blinked at Greg. It was so much to process. He searched Greg's face for signs of deceit, and found none. 

"Alive?" He hardly whispered it.

Swallowing down every bit of screaming dread he could, Greg nodded. He dragged up what cruelty he could manage, dying inside. 

"Was likely a dramatic cry for attention. Not getting his way, you know Sherlock." If he'd driven a knife into his own eye, it would have hurt less. "He's likely going to be just fine. Flair for drama, remember?"

John's frown deepened and he shook his head. "No...no...that's not right." He spoke on a whisper though, still processing Sherlock's newfound life. "It's not drama, Greg."

Greg swallowed down his deep-seated need to care for John, to be kind to Sherlock, and pressed on. "Well, it was bloody selfish, and a sight childish of him, that's for sure. Stole a night of sleep from you. Owes you an apology." How he loathed himself. 

John looked up at Greg with shock. 

"Is that...is that how you feel?" 

Sherlock had been desperate. He'd wanted an end of his own suffering and that of John and Mycroft's. It wasn't selfishness. 

"When I tried to die, is that what you thought of me?" 

John raised wide, sad eyes to Greg. He was so vulnerable. He was so very, intensely vulnerable to Greg, and the idea that he thought this way about Sherlock and his struggle was intensely painful.

Greg's heart was thundering in his chest. God how he loathed this. "Not always," he said roughly, "but sometimes."

"You thought I was being _selfish_?" John was crushed. He drew away and shook his head in disbelief. "No, no, that's...You tried too! You tried to leave me! Was that you being selfish?"

Greg closed his eyes, almost ready to sick up. "I don't want to talk about this, let's just sleep."

John wrapped his arms around his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut. "Y-You can't tell him you think he was being selfish. You can't tell him that."

Greg ground his teeth and decided I'd there was an afterlife, he'd spend it tormenting Mycroft. 

"Lying to him won't help."

John drew in a hissing breath. "You can't blame him for wanting to die! You- Jesus... Greg, if you'd been through what he had, you'd understand! You don't get how...It's HELL! Sherlock went to HELL and you're going to practice tough love?"

Greg reminded himself that this was for John, for Sherlock, that they had been in hell and deserved their lives back. This was for them.

"He's been a child. You worked hard to heal, he just...flaked."

The words burned on his tongue, how he hated himself.

"Greg, STOP!" 

John clamped his hands over his ears. 

"Stop it! It's rude! Sherlock and I have been through difficult things! You can't be upset with him. He didn't have someone like you to help him."

Greg fell into character as though pitching off a roof. 

"Because he lived so hateful. He drove us all away. Bed if his own making, really. He's lucky to have Mycroft. Enough of him, you have to sleep now."

"He was conditioned!" John shouted. "He was burned until he behaved as they wanted. It isn't his fault no more than it is my fault that I can't go in showers." 

John fell silent for a moment. 

"Do you blame me for all those things?" 

Greg reached out and tried to pull John to him, hating this to his core. "I don't blame you," he said quietly,, unable to keep up with this while sober. "Let's sleep."

John shook his head and sat up. 

"No! No, you can not blame him!" 

John reached out and grabbed Greg's wrist. 

"Look," he snapped, pulling up Greg's sleeve to reveal the scar on his forearm. Greg had been wearing mostly long sleeves. 

John noticed the shame. 

"No, look at me." 

John pulled his shirt over his head. Generally, he avoided looking at his own body, or letting Greg see it. He was hideous, and he hated himself for it, but Greg needed to know. He held out his own forearm, then pointed to a burn. It was large and flowed down the sides of his arms in such a way that showed he was on his back with his arm facing up when boiling water was poured. 

"There are other scars under it. Needle pricks. Spikes. Smaller burns. Slashes. Tell me about your two scars, Greg. Tell me why you have them."

Greg tore his arm away, holding it proactively close. He looked away from John, tears burning unshed.

"Go to sleep, John," he said quietly, aching to drop the act and apologize.

"No! You tell me right now why you cut open your arm. Was it to escape something more painful? Did you feel like a burden? Did you feel broken? Do you remember what it feels like to cut open your own skin?" 

John grabbed Greg's arm and pulled it away from his chest. 

"Because until you can imagine that every single day for months, you can me understand. Until you GO THROUGH HELL, you can not judge those who have." 

Greg snatched his arm back. "Oh, but you judge him! You judge his want for your love, judge him for not just taking what he can get from you!"

Greg wanted to drag himself outside and pay someone to beat him to death. This was horrible to do to John.

"I judge because I have been through it! What did I just say? I have offered him my friendship, and he refuses on the basis that I am not in love with him. That is difficult for me to understand. But you? How can you judge! You tried the same thing as him with far less motivation!"

Greg felt his heart freeze up as he said the next dreaded words. 

"But you've not been through the same, have you? He was made to believe he was hurting you, and when he lost time he thought he was actively hurting you, being tortured just like you and then on top of that, raped so frequently, so many times that he has horrible flashbacks just going to toilet. He watched himself kill you for mercy. He watched you reject him for months, let cameras into his flat, protected you in hospital, and tried to leave when he thought you were safe, just to make your life easier. He was still actively dying when you screamed at him that it was all his fault, that he could have just told you he loved you and none of this would have happened, listened to you tell him you used to love him but not any more. You've not been through the same, but you still judge him."

It took a great amount of willpower not to sick up then and there.

John withered under Greg's words like a flower in the sun. His eyes were wide and desperate. But he chose anger, not sadness, and defiance, not submission. 

Truthfully, it was probably a positive step. 

"Nine months! I was in- JESUS! I was with Moriarty for nine months. Do you have any idea what he can do to a person in that time? You all have helped me build up, but I'm like a burned building! You've put up wallpaper, and re-done the outside, but the damage is still all there. I'm- GOD, I can't even shower! And I thought Sherlock was doing all of this! I worked so DAMN hard to love him again. I hated it! I hated all of it! I hated being near him even once I knew it wasn't him! I hated having to be civil when I wanted to scream at him. And I-I don't know how the HELL you're blaming me for this." 

John set his stare cold and harsh, but he was too defensive. Greg's words were starting to eat at him. It had been his fault. All his fault. He'd been horrible to Sherlock. He should have been able to control his fear. _Horrible, awful, terrible John._

Greg shook his head, loathing himself. "I'm not blaming you for anything. I've tried to get you to give yourself permission not to see him but you've refused. I'm not blaming you, I'm just pointing out that he didn't heal and you did.He's weak. He isn't worth you suffering over more."

Heroin. He needed heroin for this. 

"And I was pointing out your hypocrisy in judging him. You tie your little knot. Imagine what he'll he must have been in, broken bones and burned to bits, regularly taken by Moran in addition."

John hung his head and his anger began to deflate. "Stop it," he said weakly. "Stop. He isn't weak. He's strong. He always does what is best for others. Always. If you want to blame me, blame me, but don't you dare say bad things about Sherlock."

Greg sat up, getting ready to contact Mycroft. "Sure, John. Whatever you want. I'll just remind him he'd best be grateful you see him at all. The audacity of him loving you and pinning for you to feel the same....how stupid of him."

He got up, going to the lav and hitting his knees, sicking up for a full ten minutes until he could get control.  
He picked up the phone and dialed Mycroft, sweating and nearly falling apart.

John was confused and afraid, but also angry. He didn't understand what was happening, but was used to his idea of things being wrong. Perhaps Greg was just right about this. 

"Greg?" He asked and stood outside the door. "Are you okay? I'm sorry."

Greg hung up when Mycroft failed to answer. He kept himself ready against the floor. "Go to bed, John, I'm fine. I'm fine."

He was sure he'd never make it. How was he supposed to make John afraid of him and choose Sherlock?

"I'm sorry," John called out. "I messed up. I know. I see that now. I shouldn't be mad at Sherlock for loving me. Please come out. I'm worried."

John was worried Greg would hurt himself.

Greg tore at his hair, elbows on his knees, sobbing quietly. "I'm fine," he repeated, seriously doubting his ability to do this. He texted Mycroft with a plea for drugs, setting the phone side before pulling at his hair again.

Mycroft responded simply. 

_Sherlock is not emotionally ready for the transfer. Give it a few days._

_This does not have to spell death for you. You should stay around, just in case. And John could forgive you. There are so many variables._

Greg dropped his head back against the wall, quietly weeping, hands pressed over his face. It took him ten minutes to get himself under control, before he dragged himself up and went to the kitchen, eyes to the floor, having a bottle and setting in on getting properly pissed.

John followed like a sad puppy. He kept his head down, and decided that he did not deserve to be angry. Not after all the trouble he'd caused. He watched Greg get himself drunk in dejected, self loathing silence. His knees were tucked up to his chest, and he sat in the armchair to give himself a sense of security he knew at the moment he couldn't ask of Greg. 

_How many days, Mycroft? This is severely hurting John. How many days? Please...you said you'd give me drugs to deal with this. Please._

He looked up at John and ground his teeth. "Are you going to see him again," he asked roughly, taking another pull of the bottle. 

Was that what this was about? John's heart seized painfully. He felt like a kid watching their parent get drunk. 

"I'd like to," he whispered, then cringed away in anticipation of rebuke. 

"Please, I mean, I'm sorry if that upsets you, but I really want to...If I won't be hurting him, I mean...I could just...just say sorry then go, but...I said goodbye to him. I'd like to see him alive. If I'm banned and unwanted," and oh, how those words hurt, "I'll leave."

Greg shrugged, "Understandable. I don't think you're banned. Sherlock has done you the disservice of basing his worth on your thoughts off him. May as well have a visit. Might catch him in time for a feeding," he quipped with terrible cruelty. 

John drew in a sharp breath and turned away from Greg. "I-I think highly of him," he whispered, but did so into the cushion of the arm rest. 

He fell silent for several minutes and listened to the sound of Greg's drinking. After a while, he timidly asked; "Greg? Did I do something wrong?"

Greg slid the bottle away and rest his head down on the table. "I think it's time-" he swallowed hard and took a breath, forcing himself to press on, "for you to take a shower, and then I'll take you to go see Sherlock."

Fuck Mycroft, they'd do this on Greg's schedule.

John looked at Greg with some confusion. "You mean for _you_ to take a shower, right?"

Greg stood up, putting the bottle back. "No, John,"he said quietly, "it's time for you to get past this. You have to bathe yourself. Come with me and we'll have a shower, and then I'll let you see Sherlock."

John shrank away. Surely, Greg was joking. This couldn't be real. He could wash his hands well enough in the sink, but it was terrifying, and something he only did on hard days. "It's...It's not a work day," John said quietly. "We're supposed to do nice things."

Greg did not advance. He let his disappointment show on his face before shrugging and going quietly to the sofa, sitting down without a word.

John sat up and reached for him. "I'll try," he amended. Anything to keep himself from disappointing Greg. "Please. I'll try. Just..." How he hated he had to ask. "Please don't make me if I can't."

Greg nodded, "yeah John, alright," he said with no hope that John would succeed. "Want me to come with you or not?"

"I...Yeah, yeah, of course." John took small steps to the bathroom. He was terrified. His heart was hammering and his scarred arms were tucked close to his body. What if he couldn't do it? What if he disappointed Greg?   
He didn't seem to be on the best terms with the one he loved, and it scared him. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered and pulled the shower curtain back. When Greg followed him into the room, John jumped and pressed his back against the wall as if expecting to be dragged into the water. But no, that had been a year ago. 

Greg held a hand up. "I'm going to set the temperature for you, and then I'll leave. You can do this better without me."

He turned in the traps and set the water to comfortably warm, before stepping back and waking it of the room.

"No, no, I can't!" John rushed from the room and grabbed hold of Greg's arm. He dropped his head and tried to nuzzle down against Greg's shoulder. "Please. Please be gentle with me. I feel sad. I'm trying. Please help me."

Greg wanted with all he had to make up for the day, to hold John and fix this. But John was supposed to resent him and Sherlock fear him. 

"No. You go in there and be a man. Nothing can hurt you. Hell, you can show Sherlock how wreak he's being, doing this yourself."

John was trembling and he rubbed his face on Greg's shoulder to try to get some of the warmth he usually got out of the man. But Greg felt cold to him now, and John let go. 

"If I-I go shower, will you hold me?" _Is that what I have to do?_

Greg hated himself, hated all of this. It was so cruel. It was a massive risk. "Yes...I'll hold you, yes. I'll take you to see Sherlock."

John's breath hitched. Of course, this was the way things should be. He did not deserve love. It was a gift. He'd earned it until now, and this was the next step. Greg never _loved_ him. He was rewarding him for good work. John nodded and tears filled his eyes at that alone. His small shoulders shook as he walked back to the bathroom, and when the door closed he let out a wretched, shaking sob. 

The water was on. It was terrifying. John sat down on the floor and wept. How could he go on knowing that he wasn't loved? That he had to earn the right to be held? John's mind was so quick to hate itself, so quick to turn things to the worst, that John was already wondering what would be next. Would Greg kick him out if he didn't get a job?

John cried hard and loud for several minutes. After a while, the shaking stopped, and he looked to the shower in absolute horror. But he wanted love more than he wanted not to be hurt. 

"Greg?" He called from the lav. "Could I not put my head under? Please?"

Greg was going absolutely mad. He called out that it was fine if he didn't put his head under.

This surely would drive John to Sherlock, who wanted John and loved John to such an extreme they had a hard time understanding it. John would go to Sherlock, and Sherlock never failed to comfort John when John was in crisis.

It had to work.

John whimpered as he reached for the water, then pulled away. He cried. He screamed once. 

When the first drops of water pounded against his skin, he gave a startled gasp and drew his hand away. It hurt. Not physically, but mentally. It was agonizing. John scooted closer so he was crouched by the shower and extended his hands again. He lowered the temperature. 

It took him a full ten minutes, but eventually he'd moved he shower head to point directly into the drain. He stepped in -still wearing socks- and cowered in the corner. He hadn't undressed at all, other than the long sleeve shirt he wore over the short sleeve one. He could feel the water droplets on his bare arms, and turned his face away. 

Frantically he stripped off his soaking trousers and tossed them away, then sat sobbing with his head on his knees. He noticed his legs. His awful, scarred legs. He followed up and saw his arms. Horrible. Ugly. John wanted to have all the scars off. He would do anything for smooth skin.

John spotted Greg's razor, and snatched it immediately. He needed to not have these scars. They made him ugly. They made him bad. He took the razor and dragged it at an odd angle across his uneven, lumpy skin. It peeled off the first layer of the most puckered scars , and John both gasped in pain and sighed in relief. He did it again and again and again. He scraped the tops off of most the scars on the front of his forearm before he tossed the razor away. It was too shallow. It wasn't doing enough. He screamed into his knees and looked back to the water. He was going to be sick. 

"I d-don't want to take my clothes off," he called. "P-Please don't make me."

Greg let himself into the bathroom, unable to ignore him and his distress. 

It took a full ten seconds for him to absorb what he was seeing. He could not speak, turning off the water and passing towels to John's bleeding skin, calling 999 with the other hand.

He wrapped towels around John's sodden shirt, lifting him out of the tub. "John, breathe, breathe John."

"No! No!" John fought against Greg and struggled to cover himself. 

He was hideous. Blood from his arm was smeared against the white tub and his own pale legs. There were two scars, ones that were hard and raised off the skin, that hardly bled. They were white and fleshy, but they didn't bleed. 

The others bled profusely. John wept and pulled his arm away, which dragged his raw, open skin against the towel. He reached for the water again and tried to resume his efforts. 

"I-I'll m-make it s-so y-you love me again," he cried. "I-I'm s-sorry I'm b-bad and ugly. I'm t-trying. I'm sorry! Greg! Greg, please!" 

Greg pulled John out of the bathroom, taking him to the sofa and wrapping a blanket over them, waiting for the ambulance.

"Stop fighting me, stop fighting. I do love you, you don't have to earn it. I do love you. I love you. Please be calm."

"No, no!" John wasn't in particular danger of bleeding out, but he was terrified and in pain. "I-I have t-to use the w-water o-or I'm b-bad! I'm m-making you mad and y-you'll h-hate me! I'm being bad! I d-deserve this!"

Greg had no idea what to do here. He held John, rocking him, unable to say anything.

Medics arrived and Greg kept a very tight hold of him. "Shh, shh, be calm, we will get the scars fixed, we will fix it. Be calm, you're going to be okay."

"I-I t-tried t-to get r-rid of them," John wept and pressed his face into Greg's chest. It was warm again. "I-I know y-you think I-I'm disgusting. I know. I know how gross I am. I'm s-sorry I'm not better yet! I'm sorry! Tomorrow I'll g-get in the w-water and I-I'll go under and I-I'll m-make you care about m-me again!"

Greg could hardly breathe as the medics started in on getting a line going on John. "I don't think you're disgusting. I don't. Not one bit. Calm down now, we're going to sedate you, it will be better. Calm...John calm."

John cried out in fear at the doctors grabbed him. "Don't! N-No, GREG! PLEASE!" He was being taken away. They were going to drag him away! 

"No! Greg! Please, love, please! I-I'll b-be better! I-I know it's time for m-me to do better! Help me! P-Please don't let them take me!!"

Greg kept hold of John, carrying himself to the ambulance. He held the struggling man until they injected a sedative, never putting John down.

"Bart's. We are taking him to Sherlock Holmes, he will room there."

John held onto Greg's arm for as long as he could. When his head finally lolled back, he did so with tears pouring down his face, thinking he'd done something to upset Greg and deserve his coldness, then his utter rejection and expulsion. 

Greg was trailed by security, though his old status as DI lended him the benefit of being allowed to carry John to Sherlock's room. Mycroft had no warning of this, as Greg walked in and set John on a bed in the corner, allowing the medics to see to him.

He turned to Mycroft with rage clear on his face, waving his hand toward John. "It's going grand," he growled, walking out into the hall.

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Greg, I said not yet! What have you done with him?" 

"Fuck off, Mycroft," Greg mumbled, still very drunk. At least John was sedated. "He did it to himself, trying to earn my love back."

"How is he injured? How badly?" Mycroft sounded genuinely worried, but the sentiment was for his brother. "What did you do?"

"He needs a plastic surgeon to help repair the scars, get the initials of his chest. You wanted him scared of me, I told him to take a shower. When he was in there, he tried to take the scars off."

"Ah." Mycroft looked to John sadly. "I don't know if Sherlock is ready, but it's a good start. How are you fairing?"

Greg looked at him incredulously, moments before cracking a sad laugh. "I'm torturing the man I love, and then I'll die hated and forgotten. I'm just coming up roses, thanks."

"You don't have to die," Mycroft insisted. "You and John can be friends. I don't think your death will help. If you die, I won't tell him. I'll have to forge emails from you. You'll need to tell me of any ways he might test the validity of them; any keywords or questions I should know. You shouldn't die. I'd truly rather not have that on my conscience as well."

Greg tore his hands through his hair before abruptly turning, grabbing Mycroft by the shirtfront with both hands and slamming him against the wall outside the hospital room. 

"I know you love your brother," he snarled, leaning in close and threatening, "and I love him too, but you are forcing me to make John believe I've lied to him all this time, just so they have a tiny shot at happiness. All of this, all the damage he did to himself, the pain he is in, this is _your_ doing! The _fuck_ have I to live for when he hates me? When my flat is empty of everyone once again, and I'm just the man who hurt him in the end? You promised me you'd tell him later, you fucking _promised me_." 

"I don't want innocent people to die," Mycroft claimed and shoved Greg off him. 

"I am doing everything I can to do what I think is best for Sherlock. It's what you would do for John." 

Except, this was clearly not good for John. Not right now. Maybe in the future it would be, but Mycroft was beginning to doubt it. This was good for Sherlock. That was what mattered to him. 

Greg got right back into Mycroft's face. "This is what you are going to fucking do, Mycroft Holmes. You are going to keep their beds flush together. You are going to ensure Gladstone can be here with them. You are going to allow Sherlock to pull himself out of his own hell by trying to save John again. Sherlock will rise up, and god help me John will likely cling to him. Get the surgeons to get that fucking initial off his chest and fix what they can, and no matter what, _never_ allow them to separate."

His chest hitched as he thought of John calling out for him later, unable to go to his side. Already his heart was in pieces for John. 

"You will be kind to John. You will tell him I- I was a sick man, that I- I could not live with how I'd hurt him...anything..." Tears slid heavy and fast down his cheeks. "I _love_ that man. If you never relay that, then I can't do anything about it. You're hurting him, but you're right, I've no right to try and make a life with him. This, however, is _not_ what I would do for John. I would not ask you to do this to your brother for the sake of anyone else. Face your fucking flaw, Mycroft, for god's sake. You've trapped me, and I can't say no to you, but goddamn it don't you fucking hurt him." 

"I know what I've become," Mycroft stated simply. "And it happened slowly. I used to just use simple bribery to keep tabs on him. Occasionally, if there was a threat, I'd escalate. I'd chase off his usual dealers. Now, I am willing to traumatize everyone in the world just to get him smiling again." 

He looked down at his own hands with mild interest. “It's not a particularly good feeling, but it stands. I do not wish for you to die. I wish....Were our roles reversed, I would not separate myself from Sherlock for the sake of John. You're a far better man than I am, and I know this quite well."

Greg walked past Mycroft without saying a word, going back into the room where John was being treated. He took off his Uni ring and slipped it on John's thumb, keeping out of the way of the doctors, holding John's hand for several minutes before he could not take it anymore. He leaned in, whispering to the unconscious man. 

"I love you, John."

He pressed his lips to John's damp temple, sweeping his fingers through John's hair several times as he lingered there, hardly breathing himself. 

In the next moment, Greg was gone, leaving the hospital room and brushing past Mycroft without another word, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, heart splintering glass in his chest. 

Mycroft wanted Greg alive. If this tanked, they would need to have someone to patch Greg up. He text him. 

_I'll arrange for you to have drugs, but I am going to prevent your suicide. It wouldn't be fair to John. He thinks he's done something wrong._

Greg felt his mobile vibrate as he exited the hospital, fuming with rage that Mycroft would dare tell him what was fair to John. He hailed a cab, heading directly to Baker Street. 

When he arrived, he knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door, though the woman was not home. Using the key under the mat, he let himself in and set his mobile down on her counter, turned off. Quickly he penned a note. 

_When John is healthy enough in his mind to see this, please give him this mobile, please do not tell Mycroft you have this. Also, Mrs. Hudson, if I could ask it of you, please tell him I loved him more than I could ever explain, and I've always been so proud of him._

_-Greg Lestrade_

He left after locking back up and returning the key, hoping that someday his strings of text with Mycroft would make it all clear to John. He got in a cab, and headed for the Thames. 

John woke slowly to the feeling of intense stress. He cried out before he was fully awake and grabbed at his sheets. 

_Greg. Greg was angry. Greg was cold. Greg hated him. Greg was disappointing. Greg thought he was mean to Sherlock. Greg thought he didn't deserve to complain. Greg thought he needed to improve more. Greg had sent him to the shower. Greg had told him to use the water on himself. Greg hadn't held him until he'd gone in the water and cut himself. Greg had called for him to be taken away._

John began to cry in earnest before he opened his eyes. He could feel a bed. It did not feel like his bed, but perhaps Greg was nearby. Like a child injured, he cried in hopes that Greg would hear him, as he always did, and come for him

Sherlock startled awake at the sound of John's distress. 

_John's_ distress. 

He opened his eyes and turned to his side, finding John in a hospital bed very close to his own, wrapped in bandages and crying out for Greg. 

"John?" He breathed, confused and joining the frightened man in his search of the room for Greg. He found only his brother as he reached through the bars and took John's hand. 

"John? Wh-What h-happened? John?"

So, he'd been left with Sherlock. Was this a sick game, or was he lost forever? Surely, there was something he could do to get Greg back. He would beg, hurt himself, change his entire personality....anything. 

John let out a guttural sob and shook his head. 

"H-He l-left me," he sobbed. "I-I-I'm n-n-no-not g-g-g-good e-en-enough f-for G-Greg t-to love! H-He d-doesn't...h-he..." 

John lost himself and his whole bed shook with sobs. He covered his face and curled up tight, but Greg wasn't there. He still hadn't opened his eyes. He couldn't open them and see an empty room. 

"H-He d-doesn't l-l-lo-love m-me any m-more!!"

Sherlock had nearly come out of his bed in his urge to comfort John. He looked to his brother with open confusion, "Where is Greg," he asked as he tightened his hold on John's hand, watching the genuine heartbreak flooding out of the man. 

"J-John! John c-calm down, calm d-down, th-there h-has to be an e-explanation John. Pl-lease, I'm...I'm h-here with you, we'll f-find Greg!"

John cried out in sheer agony at being left so abruptly. He was inconsolable. His guttural cries reached through the entire hospital and brought his despair with them. "Left m-me!" He cried and opened his eyes for just a moment. Greg was not there, and again, he cried out. "I-I w-wasn't g-good enough," he wailed. "I-I can't! I-I can't! No....n-no, no, no, n-not without G-Greg. Sorry! SORRY!" 

John curled around a pillow and screamed as loudly as he could. He wanted to get up and run to Greg, but he was absolutely paralyzed by the monstrosity of what he had lost. 

He'd lost his Greg. 

He'd not been good enough. He was left in a hospital, surrounded by doctors. That showed how much Greg cared after all. 

"LIAR!" John _screamed_. "L-Loved him a-and h-he LIED! PROMISED M-ME!" John sat up and screamed at the opposite wall. He drew in a hitching, sobbing breath, then screamed again. He was inconsolable in his despair and screamed over and over until he was dizzy. 

Miller was the one who came with the sedative, worried for John's physical heart under so much strain. Sherlock sat there, trembling, tears sliding down his face and utterly useless to do anything to stop John's agony. He kept trying to reach out to John, only to draw his hand back, tucking his fingers to his lips and biting down on them in acute distress. 

"M-My," he wept, looking to his brother in anguish, "wh-what...how....wh-what do we do? Wh-Where is G-Greg?"

John screamed and tore at the bandages on his arm. The cuts were shallow, but he could still scratch at them. He could have the horrible things off.

When his attempts at self harm were interrupted by Miller, he screamed in fear and shoved him away. 

"No! NO! GREG! GREG!" 

John's chest was so tight he could barely breathe, but still he screamed. His grief was so sharp and all consuming that he felt himself shattering under it's weight. 

"PROMISED! LET ME GO! YOU SAID-" John's vision blurred and he dropped back onto the bed for a moment. "I-I can't! Can't. Can't. Can't. Need to l-leave. Leave. Promised. I thought you love m-me. I thought y-you-" John cried out again and screamed for Greg again. "Love you! I-I- anything! GREG! GREG!"

His Greg had left him at a hospital. He'd left him in a room he did not know surrounded by doctors. He was not loved. Greg did not love him.

John could feel himself shattering, coming undone at the hinges. He'd based everything, every little thing on Greg and Greg's love. He could not sleep through the night without Greg. He ate because Greg was there to keep him safe.

Greg was gone.

Abruptly, John was out of his bed and in the hall. Blood trailed down from the back of his hand, but he paid no mind. He covered his face with his hands as he sprinted as best he could down the hall towards the exit. He'd toss himself in front of a car. He'd find something to jump from. It didn't matter. Greg never loved him.

Miller had hold of him before he hit the exit. John was not strong enough to outrun an adult man in normal health. He wrapped his arms around John and restrained him as best he could, doing his best not to hurt him further. 

"JOHN," he called loudly, going to the floor with him in an effort to keep him from getting hurt. Several nurses came running, and soon a needle was pushed into John's bicep to help sedate him. Miller kept hold of him, his grip tight and effective. 

"JOHN, you've got to calm down John. Breathe," he called for one of the nurses to bring out a blanket and a rolling oxygen tank, getting the mask over John's face and wrapping him up tight in the blanket as John fought him. 

"John stop, stop. He loves you, you know that. Just slow down. Slow down. You're not alone. Sherlock is in there. Can we go sit near Sherlock until Greg comes back?"

John was suddenly being touched by too many people, and babbled on in incoherent, slurred English. "Left me.... He left me....doesn't my love m-me. I want G-Greg. Greg...love h-him but... I w-want...he promised ..."

Sherlock sat there, shuddering in his bed, staring wide-eyed at his brother. "M-My...where is G-Greg? John is scared of m-me, where...wh-where is Greg?"

Mycroft breathed slowly. "He got tired of John," he said quietly and hated himself for this. But Sherlock was his priority. "John's progress has slowed recently, and Greg was too stressed to handle his outbursts. John has reverted to self harm and apathy, and Greg can't handle it any more."

John curled up around his pillow and screamed. He wasn't wanted. He wasn't loved. Greg. His Greg. His lovely, perfect, wonderful Greg.

John had tried so hard to be good for Greg. He'd dedicated whole days just to making sure Greg felt loved. But he'd been stupid and foolish. He couldn't be loved. "GREG! GREG!" John drew out the screams and bit his lip hard enough to draw a significant amount of blood.

Sherlock could hardly believe what Mycroft was saying. He looked over at John, trying to ensure his agony until he broke.

"Please," he breathed, liking to Mycroft, "I c-can't reach him...h-help me r-reach him?"

Their beds were close, but not close enough for Sherlock to touch John. He stretched out his arm, wanting to touch the poor man, heart shattering for John.

John screamed, and screamed, and screamed again. He could not live in a world where Greg, the only good thing in his life, the human embodiment of love and safety, didn't love him. He screamed until he was dizzy, then screamed until he passed out entirely. 

Just a few seconds later, he was up and screaming again, until his head grew light and he sagged back again. 

Sherlock screamed at his brother, who had been infuriatingly ignoring him, to help. It was Miller who finally pushed John's bed flush against Sherlock's, dropping the traps so that Sherlock could reach him.

John was unconscious as Sherlock pulled him into his arms, resting John's head on his chest and running his fingers through John's hair, terrified for him.

"Greg couldn't h-have just l-left him like that...n-no, M-My something...s-something is w-wrong. S-something...something h-happened...you h-have to find him."

John came awake, and for one, blissful second, thought Greg was holding him. He kept his eyes closed, even as he heard Sherlock and knew who's arms were around him. He wailed again in a heartbroken, devastated and absolutely torn way, and pressed his face into Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock was intensely grateful that John did not pull away from him. He swept his fingers along John's back, scrubbing his fingers through John's hair.

"He'll c-come back...John....He'll came b-back...I'm s-so sorry."

"H-He w-w-won't! I-I h-hurt y-you, I-I've b-b-been s-so b-bad t-to you! H-HE HATES M-ME!!!" John writhed and pulled away. "I-I can't b-be here. I-I want- I h-have things a-at h-home-" 

John paused. It wasn't his home. "I-I have a..a-a blanket...and m-my drawing! H-He gave me a d-drawing!"

Sherlock drew his hands back sharply as John begged to go home. Looking to the floor, he bit his lip and did his best not to cry.

"S-Someone...someone c-could bring...being those things..." He offered quietly.

"GREG!" John screamed once more. "GREG! GREG!" He sat up and turned to Mycroft. "GIVE ME YOUR PHONE!" 

Mycroft hesitated. It had been going well. 

"GIVE IT TO ME!"

Mycroft's phone rang before he had a chance to make the choice, Mrs. Hudson on the other line.

Mycroft picked up. "Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Greg? It is imperative." 

Mrs Hudson's voice was sharp. "Donovan brought him back to me, Mr. Holmes. He's on my sofa in handcuffs, desperately trying leave."

"Bless her," Mycroft muttered and stood. "I'm on my way. Keep him as he is." Mycroft turned to Sherlock and John, who was passed out at the moment. 

"Sherlock, I need to go. Greg is upset about something, and I need to go talk to him. Miller and Jared will stay with you. Can you...Can you handle John for a bit? He needs comfort. He's lost and scared. Can you handle this?" 

It was, perhaps, the first time Mycroft had spoken to Sherlock like an adult. 

Sherlock nodded, "Sure, yes...go...go, b-bring Greg..."

He gathered John back to him and held on, willing to stand in until the person he really wanted came to take him away.

"I don't think I can bring him back," Mycroft said sadly. John was awake again, and began his heart-wrenching, guttural screaming. He had an almost inhuman look about him; the jerky way he moved, he way his head tilted back and his wide eyes locked on nothing. 

Mycroft hated his grief, and could practically see the man's mind tearing itself apart. 

"Comfort him," he said to Sherlock, but it was entirely unnecessary. 

Sherlock just tightened his grip on John, starting at his brother with open suspicion. He let John pull away from him with great sadness, no clue what he could do for him.

Mycroft left then and sped off to Baker Street. He was fuming, but couldn't really blame Greg. Or could he? He could do whatever the hell he wanted. He had the resources. If that made him the villain, then so be it.   
He walked right in and greeted Mrs. Hudson as kindly and cheerfully as he could given the situation.

Greg was rubbing his wrists raw, furious with Donovan who was trying to calm him. He heard Mycroft and began to plead with her, begging to be let go before the man could get to him.

Mrs. Hudson had her arms crossed. "Mycroft," she said sadly, Greg's mobile in her hand.

Mycroft's expression faded from cheerful to still and calm. "Sherlock is dying. I will do whatever I need to." He didn't give a damn who hated him. 

He strode over to Greg and looked down at him. "Where did you find him?" He asked of Donovan. 

Donovan swept her eyes over Mycroft, answering as though nothing odd were happening. 

"Didn't. Cabbie he saved years ago called the Yard when he picked him up as a fare, worried about him."

Greg was grinding his teeth and keeping his face away from Mycroft, eyes burning, furious that he was still breathing. Fat lot of good saving people had done him.

"Greg," Mycroft said gently, "John has been screaming for you until he passes out, waking up, then screaming for you again. Do you think there is a possibility that you could make the transition gentle?"

Greg hung his head, stomach full of ice at hearing of John's condition. Make it slow. How was he to slowly make John hate him, fear him? Heavy tears slid down his cheeks as he hid his face, gritting his teeth.

"S-Slow...slow will be so much...worse for him," he choked out, still working with his cuffs.

"Then go tell him goodbye," Mycroft insisted. "Isn't there something we can work out that is tolerable for both you and Sherlock?"

"Tolerable?! Tolerable? He has to fear me, Mycroft! How can that be fucking tolerable?!" Greg was shouting at the top of his lungs, moving as though ready to lunge at the man.

"Maybe we can work something out. John is..." Mycroft shuttered. 

"I don't like the way he looks right now, and I've seen them all in full panic. I've seen them both believe they were actively being raped, and he just...he's tried to escape already. We're very close to having to restrain him." Mycroft stepped back. 

"Maybe you could go back to work, and when you are gone, drop John off with Sherlock. He would spend most of his time with him. It could work. Then, he could just start sleeping over more. It would make the transition easier."

Greg had never held such hate for Mycroft in his life. He looked away again, tears sliding down his cheeks. "Fine," he bit out.

"Will that kill you? Will it kill you to only see him half the time? You don't have to make him hate you...just...get him used to needing Sherlock. Who knows? Maybe that will be enough for Sherlock, and we can forget all this nonsense." 

Greg looked up at him with betrayal burning in his eyes. 

"Fuck you, Mycroft. I'm doing every damn thing I can to help them both. You say bloody 'jump' and I have done, every time. I'll do whatever you fucking want. I know he and Sherlock should be together, not he and I. I needed to be the enemy, I did just that. You fucking told me they need to fear me. I DID THAT!"

He could hardly breathe, twisting his wrists in the cuffs. 

"THINK!" 

Mycroft shouted loud enough to make Mrs. Hudson jump. He'd forgotten about her abusive relationship and nerves. 

"Sorry," he muttered in her direction. "Just...Think. What do you think will push them together? How do you best think the three of you can work something out? Don't forget that I am in the same position as you. Sherlock's had me out. Anything you think is best, I can make happen. Just- Jesus, you don't think! You just blindly follow! You try figuring something out! You come up with the next big plan!"

"Not all of us are fucking masterminds, Mycroft! I- I had no idea he was going to hurt himself, I was trying to do a show transition and this happened! John’s terrified of me now, but he'd be calling for me even if he thought I'd come back just to beat him!"

He lost holds of a cooked sob that had Donovan staying in open shock, looking between the men. 

"Right. Well. I'm taking Greg to John, and that's the whole of it. You pair are a mess." She spoke in strained patience to the pair of them. 

Greg shook his head, trying to catch his breath. "He'll get past this. He'll stick to Sherlock. Give him time."

"He's scaring Sherlock and mentally tearing himself apart. Just...go say you're sorry, and that you just need some time to get away from the stress. You can go back to work, or, I can get you drugs for your spare time, as requested. Perhaps it will be alright like that. Maybe Sherlock will be happy having full days with John, and John will adhere to him better in your absence."

Greg looked back up to Mycroft, suddenly defeated and spent. He could not imagine a life without John in it, and to be asked to slowly make John hate him was agony.

"Fine," he repeated slowly, feeling weak and listless. John was going to hate him, he'd done so much damage already. 

"I'll tell him I have to work, he'll still think I don't love him because of it, and I'll just lose him slowly. We'll do it that way, if he'll even have me back."

"What I am saying is maybe he doesn't have to hate you! Maybe you can just..I don't know...Tell him you love him, but need space. Then, suggest he try to take comfort in Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock will rise to the occasion, instead of expecting John to."

Greg huffed a pained, joyless laugh. "John will never be able to hear ‘I need space' in any way other than 'I don't love you' and he's going to do exactly what he is now. And give Sherlock credit, he always rises up when John needs him."

"Fine. Fine. If you want this to be the end for you and John, so be it. But just...If you want to word it kindly, that's fine. You don't have to be harsh." 

Mycroft thought to John's screams. "I'd rather you didn't. I"m sorry. Just...Sherlock needs this."

Greg shouted at Mycroft, a sound of pure anguished frustration. 

"YOU want it to be the end of he and I! I never want to be harsh with him, I never want to leave him! I had no idea it would happen so fast! I was trying to be the common enemy-" his throat caught and he looked away, speaking much quieter. 

"I love these men like brothers and I'm teaching them to hate me. What more is it that you want?"

Mycroft snapped back harshly. "I don't give a SHIT what happens to you and John's relationship! I want you to be alive and well, and I want John and Sherlock to be functioning together. If Sherlock could be happy without John, I'd set you two up on a private island with nothing to scare him. But Sherlock needs John. So think! Come up with something!"

"I did," Greg said quietly, "I told you exactly how to get them to work just before I left. I've willingly removed myself, why are you being so hostile with me?"

He twisted his wrists, savoring the raw burn of it.

"Because you went against the plan! You had John hauled off by strangers! You were supposed to wait, bring him to Sherlock, say something mean to Sherlock, and have John _willingly_ send you away to defend Sherlock. This was supposed to have it's roots in defending Sherlock!!” Mycroft was _furious_

“You're just too much of an IDIOT and you ruined it! You made it about you being mean to John, and John feeling like he's worthless and thrown aside. I had a plan! You went against it! THAT is why things are as bad as they are!"

Greg closed his eyes, letting the words drive through him without mercy.

"It was an accident. I was being hard on Sherlock, John was defending him, he was fighting with me."

His voice failed him, feeling like an animal, head hung in shame. He'd ruined everything, every single thing. 

"He will cling to your brother, he will. I'm...it was an accident. I carried him...I tried to comfort him, he was covered in blood I...I thought he needed hospital...I...I..." his voice died away and he shook his head, tears falling to his lap.

"I'm sorry."

"No, damnit, you will not be sorry. You will stop trying to die and help me fix these men. You will go as we planned, and you won't have John hauled off by _doctors_ and left in _hospital_. The idea was for him to send you away! Does nothing get through your thick skull?" 

Mycroft was angry and didn't give a damn who he hurt, so long as it wasn't Sherlock. 

Greg looked up at him then, completely defeated, nothing left in him. His voice was flat and toneless. 

"Uncuff me, I'll go with you, I'll make your brother cry and John will have me out."

Mycroft cringed. "Don't make him cry. Please. Don't be too hard on him. Let's keep it to you have John at your home, but he spends the days with Sherlock."

"Decide what the fuck you want, Mycroft," Greg said exhausted and worn out. "I fucked up, it's ruined, let me give John a reason to hate me. Then it will be back on track."

"You decide." Mycroft tossed the ball right back at Greg. "I don't want to."

Greg looked at Mycroft and shrugged. "Then uncuff me, we'll go have this done. Sherlock will cry, John will throw me out, happy ever after."

Mycroft uncuffed Greg and held the bloody handcuffs out for him. "How are you planning on getting trough the next week?"

"Fuck you, that's how," he said in monotone. He got up, walking out of Mrs. Hudson's flat, heading to the street to grab a cab.

"Let me drive you," Mycroft insisted as he walked. "Please. Let me help you with this."

Mycroft drove them to Bart's. Once they reached the second floor, John's agonized, raw, and desperate screams could still be heard echoing down the halls, making everyone nervous and depressed. He was weaker now. Mycroft could hear it in his voice. He'd stopped screaming Greg's name now and simply screamed. 

By the time they were nearing the room, the sound cut off as John presumably fainted again. Perhaps now he was doing it on purpose. 

When they reached the door, the screaming started up again, and Mycroft grabbed Greg by the shoulder. "Gentle."

Greg shoved Mycroft hard off off him with one hand, not giving a damn if he hurt the man. He walked into the room without a word. He did not look over at Sherlock, walking over to John and picking him up into his arms and carrying him over to the chair in the corner of the room.

"John...John..." He called, gently shaking him.

John's entire world zeroed in on Greg's collarbone, and he clung tight. His screaming immediately stopped, but he was not comforted. Far from it. 

John's entire body trembled and he wrapped shaking arms around Greg's neck. He was shell-shocked and silent for several long minutes as he tried to verify that this was indeed his love. 

"S-Sorry," was the first thing he managed to say. "Sorry! I-I c-can d-do better! D-Don't le-leave me!" John screamed once more, but in frustration and self hatred. 

"PLEASE! PLEASE! I'LL DIE! J-JUST KILL ME FIRST!" How wonderful it would be to die in Greg's arms. How merciful it would be for Greg to comfort him as he died. John latched on to the idea and dove into it. Greg might touch his face. He might tell him that he loved him. Maybe he would get a tender kiss to the forehead. Maybe he'd get to drift off nuzzled against Greg's chest and have the privilege of hearing his heart. 

"Will y-you hold me while I die? P-Please?"

Greg cradled John to him like a child, rocking him and kissing his head. His own heart was in shards, and for the moment he was devastatingly numb. "When you are ready to listen to me, we'll talk. I love you, I'm so sorry."

John's relief was so strong he couldn't handle it. "Thank y-you," he gasped. "C-Could you l-let me go now? Please? P-please h-hold me while I die. P-Please kiss my head and hold me and rock m-me and say...I m-mean, I know y-you don't..,. Don't mean it b-but-" John snapped into wild tears again. He wanted those things so badly. 

"I-I know I've b-been bad but I'll d-do anything! J-Just...it doesn't even have to be the whole time. Just give me m-morphine a-and for the l-last p-part just h-hold me."

Greg shifted John in his arms, ready to paint the walls with the inside of his own skull. He watched John as though from a distance, in the third person. 

"I'm not going to kill you," he whispered, "you don't understand what happened. I'm- I was never upset with you, ever." He could not do this, he just couldn't. "Do you want to go home?"

John cried out in anguish. He didn't want to go home. He was fixated on the lovely idea of Greg being affectionate to him while he died. 

"Y-You don't have t-to kiss me," he muttered and Greg dizzy again. He did not feel well at all. "I-I know. I know. Y-You can just...j-just hold m-my hand, or...stand across the room and say something kind , or smile at me, or-" John burst into fresh tears and clung to Greg. 

"Please! I'll do whatever I have t-to do! I-I'll give y-you anything! J-Just pretend t-to...to love m-me while I go. I just want that. Please."

Greg leaned in and pulled John up so that they were cheek to cheek, enabling him to whisper in John's ear. "Please John, please hear me. I love you. I'm in pain. Please help me."

It was a wild shot, but one worth trying.

John's wild breath caught in his throat, but on the exhale he sobbed again. "I-I want to h-help y-you," he insisted, even as tears poured down his face, his chest tightened, and his arm he'd cut open throbbed painful. 

Greg hugged him tighter to his chest, looking to Miller. "Pain medication, and then I'm taking him home. I swear to fucking god if any of you try and stop me, it's going to be ugly," he snarled at Mycroft, rocking John like a child and doing his fingers through John's hair.

Mycroft protested weakly. "Greg, _please_." Mycroft had gathered Sherlock up in his arms, and was watching Greg sadly. "Just...anything you can do for him. Please." 

Pain medication and home was all John had heard, and he wept again. "Thank you! Oh, Greg, you're a-an amazing m-man I'm sorry I-I have nothing t-to give you b-but thank y-you!"

Greg ignored Mycroft, his heart shut off to the man. Sod them all, he was all John had by means of protection and this....this was not happening.

Miller gave him an injection of morphine and pills for Greg to give John later. He looked up in surprise to see Donovan in the doorway, nodding to him. "I've got your ride," she said, ignoring Mycroft as well.

John raised tear-filled eyes to Donovan in a pleading way. "Don't be mean to him," he begged. "You always hurt Sherlock. You aren't a-a bad p-person b-but you can't c-call him a freak. It h-hurts him so much. Please stop."

Donovan did not come into the room. She nodded to John, watching as Greg bundled him up in a blanket, covering even his head so that John wouldn't see the outside world, and followed her out.

The ride home was quiet, with John secure on Greg's lap, held tight to his chest. Donovan did not speak, instead turning on some quiet music and driving carefully.

When they arrived, Greg let her get the door, saying nothing as he carried John back to his room.

John thought he was going to be taken into the flat and let go. He'd heard 'pain medication' and expected nothing less. And Greg was holding him! It was going to be wonderful. John constantly rubbed his face against Greg's chest and drank in the warmth he felt. 

"Thank you," he muttered over and over again. "I love you."

Donovan had no idea what to do with these men. As Greg carried John to bed, she fed the dog and made a large pot of tea, adding a few sandwiches on a tray in the fridge and leaving her personal number for Greg before letting herself out.

Greg got them into bed, glad that John had a jab already for pain, wrapping him up in the blankets and trucking John against guys chest, his own bloodied wrists.

"I need you to listen to me, John. Can you listen to me?"  
John nodded, but it was a lost movement, as he was still rubbing his face on the side of Greg's neck. "Can I go now? Can we stay like this?" 

Greg held his breath for a few seconds. "You want to leave me?"

"You m-made m-me go in the water so I could be h-held then l-left m-me in a hospital." 

John spoke with no accusation. He just wanted to point it out. 

"I just w-want you to h-hold m-me and pretend...I just..." John's poor heart cracked and crumbled. "I just w-want you t-to pretend like y-you used to a-and love m-me while I go."

"John..." how could he defend himself? "I love you, I know I handled all of this wrong but that's not....not how it was meant. I love you, John I love you. Please, it wasn't like that."

John shrugged. He didn't care. He was being held now, and that was what mattered. 

"Can I-I stop here? Can this be my last thing?" 

He had calmed now that Greg had him, and no matter how bad his heartbreak was aching, he had Greg holding him again. He looked up at Greg, upon whom he had entrusted every aspect of himself. He saw his beautiful, chocolate eyes, and love shone on his face despite the pain. 

"You're beautiful. Wonderful. I love you."

"No!" Greg suddenly cried out in fear and anguish, "No! I need you. I love you. I wasn't...you didn't have to take a shower for a hug...or to be held. I failed you and I was trying to make it right and-" he tightened his hold on John. 

"No, don't ask me to kill you. Don't ask me. I made a mistake. Forgive me."

John didn't understand. "D-Do I-I have to hurt m-myself to earn it? Do I-I have to shower or h-hurt...I hate myself." 

John's heart squeezed so painfully that he winced. 

"I-I knew I-I would d-do this!! I knew I-I'd ruin things!! He told me! H-He said I would b-be alone and with everyone h-hurt b-because of m-me!"

Greg forced himself to remain calm. "No, no of course not. I understand why you are confused but that's not what happened. You were not being punished. I don't want you to hurt. I love you, it's not an act. You are safe and loved. I love you. Please listen to me. Please."

"You don't love me," John lamented. "You told me about what I-I did with Sherlock. How I've hurt him and judged him and I've been horrible. Then y-you wouldn't help me...Mycroft said I-I stress you and y-you're tired of me. I need t-to go. Please love me for just a-a few more minutes."

Greg closed his eyes, resting his head back as defeat washed over him. It was too late, he'd done too much damage. If he told John the truth, John would fear Mycroft and would never go to Sherlock.  
"I do love you. You don't have to believe me. Would...would you be willing to sleep here, and sit with Sherlock during the day? I have to go back to work, but if you'll keep Sherlock company, I'll hold you as much as you want when I get home. I'm not going to let you die. Will you do this for me?"

He could hardly breathe. How he'd wanted to take John home and run away with him. Save him from Mycroft, who would stop at nothing for Sherlock.

John didn't want to live in a world where Greg did not love him.

He'd had so much. He'd had a dog and nice days and peace. He'd had a home and food and telly and stories.   
He did not have any of that now. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't...I feel sad." His bottom lip trembled and he sobbed again. "I feel really sad, Greg."

Greg held up a wrist to show John. "I couldn't get back to you fast enough, I'm so sorry. I never thought you'd hurt yourself in the shower. I'm sad too, John."

John gasped and grabbed Greg's hand. "Who had you?" God, was that terrifying. Greg was the superpower of his life. If someone could detain Greg, they must be feared.

"The police, it's a long story. Please stop asking me to kill you. I love you, I've always loved you, this at my home, here with me, it's all been real. Please...have I not earned a little faith?"

John cried again for another few minutes. He was convinced he would answer the question wrong and incite Greg's wrath again. "Please," he begged, "don't ask m-me to use the water again. Not that f-fast and I-I don't like being a-alone."

Greg pressed a shaking hand over his face, just completely defeated. 

"I've ruined us, haven't I? I've made too many mistakes. I...I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be sorry...I'm....I'm not going to let you die, I won't ask you to shower...I'm...I'll work to earn us a living, please, please will you let me take you to Sherlock without hating me?"

"You're tired of me," John said and his heart twisted painfully in his chest. "I-I am s-sorry I-I've b-been a burden. I-I'm sorry. I l-love you. T-Tell me what you want m-me to do, and I-I'll do it."

Greg forced himself to remember that he had to do this for John and Sherlock. "I want you with me, I just have to work. I want you to help Sherlock while I'm at work, and in the evening we will be as we've always been. Please...Please John...Mycroft doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Since when do you want me to help Sherlock?" John rubbed his eyes and pressed his face against Greg's chest. "I don't understand! I don't know what's happening!"

Greg took a deep breath and tried to rub John's back. "Do you still love me?"

"Your love is the only thing I care about. I got in the shower because I wanted you to love me. Greg...of course I love you." He would have kissed him for emphasis, but he remembered his ugly body, marred skin, and horrible deeds, and tucked his face back down. 

Greg pulled John up, kissing him gently. "Then please believe I love you, and I need you in my life, and I'm doing the best I can. I had you go to hospital because I was scared you were much more hurt than you actually were. Please John, please don't tell me I don't love you.”

John flinched away, worried he would repulse Greg. But, once he saw that the love was back in Greg's eyes, he kissed him again. "I love you," he cried in anguish.

He'd seen what it was like to live without Greg's love. "Y-You'll kill me if y-you don't want me anymore, right?"   
Greg could literally stab him to death, and as long as he held him as he died, John wouldn't be all that upset. 

"Please stop," Greg whispered, "please....Please John...you can't know how hard I'm trying. Please." He pulled John up for a kiss again. "We will have a plastic surgeon for you, maybe it will help you feel better. You can have those scars set better without hurting yourself.”

John kissed Greg again and ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay," he whispered, then kissed him again. He needed to stay there. He needed to be loved. "Can we have the letters gone? And...and there are some...some between my legs...about here." 

He reached down and touched the thin knife lines on the inside of his thighs. They weren't deep, or particularly ugly, but John was choosing the scars that were most emotionally damaging, and Moriarty carving him while he was strapped down and naked had been intensely traumatizing. 

_"It's a shame, really," Moriarty cooed in a sickeningly sweet, loving way, "you're a good looking man, John. It's such a shame I have to ruin you." He drew the knife in a thin line from the inside of John's knee, inside his leg, then back out to curve up his hip bone._

_"Such a shame. But Moran likes a few scars. Or, he likes the bleeding. Isn't that nice? Even when you're writhing in your own blood, he'll look at you and get a hard on."_

John whimpered. "I don't even care if they just take all the skin off and leave me like that. I want it off." 

Greg nodded. "I promise to get you the best care I can. I promise. I love you, we'll get the letters off, they can do amazing work. I love you. Can you please be my partner right now? I need you to be my partner, I can't explain more. I love you, I need your trust. No matter what...I love you."

John furrowed his brow. "What do you mean? What do you need a partner for?"

Greg closed his eyes and looked away. In the past few months he and John had been more of equals, but of course he'd always be on his own.

"I..." He bit his lip, determined not to cry, "never mind, I'm sorry."

"No, no," John brushed his fingers over Greg's cheek and shook his head. "I'll do it. Whatever you want. Just, tell me what you mean, and what you need me to do. I just don't understand." 

What would Greg need a partner for? A partner helped. They contributed. They were helpful. John was a child. A burden. 

"Just...I don't know what to do differently."

Greg could not help himself as he broke into tears, holding John's hand to his face.

"I'm such a failure, please forgive me for failing. I love you, god I love you, you don't have to earn it I'm so so sorry. I'm so sorry John, please."

"Just...what do you want??" John whimpered and clung to Greg again. "What's a partner? I mean, that could be anything! Do you want me to help you? Help Sherlock? _Partner_ , partner?"

Greg kept his hand pressed over his face. 

"I still see you as equal. I...I can't explain...I just....I need you to stop fighting that I love you! I make mistakes, I am bad...I just need.." He stopped talking, utterly overcome. "I'm sorry I keep falling you!"

"Okay...okay...." John was still confused. "You want me to be your...partner? I don't...I'm sorry. You aren't failing me."

Greg was battling against panic, trying to keep himself steady. "I need to know you trust me...Please trust me...have I not earned that?"

"Yes...but...what do you mean by partners? Whatever it is, I want to do it. Do I need to do more chores around the house? Do I need to be more helpful?" John wanted clarity. He could not stand mental games of any kind. 

Greg shook his head. "No....no that's not what I mean. I-"he cleared his throat, remembering Mycroft's words. He'd ruined everything. Much as he wanted to go back, that door was shut tight. 

"I don't have the money to support us, I have to work. Would you be willing to spend that time with Sherlock? You don't have to help him. Just sit with him? He's so-" Greg swallowed, wondering if he truly could do this, "he's so...weak, pathetic without...attention."

John flinched. "I'll go, but you... You really shouldn't say those things, love. Please, I am asking you to stop. It hurts and upsets me." 

John was trying to use his adult words, as begging had failed. 

"If you continue, it will continue to hurt me, and when I get that way, I feel...I feel stupid. Not just self-hatred, but my brain gets all childish. Please stop."

Greg nodded with his eyes closed, no longer having the strength for anything else. He could not tear down Sherlock at the moment, he just couldn't.

John breathed a sigh of relief and kissed Greg's cheek. "Thank you for not hating me. Thank you for letting me in your bed and for holding me when I'm scared. Thank you. You're beautiful. I think you're beautiful."

Greg pulled John in closer to him, hoping they'd be allowed to sleep just for a little while. He sent Mycroft a text. 

_Fixed your fucking plan, he'll be staying days with you._

John nuzzled Greg's neck affectionately, but innocently. "I don't know if I'm ready for you to leave me somewhere all day. Could we practice a few times? Where you leave but not as long? Can I...can I wean off?"

_Can I wean off?_

Greg nodded, too choked up to properly speak. He trailed his fingers along John's back and through his hair, wondering how any of this was going to go. He was so blisteringly enraged with Mycroft that it was hard to imagine leaving John with him. What would Mycroft do to him for the sake of Sherlock? Would John be safe there? Mycroft had so deeply wounded Greg, that he was honestly thinking of killing them both just to save them the heartache of failure. 

Or he could kill Sherlock. 

The idea popped into his mind with such madness that for a few minutes, he honestly gave thought to it. 

"John," he whispered, throat tight, "John if...if Sherlock died...would you be okay?"

John breathed a slow sigh. "I don't think so," he admitted. "I wasn't okay before. I was all..." 

He was embarrassed now, and hid his face. "I was all numb. I couldn't think. I felt broken, and I didn't care. I watched you drinking and felt numb. I don't know. You sort of...You shocked me out of it, but...still..." He shook his head. 

"I don't think anything short of you forcing me to shower would shock me out of it were he really dead. He wasn't even dead and I checked out. I'm weak." 

Greg exhaled slowly, figuring as much. "You are not weak, you are recovering." It had been a stupid thought, anyhow. He'd never, ever be able to sodding _kill_ Sherlock. That man was suffering as much as John was. 

He lay there, hopeless and without a plan, staring up at the ceiling. "Would you shower...or even just try to...if I was in there with you?" That, at least, was something they simply had to overcome. 

"I still have a hard time with the sink," John reminded, but was pressured strongly by the desire to please Greg. 

"I didn't like that. I didn't like how you were mean then told me I had to shower then left me alone in there to figure it out myself. You know I need support with those things. I have...I've based all my progress off of you. When you left...I just...I felt like I did at first, you know? When I was still fresh. I didn't like how you made me shower alone then called strangers to poke needles in me and make me go unconscious. I wasn't injured badly. I was resisting because I was scared. You...I didn't like that I woke up from that without you. I can't handle that again. If you're considering ever doing that again, please do the merciful thing and let me go instead. That...being told I hurt Sherlock...then the water...then losing you...then being put under when I'm with strangers...then waking up without you... Greg, those are all my major fears. All at once. I still don't feel right. It's hard to talk. I just want to cry and cling to you but I need to talk about this."

Greg turned his face away, hiding the burn of tears at his eyes. 

_You ruin everything! You're too much of an idiot!_ Mycroft's vicious words were still cutting through his heart, and John was going to add his own. 

"I'm listening," he whispered.

"I'm not mad at you," John insisted gently. "But I can't do that again. I...I just...That sort of raw pain is...I know it well enough and..." 

John shook his head and reached out to touch Greg's face. "I love you. You're my whole world. I'd just like to understand why you threw all of my worst fears in my face at once. I'm willing to forgive and move on, but I need to know why."

What could Greg say? To tell the truth would be to ruin the plan. To keep the secret...what then? 

_Oh_. 

There was one truth he could give, one little truth he could wrap his lies in. 

"I'm an idiot," he whispered quietly, throat tight, "I got frustrated with Sherlock and...and I thought you'd feel better mastering the shower. I didn't know you were not that injured, the blood and water...I panicked...I let them sedate you to help make your trip less frightening, I carried you, I never let them take you out of my arms. I-" he looked down at his bruised wrists, tears streaming down his face. 

"I'm just an idiot." 

"Oh, oh, love," John brushed Greg's tears away and kissed his forehead. 

"I'll always love you. I understand. It's okay. We all do things we can't control when emotional. I love you anyway. You're my beautiful Greg. It would make me feel much better if you just said you wouldn't do it again, then held me. It can all be in the past." 

John leaned forward and brushed his lips over Greg's. "No need for you to beat yourself up about it, darling."

As was his purpose now, he _blindly followed orders_ , whispering softly to John. 

"I won't do it again," his tone numb and distant. 

Mycroft might make him do it again, he truly didn't know. He did know that his time with John was seriously limited. He knew he was in the process of losing him, that soon John would despise him and he'd be alone...always alone...the flat would once again be empty and Mycroft would likely mock him for his pain before the finally took peace from a bullet. 

He truly was an idiot. 

John visibly relaxed and kissed Greg's cheek. "Thank you. Could..." He felt nervous about asking. Stupid. "Could I have some food? I'm hungry, and...I can wait. Never mind. I'm sorry. I'm not hungry. I'm sorry."

Greg gently moved John off of him, tucking the blankets around him, and padded out to the kitchen. He whispered a quiet thanks to Sally for handling the already cool tea and sandwiches, returning with food and drink for John. He set them on the table beside the man and crawled back into the bed, laying on his side and wrapping his arms tight around himself. 

John took his sandwich and smiled to Greg. 

"Thank you. I love you. You...Greg...You seem sad." 

John reached over and put his hand on his shoulder. "And that's okay. It's okay to be sad. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. I can help. I love you, and I don't want you to blame yourself for anything." 

John put his half-finished food to the side and leaned over to curl around Greg. "I love you," he whispered. "You're such a strong man. You can talk to me about anything."

_No, I can't._

Greg shifted closer to John, savoring the way he felt. John was fed up much better, and it was easy to pretend he'd be alright, that they'd have a pint at a pub some day and life would go on. But Mycroft would never allow that, and Greg would never succeed in helping to that degree. Mycroft's words had burrowed deep into his heart and left him reeling, hardly able to breathe without pain. 

To know he was going to lose John, his only bit of family, was intolerably painful. 

"I...I can't believe I messed up so badly again...I...." the sound of John screaming echoed in his head, and he deeply understood why that would have driven Sherlock to madness, never being able to help him. 

"I can't believe I....I did so much harm...you'll be better off with me not here so much to...to mess everything up. I don't mean to, and I'll do my best to never make a mistake...but you're a much smarter man than I ever have been...I'm...I'm too stupid to help you properly."

"Those are someone else's words," John whispered and kissed Greg's hair line. "And I am sorry you feel this way. You are a brilliant man. Do you know how I see you? How beautiful you are to me? You know I love you, right?"

Greg hummed. 

He knew John had grown attached to him out of necessity, but today had been a perfect demonstration that John had no faith in him, instantly believing that Greg had spent the last year and a half lying to him, tricking him. John likely saw him as a security blanket, it had nothing to do with himself being who he was at all. 

John kissed Greg again. "I _love_ you. I love you. Please believe me. I'll never leave you. Never. Ever. I suppose you're not worried about that."

Greg just wrapped John up tight and held on for dear life. He was so conflicted, he could hardly think straight. The only way to break this sort of bond was to make John hate him, he'd have to be cruel and frighten John. 

How could he do such a thing to a man he'd painstakingly built back up? 

John hummed and nuzzled Greg's neck. He was being overly affectionate in order to compensate for how hated he felt. "Love you.”

Greg whispered back to him quietly, "I love you too, John. I always have. You're okay...you don't have to...have to earn anything, okay? I made a mistake, not you. It was me, my fault." 

John nuzzled Greg again and closed his eyes. "Okay. I know. You're good to me. You were just stressed. You'll let me go first if it happens again. It's okay. I love you. You're wonderful."

Greg could not help the quiet tears that rolled down his cheeks, actively hating still being alive. He could not tolerate this much longer. He sent another text to Mycroft with his arms around John's back. 

_I don't think this is going to work. Visits, yes. But John clinging to Sherlock? Mycroft, it's not going to happen._

Mycroft's response was prompt. 

_The ball is in your court. I give up. If you want, take John away. I'll continue funding you in hopes you come around. Please try for something that doesn't leave Sherlock like this. I love him, and he is suffering._

Relief poured through Greg so fantastically that he abruptly cried out as the weight of it was lifted from him. He pulled John tighter to his chest, suddenly sobbing against his shoulder, rocking them and hooking his leg around John's. 

"We're going....to be okay...it's okay now...I...we can go away and n-no one will bother us...we...I don't have to work, we'll just go away. We can be safe...it's going to be alright." 

John was very startled. "What? What happened? What is it? I mean, good, good, that's...no work, but...was Mycroft not going to pay for us anymore?"

Greg couldn't speak. He was so relieved from the message that he was nearly blacking out. His grip loosened on John slightly, growing abruptly weak and wavering. "Oh god," he whispered, choked and dizzy, "it's okay....it's....we're okay..." he began to slur, mouth watering and hands shaking with how intense the relief was.

John took Greg's face in his hands. "What happened? What is it? Were we not okay before?" He knew he should be happy, but he was stressed, and began to cry.

"Please don't cry," Greg managed quietly, still so overwhelmed that he was having trouble focusing, "we were...were safe I....I just....is hard to explain...I don't have to leave, I can stay, and we...we can just..." he trailed off, having to close his eyes and breathe as his heart pounded in his chest. 

Having the most powerful man in London dictate what happens to your loved ones was far more stressful than Greg had ever realized. "Please d-don't cry." 

John whimpered. "You're acting strange and I'm afraid of you." He drew away, then hugged right back.

John's unexpected words sliced across his heart, leaving Greg holding his breath, tears sliding down his face. 

It was never going to stop, not ever.   
Seconds of relief and then John was afraid of him in the next moments. 

"You're afraid of me," he asked, voice cracking as he pressed his palms to his eyes, chest heaving in a defeated sob. Of course it wasn't okay and forgiven. How could it be? The damage had been done. 

"You're afraid of me," he repeated in anguish, pulling away from John and sitting up. He moved to the edge of the bed, dropping his legs over the side and holding his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. 

"No, no, I...I mean...I'm...I just..." John stammered and reached out to hug Greg from behind. He pressed his face into his shoulder and calmed himself down. 

"I just...this isn't m-my routine and I'm scared because y-you were really mean to m-me yesterday and I got left somewhere..." John had lost his control. It had been months since he'd felt so utterly helpless. The loss of control was not something he dealt with well. 

"You had m-me sedated by strangers and I woke up with doctors and no you. It's n-not okay. That's n-never okay. I...I need t-to give consent. I don't care what the injury is. If I am n-not unconscious, you need my consent." 

John liked that word. Consent. It was a good word. It sounded so legal and binding. John hid behind it.

None of Greg's explaining or apologizing had made a bit of difference. John's words of forgiveness and moving on had been lies, of course. Greg tore his fingers through his hair, shoulders shaking as he broke down. 

"I HAD TO," he suddenly shouted, another wracking sob tearing up out of his chest, "I had to! I- god I can't- I told you I wouldn't again- I am _sorry_!" he was actively tearing bits of his hair free from his scalp, debating getting up and going for the razor that John had used just to relieve his pain. 

"I'm an _idiot_ , I know I- oh god, I know I'm an idiot! You-" Greg's stomach flooded with icy dread, doubling him over. Was this Mycroft's plan? Was he still working them both and Greg was just too dumb to see it? 

John was heartbroken, and it showed on his face. He cowered immediately and little, pitiful sobs shook him. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I forgive you. I'll stop. I'm just...What's going on? Why is everything changing? I don't want them to change. It's been good. Please."

Greg wanted nothing more than to comfort John, but he knew he couldn't. 

"I- I- want to h-hold you but....you're s-scared of me. I _scare you_. I- I'm just a man, John! I'm just- I'm- Nothing has to change anymore, I think I f-fixed it but- but maybe I didn't. Maybe..." he turned to face John, his face a mess, sheet white and shivering. 

"Sherlock desperately wants your company...would you feel better over there? I'll...we can go...I'll...I w-won't...m-maybe I won't scare you if you've got Sherlock with you?" 

John wanted this topic to end, and he brushed his fingertips over Greg's face. "I'm not afraid you'll hurt me. I'm afraid of our stability. I don't understand what's going on." 

John trailed his hands back to sink into the hair at the nape of Greg's neck. "But I'm a torture victim. I scare easily. Not your fault." He leaned in and kissed Greg slowly. 

Greg tried to return the kiss but was unable to keep hold of himself for very long. He pulled his face away, though he held John in his arms and tried to comfort him, a complete mess himself. He'd expected to be dead by now. Mycroft had turned vicious on him He'd nearly lost John. He was irrelevant, he knew he didn't deserve John, than he'd ruined everything, and now John was scared of him after all his careful work. 

Through heavy tears he asked John, breath hitching, "May I s-still lie n-next to you?"

John nodded and nuzzled the side of Greg's neck. "Always, my darling. I love you. I just got nervous. You were acting strange and I don't know why it scares me. I'm sorry. Please stay with me. I'll do anything to keep you here."

Greg let go of John and eased down to his side, one arm tossed over his eyes to try and hide how distraught he was. Everything was wrong, he was a nightmare. How could John ever hope to recover stuck with someone like him? His breathing was wrecked, guilt nearly choking the life from him. 

"I...I am s-sorry you are stuck with m-me," he breathed as tears rolled down his face, "you c-can always go to Sherlock, any time you want. I sh-should have asked you...I thought you were killing yourself...I....I know it w-won't ever be alright again. I'm s-so sorry." 

"Why won't it be okay again?" John's voice rose just a bit. "Why not? I'm okay. I'm okay. You're okay. I won't kill myself if you don't leave me on my own. I want telly and easy days and for us to be friends."

"Y-You're scared of me. I...I r-ruined us. I had to- I had- I thought- I-" he shook his head, just falling apart. He'd ruined everything. His moment of relief with Mycroft's text was lost and gone away, an illusion on fogged glass. 

John shook his head. "I don't think you'll h-hurt me! I'm scared! I'm sad! Please, just...tomorrow will be an easy day, and it'll be okay."

Greg nodded, trying to get himself under control, and went quiet. He was making everything worse.  
"I'm sorry," he whispered again, "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be sorry, love," John whispered. "Please. Let's have a good day tomorrow, yeah?"

Greg wrapped John in his arms, nodding, slowly crying himself to sleep. The day had been hell, and he was exhausted.

John was utterly confused as he slowly drifted off to sleep, and he whimpered softly to himself. Eventually he dropped off, but it was out of exhaustion, not comfort.


	29. Chapter 29

John had been very quiet for the rest of the week. He responded when spoken to, followed Greg, and while he had no interest in food, he still made an attempt. He was despondent, though, and lethargic in all actions. He did not laugh in the same places when they watched that one movie they both loved. He did not light up each morning when he saw Greg. There was still warmth in his eyes for Greg, still love, but John was tired. It was as if a thick woolen blanket had been cast over his mind and left him numb. He struggled to keep even the most basic thoughts alive, and fell out of conversation quite quickly. 

It was morning, and he was sitting on the couch, eyes unfocused but pointed in the vague direction of the coffee table. Slowly, he focused. It had food on it. Right. He was supposed to be eating. John blinked at the food, but instead tipped sideways and leaned against Greg, still wordless unless prompted.

Greg immediately wrapped his arm around John, pulling him in close. It was back to warm blankets and quiet cuddling. They walked Gladstone, but it was for his basic care. Their relationship had completely shifted, the damage he'd done was tangible. He drew in a slow, deep breath and tried for the hundredth time that week to get John talking. 

"Love..." he began, but what was there to say, really? He tried again to see if there was anything that John wanted from him. "I'll do anything I can for you. Do you want to go anywhere? Do anything? We could see Mrs. Hudson or Molly?"

John shook his head against Greg's shoulder, but said nothing. He was tired. The things he'd had motivation for in the past were grey and bleak to his changed eyes. The world had lost it's color. He still wasn't sure what had happened with Greg. He was willing to forgive, but he did not understand, and had no context to put it in to. 

So, as a basic mode of operation, he slipped it into the context that he'd done something wrong. Something was wrong with Sherlock too, but John hadn't requested to go. That made Greg upset, and Mycroft, and he only damaged Sherlock anyway. _What's the point of me_? 

John opened his mouth to speak, but the action would require an effort his lungs did not see fit to expend.

This was intolerable. Greg gave John a squeeze and spoke softly to him. "Please talk to me, John. I can't help if you don't talk to me. What is going on in your mind? You won't tell me what you are thinking. I want to help, I feel like I've lost you. Are you ever going to forgive me?"

"I forgive you," John responded flatly. "Just tired. Sorry. I'm fine." 

He tucked his face into Greg's shoulder where he was safe. He didn't want to talk about he felt because he couldn't put it into articulate words. 

"Just tired and sad. It's okay. I'm okay."

Greg's heart broke just a little bit more. His wrists had mostly healed, and Mycroft had been silent, but none of that mattered. The joy at being left alone from the world was smothered by John's pain. 

"I wish you would let me back in. I don't deserve it, but I miss you."

John shook his head again to express his disagreement with Greg's claim that he could not put into words.   
"I'm not blocking you out. I've told you. I'm tired and sad. That's everything. That's all I am. I am tired and sad. I'm sorry you miss me."   
John's damaged little heart was trying not to be hurt by being missed when he was right there, but it was something he had previously been very damaged by. "I'm sorry."

Greg suddenly thought of a question he'd been too stupid to ask in the whole of the week. "Why are you sad, John?"

John shrugged and sighed his discontent. 

"I'm sorry. I don't know. I feel sad." He looked up at Greg with the very emotion in his eyes, but it was a disconnected, watered down sort of expression, as if his muscles were too tired to create a proper visage of sadness. 

"I don't understand what happened and Sherlock called me and it was strange and I can't see him anymore and I'm sad. Just sad. I can't think. Tired." John trailed off and his eyes grew unfocused again.

Greg stared in shock. "Wait...wait...Sherlock _called you_?" He dug his phone out and thumbed through the logs, finding a call taken that night that he did not remember. 

"Oh god, what- what did he say? What do you mean you can't see him anymore? You don't _have_ to see him anymore, I just mean- John what did he say?" He was too panicked to think of checking his texts, and Sherlock couldn't read, anyhow. 

John flinched a bit at Greg's sudden outburst and tried to remember. "I...I don't know! He asked if I was okay and...and...said he understood if I didn't want to go...and I-I said I didn't understand and he hung up and...and he stopped texting. I...I text him and said I was confused. I was confused. You don't have to read it. I'm okay now. Please. Please. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock can't read," Greg said as he started to fumble through the texts, "he can't read, John. Was he angry with you when he...he doesn't sound angry in these replies, but this isn't...Mycroft had to send these for him...what happened on the phone, John? Sherlock would never just hang up on you...he was worried sick, I've never seen him look like that when I came back to get you. You- I'm not angry, John, I'm not upset! I just don't understand what happened, I didn't know you spoke to him." 

"You were asleep! I didn't want to wake you up! I thought it was Mycroft and told him to go away! I'm sorry!" John whimpered and drew his arms to his chest even as he sought safety in his love's arms. But Greg was busy with the phone, so he tipped over into his lap instead. 

"Please, it was a week ago, I don't remember! I didn't say anything bad! I was careful! I promise!!"

Greg set the phone aside and gathered John up into his arms, kissing him slowly for a moment before speaking to him quietly. 

"You did nothing wrong, John. You can talk to Sherlock whenever you want. You are never...never going to be in any trouble for talking to him! Thank you for defending me when you thought it was Mycroft. I am only worried, because it sounds like there is some confusion and I want to help you clarify what is actually going on."

John whimpered once and nuzzled Greg by way of asking him for more affection. "I am confused. We were on a schedule then things were strange and it all changed. I don't like that. And everything was scary. Mycroft said mean things to me. He said you were tired of me and I was a burden. He talked really loud because I was screaming."

Greg cuddled John to him, kissing him again and running his fingers through John's hair.

"Mycroft and I...we've had difficulty coming to an agreement. He's terrified for Sherlock and I am protective of you...and we both lost sight of how to help. I'm guessing that Sherlock figured out some of this and called to see if you were okay. He's...he's extremely sensitive to hearing you scream."

"I know. I'm sorry." John shrank even smaller at mention of his failure. "I didn't realize I have been so harsh on him. You were right. I can't judge him. I shouldn't be angry. I'm not helpful." John was greatly comforted by Greg's love, which kept him from falling even deeper into the pit of depression he'd found himself in. 

"I thought I'd worked it all out with Paul, but I'm still not right yet. I'm sorry. I did try! You know I tried, right?"

"Of course you did, you tried very hard. You did far more work than I would have been able to. You worked very hard. I should never have said any of those things. I...I was confused and wrong, John. I'm sorry Sherlock called you."

"Sherlock calling me wasn't the bad part," John grumbled. "I just don't...what happened between you and Mycroft?"

Greg ran his hand over his face, trying to decide how to go about this.

"He ah...he's obviously scared for his brother. He..He believes I'm...I've n-not done enough to...reunite the two of you."

John hesitated, but nodded. "Yeah...I mean...you sometimes discourage it, but you always facilitate and talk with me and bring me even if it hurts you. Mycroft is an ass."

Greg held John to him tightly, glad to have him talking again. "He's just trying to protect his brother, but yes, also an ass."

He inhaled deeply, incredibly relieved that they were now able to let Sherlock go. "But that's done now, that's what matters."

"I don’t like this," John whimpered. "I'm confused and scared and I feel...just...sad. Just sad."

Greg kissed John again and cuddled him. "Talk to me about it, talk to me, use other words, help me understand."

"I love you. I love home. But I feel...blah. I feel numb and sad and I don't know why. I just...I hurt. I keep thinking about sad things and my brain goes fuzzy." John hid himself in Greg's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm too tired."

Greg held John's head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I had so hoped...I'm...I was trying to free us of this. I'm trying to help make things better."

"I know," John cried and made himself smaller. "But I still feel...just..." He trailed off when the words failed him. "It's really hard to explain. I just don't feel good. I know I should be happy, even though I ruined things with Sherlock. I know I have a good life and I have you and you...you love me...but..." He shook his head. "I'm just tired."

Greg rocked him gently, holding him as close as he could. "You didn't ruin anything, you didn't. It just didn't work out. I'm so sorry you are sad, I'll do whatever I can to make you feel happy again, I'm sorry I messed that up."

"Don't blame yourself, love." John looked up just long enough to smile fondly at him, and while the emotion was genuine, the action was forced. "I love you so much. You're everything to me. I feel bad that I am this...useless. Why am I like this? I can't think."

Greg stroked his fingers through John's hair. "I don't know...I might have...I taught you trust and then I broke it. I'm...I hope I can fix this. I was trying to do the right thing, I honestly was doing this for you...ultimately for you. I'm sorry."

John’s brows drew down. "Why was it for me? How was any of that for me? I thought...I can understand if you were stressed, or scared, or pressured or tired, but I can't understand how any of that was good for me."

Greg took in a very deep breath and cuddled John close. "It was hell, it was hell. I honestly think in the long run...thought...in the long run...that you'd be better off with Sherlock. I thought you...I am selfish, I love you, I...I was trying to make you angry with me so that...that Sherlock...would have a chance." He hesitated, "I am so sorry."

John clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. He could absolutely not handle that. "But...But you weren't trying to....you weren't trying to push me away though, right?" There was a tone of disbelief and desperate denial in his voice. 

"You wouldn't...You wouldn't do mean things to me to make me leave, would you?"

"I never want you to leave, I never want that. I'm...I never got tired of you. I had Mycroft in my ear and Sherlock was so...I wasn't thinking right, I'm sorry, please forgive me John I'm sorry."

John breathed a hitched breath and covered his face with his hands. Greg had been trying to push him away, and he'd done it by intentionally triggering John and saying things he knew would hurt. John began to physically shake, and held his breath for as long as he could in an effort not to sob. 

Greg had been pushing him away. The thought drove straight into John's core and lodged beside his shattered heart where it pushed against his lungs and made it hard to breathe. He took a gasping breath, then held it again. 

His trembling grew more violent and he held himself in a tight ball that was quickly making his muscles sore from contraction. Another gasping breath. Two failed attempts at reason. 

John tried to block out everything that pounded against his mind and search for reason. 

Greg had been intentionally causing him pain. He'd been knowingly doing it. He hadn't sent him to the shower to improve. He'd sent him there with the knowledge and intention of John's discomfort and suffering. 

John stayed silent save his gasping breath and shook violently.

Greg's heart pitched in ice. "John? John talk to me, we can't afford a misunderstanding here. Please, love talk to me." 

He held his breath and rocked him. "Please."

John shook his head, or, perhaps, he was just shaking. 

"Y-You s-s-s-sent m-me t-to the show-wer t-to h-hurt m-me," he stammered, and his voice was punctuated with gasping breaths. 

"T-T-To p-push m-m-me a-a-aw-away! Y-You s-said m-m-mean things t-to m-make m-me want t-to leave? I-I-" _I absolutely can not handle that_. 

"N-No-Not f-fair! I-I sh-should know I-I should-" John's stomach flipped and his mouth watered. 

"Y-You t-tried t-to h-hurt m-me so I-I-I w-would l-leave? Y-You...I-I w-will t-take...I-I will t-take s-so m-much a-abuse f-from you b-before I-I e-even t-tr-try t-to g-g-ge-get-get out, I-" 

John covered his mouth and his world burned around him. He would have taken so much abuse from Greg, and the knowledge scared him. He would do literally anything to please Greg, and the only thing comforting him, the only thing keeping him from being worried about how vulnerable it made him and being disgusted with himself was the fact that Greg would never try it. 

"Y-Y-You w-w-would h-h-have h-had t-to d-d-do so m-much m-more f-for m-me to w-want t-to leave! W-Why w-would y-you d-do that?"

Greg was in shamed, silent tears. He smoothed his fingers over John's face, touching him in a constant effort to comfort him.

"No, John no that's not how it was. No, love, listen...listen to me...I was saying mean things about Sherlock to get you protective of him, but the shower...John the shower was honestly to help you with independence, not to hurt you, I swear it. I love you. I am sorry, I am sorry."

"Y-You t-tried t-t-t-to p-push m-me away!" 

John wanted to both push Greg away and cling to him, and in his indecision did neither. Instead, he screamed. He screamed into the palm of his hand, because he knew he wasn't supposed to be screaming, but it seeped out around his defenses and tore into the air. 

"Y-You t-tried t-t-to h-hurt m-me emotionally t-to m-make m-me leave!"

What could Greg do? It was true, he was defenseless against the charge. "I'm sorry," he breathed, hardly able to breathe, "I...I...good John I don't know how to explain. I'm sorry."

John screamed again and the stability of the home he'd formed in his mind crumbled. 

"I-I T-TRUSTED Y-YOU!" 

John's use of past tense wasn't intentional, but it stood nonetheless. 

"Y-You- H-How could y-you think...God...H-How d-did y-you think this w-w-w-was o-o-okay?"

Greg had no way to defend himself. He should have told Mycroft to piss off, he should have forgotten Sherlock. He should have thought better, but he was so full of self-doubt, Mycroft had gotten to him.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry, John." It was all he could say, over and over, useless.

John's breathing was rapid and shallow. He could not handle this. He absolutely could not. 

"I-I-I d-don't know wh-what t-t-to d-do!! Y-You INTENTIONALLY h-hurt m-me t-to g-get m-me to LEAVE!!" 

How did he handle that? How could the two worst things, Greg leaving him and Greg hurting him, come together with such horrific perfection? John screamed again, but his vision spotted over and the sound weaned out. 

Greg took John's face in his hands and shook his head. "No, John no! I did not intentionally hurt you! I was trying to make you defensive on Sherlock's behalf, irritated with me, but I was not trying to hurt you! It got out of hand, you were not supposed to cut yourself! I was not trying to hurt you!"

"Y-You m-made m-me use the w-water on m-my own! Y-You left m-me in there a-and I j-just wanted t-to be held a-and I h-had to use w-water and y-you told me I've been mean t-to Sherlock! Y-You told m-me I've b-been n-not g-good! Y-You s-said all the things I-I-I don't l-like!"

Greg shook his head, "John. No. None of those things were related. I was not punishing you. I...I was saying mean things about Sherlock. I was harsh with you but I never said you were bad. The shower isn't related."

"Then why d-did y-you leave m-me in it?! Y-You...I-I don't w-want to h-have to e-earn y-your l-love! Or...or j-just n-not like that!! Y-You said y-you would h-hold me after then LEFT!" 

John pointed to the bathroom. "I-I don't w-want to g-go back in there!!" 

There was a second, much smaller bathroom where Paul had slept. That would have to do.

Greg shook his head, "Last time I went into the shower with you it hurt you! I was scared I was going to make you scared." He was in open tears, his whole plan destroying everything he'd worked so hard for. 

"You never have to earn anything, it was a misunderstanding!"

John whimpered and began to cry again. 

"I-I n-need t-to talk t-to someone," he cried. "P-Paul o-or...or..." His options of people who could help him were very limited. "Or Sherlock, h-he understood. I-I didn't b-but he did. I don't...I-I can't think. I can't believe..." 

He shook his head and another sob tore at him. 

A terrible sob tore up out of Greg as he let John pull away from him. He covered his face with his hands, weeping despite himself. He didn't want to make John's pain about him, but oh god how Mycroft's words excited in his head. He ruined everything.

He handed John his phone with a whispered apology.

"I-I'm s-sorry," John gasped at Greg's distress and kissed his forehead. "I-I just n-need to u-understand why y-you d-did this. I-I don't...you h-hurt me and..." John whimpered and called Mycroft's phone. 

Greg nodded behind his hands. "H-He won't...He won't be with Sherlock, Sherlock doesn't live there anymore. Call the hospital, it rings his room."

John gave a small, sad ‘Oh,’' then rang the hospital. "S-Sorry," he stammered to Greg. "P-Pl-Please d-don't b-be mad.”

Greg wrapped an arm around his stomach as nausea churned in his gut. 

He'd lost John's trust. 

Not that he didn't deserve it, he completely did, but he'd been so wrapped up in self delusion that he thought he'd brought them out of the storm and into the calm. He pressed a hand over his eyes as he sat there, doubled over and in tears, battling hysterics. 

"N-not mad," he managed.

On the line, a nurse answered the phone. "Sherlock Holmes' room," she said quietly.

John tried to calm his hysterical breathing, but his chest heaved as he tried to explain who he was to the nurse. 

"I-I'm J-John, I-I'm like him, I'm l-like Sherlock. S-Same scars. I n-need to speak to h-him." 

There was a rustle over the line and moments later Sherlock's quiet, raw vice came over the line. "John," he asked, tone laden with concern.

John began to sob and curled around the phone. "I-I d-d-don't know what's g-going on! G-Greg! H-He w-was t-trying to m-make m-me want t-to leave!" 

Another guttural sob tore from his chest and he wished he could have the razor again and take a stab at the thin scars on his neck. 

"I-I d-don't know what t-to d-do!"

Sherlock closed his eyes, lowering his voice to registers John was more familiar with, doing his best to sound normal for him, knowing John was running downstream without an anchor.

"John, t-take a b-breath. I kn-now if the s-situation. First, y-you are s-safe, even if you are h-hurting and confused. I f-fully believe y-you are safe. Start there. B-Breathe so we c-can talk. S-Slow down, easy," he said by way of tossing John a lifeline, attempting to ease his panic first.

John took gasping but deep breaths and tried to calm. The visceral pain of residing in his own hateful skin was nearly unbearable, but he got to a functioning level after a few minutes. 

"I-I am s-s-sorry! I-I didn't know I-I was hurting y-you so much!"

Sherlock ached for John, who was seeking safety anywhere he could get it, desperate for relief from the agony he was in. "Y-you never did s-so intentionally. I am n-not upset w-with you, John. Whatever h-has been s-said to you in r-recent days that s-seems out of n-normal...is l-likely the work of my well intentioned but idiotic b-brother. You are safe to stay with G-Greg if you wish. H-He loves you."

"G-Greg m-made me shower," John cried in despair. "A-And he said m-mean things he knew would h-hurt to try to g-get me to leave!! I-I thought h-he- I-I-" John lost himself again and screamed into his arms. 

A spike of pure terror shot through Sherlock at the sound of John screaming, alone in his room now save for his dog. He grabbed onto her neck and buried his face in her fur, trying not to see Moran in the corner. A freezing sweat broke along his brow as he tried to quell his panic at the sound of John screaming into the speaker. 

"J-John..." He gasped, praying for a response, "John pl-l-lease calm d-down...you are s-safe....sometimes...oh I'm so sorry he...they g-get confused themselves s-sometimes, John. Please d-don't scream..I'm...I'm a-alone and it....it's f-frightening to h-hear you screaming where I c-can't get to y-you."

John stopped his screaming, but not his sobbing. He was hurting Sherlock again. "Sorry," he gasped. "I-I am s-so sorry! I-I love y-you. I l-love you and I-I mess everything up!! Why w-would G-Greg intentionally h-hurt m-me like that?" 

He looked up to Greg, then shakily stood. 

"I-I need to talk to Sherlock for a bit," he stammered and tears flowed down his face. "Don't h-hurt yourself, o-okay?"

Greg did not look at John, silently nodding behind tear soaked palms, elbows on his knees. Gladstone followed John as he left, leaving Greg in his misery.

Sherlock drew in a shaking breath while his heart slammed against his chest wall. 

"I don't think he w-was trying to hurt you with w-water. Was it v-very h-hot? W-was h-he angry w-with y-you? They are very insistent I do th-things that hurt m-me, that scare m-me terribly...but it's ultimately t-to help m-me. At l-last y-you have s-someone there. J-John you...y-you can't know h-how...how fortunate you are to b-be l-loved and c-card for. My brother...he's been putting pressure...t-terrible pressure on G-Greg. I found out a week ago a-and m-made him s-stop. I am s-sorry."

John's breath hitched and he curled up on his bed. Gladstone settled with his back against John's chest, and John looped his arms around the dog's neck. 

"I'm sad," John whispered. "I feel s-sad b-because Greg tried t-to push m-me away by saying mean things. The w-water wasn't h-hot but it is still b-bad! A-And he left m-me in there and said I-I could be h-held when I was done!"

Sherlock could not help the envy he felt. He pushed through it, speaking as softly to John as he could. 

"Th-that's always what M-My does w-with m-me....when I have t-to do something f-frightening o-or...p-painful."

John whimpered. "I'm sorry," he cried. "G-Greg told m-me how unfair I-I've been to you. I know now. I n-never knew h-how b-bad I-I was. P-Please don't hate m-me."

Sherlock shook his head, pulling at his dog as he would have his brother's shirt, were he there. 

"N-No....John that isn't wh-where I was g-going with that. I o-only meant that...s-sometimes they h-have to push u-us. My...My pushes m-me...and a-after, he'll l-let m-me hang on to h-him. I don't think G-Greg was trying t-to hurt you."

John desperately wanted that to be true, and on a level he understood. "Okay...but...but h-he still tried to push me away! M-My Greg d-doesn't w-want me!"

Sherlock nuzzled further into his dog's fur, trying to hide from the pain of the conversation. His John didn't want him, either.

"H-His wrists t-tell you otherwise, John. Y-You s-see...but you d-don't observe."

John cried into Gladstone's shoulder. "H-He tried to k-kill himself. That's...it hurts! It just h-hurts! H-Has M-Mycroft e-ever tried? It h-hurts!! I thought I-I was doing good! I'd m-made sure I was nice to him and I-I sweep and I tidy up and I-I am trying t-to do the washing but the w-water scares me! I-" 

John cuddled closer to Gladstone in Greg's absence. At the very least, his dog found no fault in him. 

Sherlock was having a very difficult time with the conversation.

"Mycroft's l-life has improved since I've l-left. I'm n-not the c-center of his life. He would not kill himself o-over m-me." The truth of the woods settled heavy over him.

"B-but Greg l-loves you like th-that. He t-tries to die when h-he thinks he's l-lost you. You a-are his life. You are loved s-so deeply, John. F-Forgive h-him and a-allow yourself to be happy."

John was in tears, but Sherlock's words made sense. "I don't f-feel safe," he complained. "Not...not like in d-danger...but...things were...I-I had a routine a-and I-I liked m-my routine and it's gone and things a-are strange! And I-I'm not allowed to visit you and I-I'm sad and-" he cut off and curled around Gladstone, who turned over to lick his face. 

Sherlock bit down on the inside of his cheek. "Th-then restore your r-routine. H-has Greg n-not been trying to fix it? J-Just forgive him...my brother h-has a way w-with...Greg deserves your forgiveness. Go b-back to your routine and-"

He looked up as they came in to move him to the lav and he clutched the phone, desperate for any contact with John. 

"L-leave m-me alone," he hissed at them, though they carried on advancing, telling him he had to stick with the schedule, calling his dog away. "W-Wait! J-J-Just wait! You're not allowed t-to take my d-dog! Wait!" He did not recognize the men, panic tearing through his mind, John forgotten. The phone was taken from him as he cried out for Mycroft.

"Mr. Holmes will return your call later," a male voice said over the line before it went dead.

John stayed still for just a few seconds and processed. Sherlock had a dog. He was in the hospital. Doctors were coming for him. They took his dog. Mycroft was not there. The doctors did not listen to Sherlock.

He was out of bed in an instant, Gladstone at his heels, and stumbled over to where Greg was looking devastated.

"Love," he gasped, "Sherlock is at a hospital alone and we need to help him!" 

Shaking off his devastating grief, Greg got up and took John by the shoulders. 

"He's been in hospital for a while, John. This is normal, he's okay. Mycroft visits, and he has a dog. Slow down, he's okay."

John took a few breaths. As always, when called to help another, his own issues took the back seat, but he still needed confirmation. "You never meant to hurt me, right? You were pushing me away because you thought I would be better off? And you still love me?" 

He held Greg by the shoulders and looked ah him seriously. 

Greg nodded, glad John had taken his words at face value and shifted topics. He was grateful that whatever Sherlock had said settled John down.

"Yes, of course I love you, John. I meant to help you, that's all, I just want to help you." He dragged a hand across his tear-strained face, gaining a but if his color back. "Please...I never meant to hurt you."

"Yeah. Right. Well, we're going t-to have to talk about how _not okay_ that was later. I want to go see Sherlock. He needs help. They took his dog away." 

John spoke the words with a severity that they could only hold for someone who has had the experience of needing a service dog. 

Greg blinked in surprise. "They what?" He let go of John and got in the phone, moving with John to the door. If John wanted to see Sherlock then they would.

As they made their way to the car, he called the hospital.

"I need an update on Sherlock Holmes," he said as the charge nurse. He was silent as he listened to him, growing more and more concerned. He did not say another weird, ringing off and directly dialing Mycroft.

Mycroft's tone was a mix of guilt, anger, and fear when he picked up. "What is it?"

Greg helped John into the car as he spoke, "I take it you're aware Sherlock is not at Bart's any longer? I'm not next of kin, they won't tell me what home they've taken him to. We are going to pick up his dog. I hope a hell of a lot of people are about to lose their jobs."

"His dog?" Mycroft swore. "He has a mountain dog, and he loves her, and she keeps him calm, but they've been taking her away from him to make him cooperate. I ordered them not to as soon as I found out. Tell them you are his cousin or brother or something. I'm on my way." 

Greg spoke sharply, “He's been moved from hospital without your knowledge? Jesus Mycroft, how did you-" he shook his head and hung up, telling the driver to pick up the pace.

"He was scheduled for tomorrow!" Mycroft shouted even once the phone had hung up. 

John rocked himself and held tightly to Gladstone. "Moving is bad. He won't like moving. Why do they take his dog? Why would they do that?"

"Don't know, I don't know," Greg said in a rush, the drive to Bart's never taking so long. When they pulled up he jumped out, getting John and rushing into the hospital.

Fifteen minutes later, it had mostly been explained. Security had the dog. Shock had been mistakenly moved to the public rehabilitation center, his chart confused with the room next door. The public facility did not accept animals of any kind, and as Sherlock's dog was mostly a comfort animal, they'd deemed her ineligible.

Greg was furious, keeping hold of Sherlock's dog as they waited for Mycroft.

Mycroft arrived prepared to rain down all Hell on every single person in the building. He found Greg and sprinted over. "Where is he?" The fact that Greg had the dog was concerning. "They weren't supposed to move him today!"

Greg kept hold of John and Sherlock's dog. "Public rehab, dog's not allowed. Someone mixed the orders. They pulled him off the phone, mid-call with John."

"Jesus," Mycroft muttered and rushed back to the front desk. When he returned, he was clearly conflicted. 

"He's already there. We could have them bring him back, or go there ourselves. Equal time. I'm going. I suggest you come too." 

He looked to John, who was clinging to Greg's arm tracking everyone who came close with wide, petrified eyes. "If he won't put up a fuss, that is."

John did not appear to have heard. 

Greg nearly bared his teeth at Mycroft. "Don't start. Tell me you are not leaving Sherlock at county, for God's sake. I can't take John there."

"I am taking Sherlock _home_ ," Mycroft snapped and headed to leave. "I don't care what you do with John anymore, remember?"

Greg forced himself to keep calm for John's sake. "John wants to help. If you think that will do Sherlock good, we'll come with you to get him."

He leaned over to John and spoke softly, "can you come with us to get him, or should we wait at Mycroft's? Or we can go home. Your choice."

John's posture was intensely submissive and he cowered behind Greg. "I don't know," he whispered. "I want to see Sherlock b-but I-I'm afraid. I...this is bad. It's bad here. Will you keep me safe if we go? They just...just took Sherlock...don't let that happen to me, okay?"

Greg held tight to John's hand, already moving to the exit with Sherlock's dog. "We will meet you at your house, Mycroft. What's the dogs name?"

"He won't name it," Mycroft responded curtly and turned on his heels to leave. 

It only took him a minute before he was on his way to rain fire on the people who had messed up. 

Greg got John and the dogs in the car, wrapping him up tight.

"This is a beautiful dog. I wonder why he won't name her?" He asked in an effort to distract John from the chaos.

John looked at the dog, who was smelling Gladstone, and reached out a hesitant hand. She was gentle and friendly, and touched her nose to his palm. The two dogs coexisted perfectly without any troubles. 

When they all finally arrived, John was the last one out of the car. He'd never been here. At least with the hospital, he'd been trained there, then gone there often with Sherlock. This was different. 

He cowered from the cold looking building and scowled at the rows of flowers.

"Scared," he whispered to Greg as they walked. 

Greg held on to John. "We can just go to Mycroft's, John. We don't have to go in here. Let's just wait for him at Mycroft's?"

John looked back to the car. If they went to Mycroft's, then they would take the dog. Sherlock needed his dog. If Greg went in to deliver it, John would be alone. It was a logical fallacy of false dilemma, but such was John's thinking. 

"W-We should go in and h-help him. Let's go. It'll be okay."

Greg looked critically at John. "Love, I'm so proud of you for wanting to help, I really am, but Sherlock is likely to be a mess right now. It's okay if this is too much, we can meet him at Mycroft's. It will be fine."

John shook his head and pointed to the dog. "I w-would want him t-to bring Gladstone." That was reason enough and John, with tears in his eyes and on his face, shuffled towards the door. 

Greg was angry with John for doing this, but kept it We'll hidden. "We can wait for Mycroft and he can bring her. John, I love you, promise you can handle this? Sherlock it's likely not himself right now."

John continued on and pulled Greg along with him. "I'll j-just drop h-her off and say goodbye. That's all." 

Gladstone could sense John's nervousness, and his movements were attentive. He walked in front of John and scanned the room before falling back to John's side. John took comfort in it. He pictured what would happen if someone attacked him. Gladstone would attack. Greg would too. The attacker would be lucky if he died quickly.

But that wasn't all John was worried about. What if someone walked by with scissors? What if there was a loud noise? John looked up at Greg. "How much further?"

Greg didn't know. He took then to the front desk, demanding to see Sherlock. It took a bit of threatening and name dropping, followed by showing a picture of him as they had him by the wrong name, but eventually they were told a floor.

The elevator was empty. Greg held John to him, whispering comfort, but as soon as the doors opened on the fourth floor, Sherlock's terrified, blind screaming was all they could hear. He was calling out with nothing but terror for his brother, for John, for Greg even.

Greg swore and kept John glued to his side, waiting as they buzzed them into the psychiatric ward.

John was physically shaking by the time he got to the top of the elevator, and added them to the list of things that now inexplicably frightened him. When he heard Sherlock's screaming, he grabbed both Gladstone's leash and the other dog's, then ran. He had his eyes closed half the time, but Sherlock's dog seemed to understand the point and dragged him along when he nearly ran into people. 

Flanked by two massive, intimidating dogs, John was given passage. He flung Sherlock's door open and dropped to his knees beside the bed to wrap himself around Gladstone. Sherlock's dog put her front paws up on the bed and stuck her nose in Sherlock's face before licking him. 

Someone touched John's shoulder, and he shouted for Greg. 

"Me, John it's Greg," he said from John's side, wrapping right over him. He held tight to John, holding him to his chest. There were gentle workers in the room, mental health professionals trying to call Sherlock, but they'd restrained him. Two woman and three large men were doing what they could to comfort Sherlock, but he was blind with terror. The room smelled of sweat, fear, and sick, and Greg just wanted to get John out as Sherlock screamed as though being skinned alive.

"Come with me John, come with me." He felt for Sherlock but this had to be hell for John.

John looked up at Sherlock in horror. There were _men_ in here and Sherlock was _strapped down_. 

"Get AWAY!" John shouted and draped himself over Sherlock's middle. He swatted at the man on the other side of Sherlock's bed and struggled to get the restraints off. He was bent over the bed, his legs on one side and his head on the other, and tried to keep the man from re-clasping Sherlock's wrist. 

"No! NO! You STOP!"

Greg was relieved that the staff backed off, leaving the men alone. Sherlock was in absolute hysterics, being for mercy as John draped over him. It took him a moment to realize that it was John over him.

"H-H-Help m-me!" He screamed, listening to man laugh in the corner as his doctors went at him. Greg rushed forward, unlocking Sherlock's hands adding with John as the dogs growled at their backs.

"Stay AWAY FROM HIM!" John shouted at the doctors again. Gladstone's hackles rose and he stood between the doctors and the terrified John. 

"Hey, Sherlock! I'm here!" John unclasped Sherlock's other hand and held them both to his chest. "It's me! We're here!" 

Sherlock stopped screaming as his hands were held to his chest. He looked up at John, sobbing in misery. "J-John! Oh g-god...h-help! John help!"

Greg helped Sherlock sit up, supporting his back as the staff retreated.

John draped himself over Sherlock and pressed his face into his chest. He was in a position that would hopefully protect Sherlock if a whip should fall on them. "I've got you," he gasped, then called for the massive dog to come over. "Look, Sherlock, look. She's here. Look. She's protecting you. Gladstone too."

Sherlock nearly fainted with relief. He gently wrapped a freezing hand over John's arm, holding gently to his biceps, wheezing as he tried to breathe through his panic.

"G-Greg..." He managed as he held on to John, pulling at his dog with his free hand, still sobbing in near hysterics, "M-My...M-My d-doesn't w-want m-me any...anymore," he wept, believing himself tossed aside, "they're h-hurting m-me. John pl-l-lease...pl-l-lease! I know y-you don't l-like me but PLEASE don't l-leave m-me here!" 

He was gagging on the words, delirious with the multiple injections he'd been given.

"I do like you! If Mycroft doesn't want you you can come live with me!" 

John hadn't heard any of Mycroft's panicked conversation, and thus had no context of this situation. 

"I'll keep you safe. You've got me, and Greg, and Gladstone, and your dog. If anyone comes in, we'll rip them apart."

Sherlock grabbed hold of John in a desperate embrace, hiding his face against John's chest, screaming his fear against him. They'd taken his clothes, put him in scrubs for his protection. He'd been in nauseating, mind-blistering terror for hours.

"H-He s-said he'd...M-My said..." He broke down in horrified grief, "he left m-me! He-" he clutched at John like a lifeline with Greg at his back.

John hugged Sherlock tight, and flinched when Gladstone barked. He rarely did so, and John turned to look. Mycroft had shoved past the doctors and workers who were just outside the door frame, and practically threw himself on Sherlock. 

"I'm here! I'm sorry! The hospital made a mistake! It's okay! I'm here!"

Sherlock was not about to let go of John, one person who could understand the horror of what was happening. He looked over at his brother with hardly any color in his face.

"M-My clothes..I've...they..." He pressed his face back to John's chest, screaming again, holding to him as though dangling from a cliff.

"Oh, god," Mycroft exclaimed and turned back to one of the doctors. He grabbed him by the collar and shouted right into his face. "Get this man his clothes back, right NOW! He has not consented to any of this!"

Sherlock's clothes were brought back in, and Mycroft brought them over. "Sherlock, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I've got your clothes. This wasn't supposed to happen. Everyone involved will be in court. It's okay."  
Sherlock refused to let go of John, preferring the scrubs to being undressed again. "Pl-l-lease don't g-go, please don't go, I c-can't...I...needles and...I can't, oh g-god I c-can't, please, please J-John!" He couldn't watch them leave, not again. He'd die, his heart would stop.

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulder and pressed his face in to it. "I'm staying here! I've got you! Nobody can hurt you! You can come home with me and I'll keep you far away from everyone who would hurt you. You'll always stay with me. You can always have your dog."

Sherlock seemed satisfied as his weight shifted back against Greg. He looked over to Mycroft, tears flooding down his face. "They...th-they took me..they t-took h-her...y-you....you s-said you'd be h-here."

"They took you without asking. They mistook you for the room next to you. It was a mistake. I'm sure..." Surely, with Sherlock screaming his head off, and his destination a mental hospital, nobody had thought to check once the mistake was made. "I'm here now. I'm here. I won't let it happen again. You're coming home."

The sedatives finally pulled him down, now that he felt safe. Sherlock's eyes rolled back and he was gone.

Greg wrapped a hand around him, supporting him as he looked to Mycroft.

Mycroft was furious. Rage bubbled up in him and he shouted at the doctors still hovering to bring the manager's manager. "I'm going to kill them," he growled. John's attention was still on Sherlock, and he unstrapped his ankles.

Greg tried to grab Mycroft's attention. "End them later, what are we doing with Sherlock? He shouldn't wake up here."

He looked to John, trying to help calm him. "Everything is going to be okay, no one will touch you."

The manager entered, and after a brief conversation with Mycroft, apologized profusely and arranged for Sherlock to be sent home. 

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and watched John and Greg warily. "I'm taking him home. My home. "

Greg did not argue, fully supporting that idea. He nodded, shifting Sherlock in his arms. "I can carry him for you," he offered, hoping that John would not object to Mycroft taking his brother.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and cried into his stomach for the duration of the better men's conversation. When it was finally time to move him out, John let go and sat on the ground next to Gladstone.

Greg handed Sherlock to his brother, going to ground with John. "We can go right to Mycroft's, you can stay with him if you like."

John nodded and reached up for Greg to hold him. Greg's arms were warm and kind and he nuzzled on his shoulder. "Let's go to Mycroft's."

It was one hell of an affair to get Sherlock to Mycroft's. Greg ran interference, keeping between John and Mycroft, hoping the elder brother would see how damn hard John was trying.

Sherlock woke several times in the process, disoriented and confused, sobbing for his brother despite being in his arms.

Mycroft finally settled Sherlock in bed with his dog lying her head in his lap, and Mycroft holding him from the side. 

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding on to Greg.

Greg stood, very near to John without touching him. Sherlock came awake with a sharp cry, violently pushing against Mycroft without realizing where he was. 

"No!" He screamed, "no!" He twisted away, eyes but even open yet, trying to protect himself.

Mycroft held Sherlock's hands to his chest to keep him from hurting anyone and the dog licked his face. 

"'Lock, it's me. It's My."

Sherlock stopped moving, chest flailing, eyes wide and mouth painfully dry. He looked wildly around the room, setting his eyes on John.

"J-John! John, J-John, John," he babbled, trying to find words, panicked and confused.

John reached out and flopped over, his chest on Sherlock's stomach and his arms up over his neck. "Right here," he assured and set his chin on Sherlock's chest. "I'm here. You're safe."

John's presence was intensely soothing. He looked down at him, reaching out tentatively and touching John's cheek. "Y-you are here."

John was still unused to such affectionate gestures from Sherlock, and he grinned at him. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I came as soon as I learned you were having trouble. Mycroft did too."

Sherlock looked down at the scrubs, suddenly breaking down. "They...they m-made me...they thought...they checked me f-for...everywhere...they took h-her and...and..."

He fell into tears, trying to catch his breath, "I'll be good, I'll be good...pl-l-lease don't send me away."

John wrapped Sherlock up tighter in the blankets and kissed his forehead. "I won't send you away. Never. You and I can't leave each other."

Sherlock could not understand what John was saying. John hatred him, he always made John upset, always sent him away in tears.

He reached for his dog and turned his face to his brother's chest, still very gently stroking John's cheek. "I'll b-be good, I will."

John laid his head down on Sherlock's chest. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. We won't let it happen again."

In Sherlock's mind, he'd done something. He'd made a mistake, he'd induced this. 

"J-John...what...did I s-say something w-wrong?" He'd been trying to calm John when they'd torn his dog away and dragged him out.

"No. You did nothing wrong. But that's what we do, yeah? We blame ourselves. We were taught that we deserved what happened to us. For so long....I thought Moriarty was the good one. I thought he was only doing what was right, and what I deserved. I understand that you might think that you deserved this, but you did not. It was the horrible staff at Bart's."

Sherlock had his entire focus on John. "Y-You're here...w-why are you...why are you h-here? You...I...I thought...you.."

He trailed off, looking to Mycroft to see if he'd done this.

Mycroft brushed Sherlock's hair off his face. "I am so sorry this happened. It was not your fault."

John nuzzled down on Sherlock's chest and hummed. "Listen to your brother. But just this once."

Sherlock actually cracked a smile, nuzzing against Mycroft and stroking his fingers through John's hair.

"O-only....only th-this once."

John grinned up at Sherlock, took his hand, and kissed it. "There you are. There's my Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled again, just for a moment.

My Sherlock.

If only, if only. He trailed his fingers through John's hair, knowing he'd never be 'my John,' ever again, not aloud anyhow.

"M-My got me...a d-dog."

It was not a secret to anyone that John loved having someone run their fingers through his hair, and he calmed considerably. His weight settled on Sherlock's chest and he closed his eyes to drink in the touch. 

"She's a beautiful dog. What's her name?"

Sherlock listened to Mycroft's heart as he tasked his fingers in John's hair. "Hasn't got o-one," he finally said, a bit of color back in his face, his pulse starting to slow.

John turned his head to the other side and pulled up a little of Sherlock's shirt to hold on to. "Can't think of anything?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long while. "H-Hurt l-less when she's g-gone, without a n-name," he said very softly, almost wishing John didn't have a name.

"Oh. I'm sorry. They won't take her again. Mycroft almost strangled them. I think he grabbed one of them" 

Mycroft nodded and pet Sherlock's hair. "They won't take her ever again. You can name her now, if you want to."

Sherlock shook his head, petting the dog while still running his fingers through John's hair.

"It's not...not that...she...I b-break everything and...I c-can't....I won't be able t-to keep h-her.” He faded off in regret, watching the beautiful animal he’d already grown deeply attached to. He tried to add a bit more cheer into his voice as he added, “But...but she's brilliant...y-yeah?"

"You can keep her," Mycroft insisted. John spoke up as well. "Yeah, Sherlock, she's brilliant. She knew just where to find you. I think she would like a name.

Sherlock turned his attention to the dog. He stared at her for a few moments before his chin quivered, tears following soon after.

"N-No...I...I lose e-everything...she's...it's good for while I h-have her."

"Then maybe just give her a temporary name?" John suggested gently. "You can have her for a long time."

Sherlock looked to John, watching him for a long time. "I...I...haven't n-named anything i-in years...I-" he searched John's face with his own wide open expression, clearly lost. "I don't d-deserve...I...they...." tears slid down his cheeks.

"J-John," he whispered, looking to him for help he couldn't articulate. The day had been exceedingly damaging.

"Sherlock, you've earned this do. Mycroft gave her to you as a gift, and everyone says you should name her. You do deserve her. Pick anything you want." 

John smiled gently to Sherlock and kissed his hand. 

Sherlock scratched at her head and shook his own. "I c-can't," he whispered, looking back to John, wondering how long this would last, wondering when John would run from him in tears again.

He realized then that he was still in the hospital scrubs, crying out and pulling at them. Sharp fear ripped through his chest, panicking that they’d take him away again, that he’d been in hell when they’d said he’d been in hospital. His eyes went wide and he shook his head frantically. 

"N-Not these," he begged pathetically, "not these!"

John sat up, speaking calmly to Sherlock. "Okay. Okay. We'll get you out of them. Mycroft?" 

Mycroft nodded and shifted to help Sherlock. "Would you like me to take you into the other room to change?"

Sherlock was already tearing at the top, dragging it over his head with a sharp cry, making his dog bristle with worry. He sat there, chest heaving, too thin and pale. They'd pulled the tubes from him, but he was bruised, and the scars and visible pace maker stood in sharp relief.

"Wh-why did they s-strip m-me?! I- I didn't do a-anything wrong! I w-was trying t-to help and-" the day rushed back to him and he grabbed at his trousers, hating them just as much as he needed them.

Mycroft leaned over to the dresser and managed to reach a drawer. "Here, let me help." Mycroft put a clean, soft shirt on Sherlock before he could get his trousers off, so he wouldn't be entirely naked.  
Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, looking to John.

"Why...why c-can't I get b-better?! I try, god I try! I can't do it! I'm...I try. M-My blames h-himself...y-you...you blame y-yourself....everyone l-leaves m-me....I haven't s-seen the m-man PAID to k-keep me company...why am I s-so bad?!"

John crawled a bit closer, but with the dog on Sherlock's right, and Mycroft on his left, there wasn't much room for him. "Because we're all damaged, and we all blame ourselves. You aren't bad. I see you. You aren't bad."

Sherlock looked at John with a brief smile on his face, moving his dog so John had a place.There was no joy in his expression. 

"B-But you'll st-still leave...and M-My...eventually he'll leave, and it w-will be that place..." He still wore the sad smile as he spoke. "I n-never thought I'd s-see you again."

John rested his head on the pillow beside Sherlock and kept his steel blue eyes on Sherlock's. "I will always come back if I'm allowed. I just keep hurting you though. I never mean to."

Sherlock could not look away. "I'm...I'm s-sorry I...I fell for you. I'm n-not sorry f-for the experience, b-but I am sorry f-for what it's done to you. I...I'm s-so...I tried s-so hard to b-be Greg, but I c-could n-never be h-him for you. I...y-you are always allowed h-here, always. I th-thought they w-were making you come."

"I do love you. I hope you know that. Nobody ever makes me come. Mycroft makes Greg do things, and that hurts me, but nobody ever makes me do things. I decide or I throw a fit." 

John tried to figure out Sherlock's exact eye color as he spoke. "And I'm sorry I haven't been everything you wanted me to be. If I could rewrite myself, I would. But...I'm damaged, and I do try."

Sherlock pulled his hands away from John immediately, biting at his fingertips and pinching his eyes closed. Guilt scrubbed at his raw heart and took his breath.

"W-What...what do y-you imagine I w-wish y-you were?l

John whined at what he'd done and reached for Sherlock's hands again. "I'm sorry. I don't know. Whatever you wanted me to be. More reliable. Less angry." _More in love with you._

Sherlock could not speak. Already they were here. He wasn't ready to be here. Slow, heavy tears rolled down his cheeks and he wished they'd just kill him already.

"I...I j-just w-wanted y-you."

"But not in the way I was capable of giving. I understand." 

John kissed Sherlock's hand again, but then thought perhaps he better not. 

"I prayed for you back for two solid years after you died. Then for a month when I was captured. Then again when you were captured. I just want to have a nice life, Sherlock. And I want you to be in it."

Sherlock turned his face away from John, struggling to breathe properly. "I...I n-never expected...I never...I..I c-can't even r-read...I'm not...I..." a hitching sob broke his sentence and he covered his face with his free hand, crumbling to dust.

John scooted up a bit higher and took Sherlock's face lovingly in his hands. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I understand. But it's nothing to do with the fact that you can't read. That doesn't matter. Please, Sherlock, love, it's okay."

Sherlock closed his eyes, shaking his head, "I m-mean to s-s-say that...that I c-can't even r-read, how c-could y-you think...you are n-not enough as y-you are?"

"Because...ah...I mean, I thought...I mean, I love you, but I thought you were upset that I'm not...like...that..." John felt awkward and stopped. "It doesn't matter."

Sherlock looked at John incredulously. "N-not gay? J-John...I'd...I w-will never h-have a...a...." He could not say sexual, he just couldn't, "a physical....r-rel-l-atipnship with a-anyone...e-ever. I- you've n-never...it's just...it's-" he shook his head, not wanting to talk about it.

"Yeah. Got it. I'm with you on that no...no sex thing." John looked down at his arms. It wasn't like he had the option anymore. Nobody outside the sick fuck who'd raped him would want someone so disfigured.   
John honestly wasn't that upset about it.

"But...yeah, let's just drop it. Are we good? Are you happy with what I've offered and the future I'd like to work for? Just...anything where we can keep being friends is good with me."

Sherlock was having a hard time working through the wave of panic the topic brought up. He'd been stripped and touched, restrained and moved without his brother, without anyone, and now suddenly John was there making demands.

"Okay," he whispered, tears again on his face again. "I...I'm s-sorry."

"Hey, hey, no pressure. It's okay. If you ever don't like what's going on, I'll help you change it. You are in control of your life now. You're okay." 

John kissed Sherlock's forehead, then settled back so he could watch Sherlock's expression. "I'm right here."

Sherlock nodded, just needing comfort as the day progressed, all of it catching up to him. He began to cry in earnest, covering his face, overwhelmed in the wake of adrenalin.

"I thought..I...I th-thought...they w-were t-taking m-me b-back, he whispered through his tears, "t-ter-rifying."

"Shh...Shh..." John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. "It's okay. It's all okay. I'm here."

"Of course," Mycroft responded in John's place and fetched some pills that would put Sherlock under fairly quickly. "You've done so well, 'Lock. I'm proud."

Sherlock did nothing, taking the pills and holding his arms tight around himself. He fell asleep in tears, not at all fighting the medication. He just wanted oblivion.

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock's forehead once he was asleep, then wordlessly went to Greg and leaned against his shoulder.  
Greg held John to his side, watching Sherlock. Quietly he leaned over and whispered to him, "do you want to go home now?"

John nodded and he nuzzled under Greg's chin. "Yeah. Yeah. I want to go home. I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm still sad. I feel stressed and sad. I want to go home."

Greg nodded to Mycroft as Sherlock shifted restless on the bed. "Okay, let's go." He led John and Gladstone out of the room, intent on leaving the brothers to themselves.

As soon as John and Greg were gone, Mycroft let himself seethe. He made calls. He filed reports of emotional abuse from the British government itself for everyone involved in the mishap. 

This would not be going unpunished. 

Sherlock slept quietly for several hours, but the peace was broken when he came violently up from a nightmare, pitching himself off the bed as he screamed in fear, covering himself as well as he could.

Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and put him back on the bed first thing. "'Lock! 'Lock!! It's me! I'm here!"

Sherlock blindly fought against him, screaming nonsensically before abruptly going very quiet, keeping himself locked up tight and guarded.

Mycroft stopped and backed away from Sherlock. He went to his phone and played soft violin music before standing guard beside the bed. "Sherlock, it is me. Your brother."

Sherlock spent half an hour in silence, starting at the ceiling, completely unresponsive until finally falling back asleep without another word.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the formatting got eaten alive and I just don't have the time to keep manually going through it. I'm sorry about the extra spaces. If it's just unreadable, let me know and I'll come back to editing it. 
> 
> Also, as ever, Amphi is looking for a writing partner. If anyone is interested, post in the comments. Please and thank you!

John had gotten into bed, curled up around Gladstone, and wept. He was scared and confused, and needed time to recover before he could address what happened. 

When his tears finally stopped wetting Gladstone's fur, John wiped his face and looked to Greg. "You won't try to push me away again, right?"

Greg was wrapped around John's back, brushing his fingers through John's hair. "Never again. Never, ever again. Please forgive me."

"I have a hard time with this sort of thing," John admitted quietly. 

"I feel worthless easily. And sad. I'm mentally weak. I assume the worst quickly. I am quick to think that I've done something wrong. I feel worthless so so quickly." 

John shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be that way. I'm stronger than I was, but I'm still weak. If you're considering doing something like that again, please, just sedate me and let me think things are normal then let me go. Okay?"

Greg nodded. "I'm saying yes just to assure you. That's not going to happen. I will do better, I will. I'm sorry you had to see him, but you saved him from a terrible night. We wouldn't have known so fast if it were not for you."

John nuzzled Greg again. "Nothing Moriarty could have done would be worse than not being loved by you," John admitted. "I feel clingy. But oh, well. I've earned the right to be clingy. I'm glad I got to help Sherlock. It was almost pleasant towards the end."

Greg inhaled slowly and kept John chose to him. "I won't ever make that mistake again, I won't. I just want your forgiveness, please love. Please."

He gathered John closer. "Cling, be clingy, never let go. I love you, please just forgive me."

John clung to Greg tightly until his tired muscles gave up. "I love you. I'm sorry I'm so much trouble. You're beautiful. Do you see that? You're beautiful."

Greg gathered John to him when John's strength failed. "Get some sleep. We will have a nice day tomorrow."

John scooted so he was no longer pressed against Greg's chest, and instead laid his head down on the pillow beside his. Greg's eyes were beautiful, and John was calmed visibly by them. "Beautiful," he said again and leaned forward to kiss his beautiful love.

Greg stared at John, not understanding why John had pulled away but allowing it. He hated when John called him beautiful. He hated it. 

"Please tell me you forgive me. Please."

John nodded and continued to study Greg's face. He spent much of his time at night sleeping on Greg's chest, and now wondered if he'd ever actually fallen asleep looking at his face. John reached out and brushed his fingers through Greg's hair, then left his arm over him. 

"Course. I'll always forgive you."

Greg closed his eyes and nodded. "Thank you," he breathed, slowly opening his eyes again, "thank you."

He wanted to pull John to him, but it was clear that wasn't what John wanted.

John's eyes crinkled around the corners while he looked at Greg, one arm draped over his shoulders and hand in his hair. "Beautiful," he muttered again, but mostly to himself. Greg was an amazing human being. 

"Thank you for everything."

Greg closed his eyes again. "I'm glad you got him...that...that was very bad. You are a brave. That saved him from a terrible night, it really did."

John thought that Greg looked so peaceful with his eyes closed, and leaned forward to kiss him softly. "I'm only brave because you've helped me," he whispered and kept his lips just above Greg's. 

Greg reached out and ran his fingers through John's hair. He finally reached out and pulled John to him. 

"Stay with me, I need you."

John cuddled closer to Greg so their chest were together, but did not rest his face in his shoulder, or on his chest. He tipped his forehead against Greg's, and kissed him again. 

"I didn't mean to pull away. I was just looking at you."

He looked at John, "Why? I...Please...I need to know we are okay," he whispered, pulling at John in desperation.

"Why I wanted to look at you?" John smiled and chuckled a bit. "Because you're beautiful. Because..." John shook his head and tucked his head to Greg's chest. "There. Better?"

Greg held John close, deeply unsettled himself. He nuzzled against John, his mind running too fast. What if that had happened to John? What if John hasn't forgiven him? What I'd there had been a confrontation with Mycroft, or Sherlock had died, or…

He was breathing too fast, but he was supposed to be comforting John.

John could feel Greg's discomfort acutely, and he sat up. He didn't want to appear to be pulling away , though, so he leaned over Greg and took his hand. "Hey, what is it? It's alright. You can talk to me about it."

Greg ran a hand over his face. "I thought I was killing you this whole week...and then earlier...I thought you wouldn't forgive me. And god, thinking of what happened to him...if it had happened to you...and if Mycroft...I just...it's been a bad week."

John could not imagine what would have happened if men had come and taken him away while Greg was gone. They'd have a hell of a time trying to catch him; that he knew. He was more mobile than Sherlock. He could run and punch. 

John shifted again to look into Greg's eyes, then leaned in and kissed him slowly, lovingly, with gentleness and affection.  
Greg held John to him, returning the affection. He kissed John for a long time, trying to soak in the reality that his John was okay.

He drew back and looked to John are a few minutes, lashes damp and shun pale. "Do you think he'll be alright after that?"

John was happy for the affection and let it shine on his face despite the difficult topic. "He might. But it will take a while."

Greg nodded and kept John chose to him. "Poor bastard," he whispered, hugging John close. "I love you, I'm so glad you are here with me."

John continued to be very affectionate towards Greg as a reaction to the extreme stress and fear of abandonment he'd been exposed to. "I love you too. You're beautiful. You're wonderful."

Greg carried on rubbing John's back until he began to get sleepy, starting to fall off. He kept on holding to John, hooking a leg over him and holding him close as sleep tried to pull him down.

John sighed softly and tangled himself up with Greg's limbs. "Beautiful," he muttered and kissed under Greg's jaw. "Wonderful."

"Can you sleep? Can we...I'm s-so sorry, very tired." He kissed John again, worrying over Sherlock and John both.

John smiled against Greg's lips. "Of course. You can rest. I love you. I'll be right here when you wake up. Tomorrow will be a good day."

Greg fell down into sleep, holding on to John, wrapped up around him. He was exhausted, and the day had been...a mix of that's to their site growing happiness.

John brushed his lips against Greg's once he was asleep, then snuggled down into his arms. He fell asleep quickly, tired and sad, but peaceful against Greg. 

Mycroft was a mess, but he was managing his boiling anger. He could have them all killed. The ability had never tempted him, but if he wanted trouble for any of them, they would have it. 

Mycroft sat on the side of Sherlock's bed and waited for him to wake. 

Again when Sherlock woke, he came up in a sharp, flailing panic. "N-NO! NO! M-MY" he began screaming, shoving away hands he could feel but not see, completely unaware of his location.

It was about this time that Miller arrived, having been in surgery all day and only made aware of the situation a short time ago.

Mycroft wrapped Sherlock up in his arms and rocked him, which hopefully would make Sherlock realize where he was. "Hey! Hey! 'Lock! It's me!" 

He turned to Miller and gestured him forward. "Something for anxiety, please. He's had a rough day."

Miller scrambled to draw up the medication as Sherlock screamed, shoving even the dog away in bind panic. He'd lost his color and was in a sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, sobbing for mercy. Miller could not catch hold of him in his panic.

"Easy," he called out softly, shocked at the strength Sherlock was fighting with.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock, just over his biceps, and hung on. Right now, what mattered was Sherlock not hurting himself. Mycroft held his hand still for Miller to catch hold of. 

Sherlock screamed and screamed until his voice cracked, struggling with everything he had, twisting his hand in Mycroft's grip in an effort at escape. Miller swore as he poked Sherlock with the needle as he twisted at the last second, missing the port. The small prick of pain sent his panic through the roof, sending him begging.

"Please no! N-NO! DON'T T-TOUCH- OH G-GOD NO," he struggled against Mycroft's grip, sobbing as he lost his languages, dropping into French. Miller finally just grabbed him, sorry to use force but needing to calm him down, glad Sherlock's dog had not attacked them.

Mycroft held onto Sherlock's arm as tightly as he could without damaging his frail body in any way. "Hey, Sherlock, it's My. Please, God, please recognise me. I'm here for you. I'm here. I don't want to hurt you. Please try to breathe."

Sherlock's body began to relax as the medication flowed, managing to rob him off his strength. He began to go lax in Mycroft's grip, leaving him in pathetic, broken tears, pleading for mercy and his brother in French. His breathing hitched constantly as he wept like a small child, obviously unaware of his physical location.

Mycroft tried to catch Sherlock's attention by calling to him in French, then Latin, then Italian. 

Miller sat in front of Sherlock, helping Mycroft to hold him still, encouraged by the strength Sherlock had displayed.

Sherlock abruptly looked at Miller, eyes wild and unfocused. Something broke, so strongly that Miller could watch it happen..

His breathing stopped and he went very still, heart thundering behind his ribs. Miller let him go immediately, backing off in the face of Sherlock's fear. For several agonizing second Sherlock was speachless, before a low, panicked wail tore out of Sherlock in the form of his brother's name.

Mycroft wrapped himself around Sherlock. "It's okay! I'm here! Please, Sherlock, PLEASE!" 

Sherlock fought against the and around him for another moment before he suddenly realized who had him. He cried out, eyes wide, trying to grab hold of him.

There were no words in Sherlock’s sharp panic, only an effort to get closer, hyperventilating as he screamed.

This was the first turning point, where Sherlock remembered Mycroft and they could begin to calm. "I've got you," Mycroft said calmly. "Breathe with me. Breathe."

Sherlock could not comply, virtually climbing his brother, voice clipping out before gaining the ability to scream again. 

He tore Mycroft's shirt as he scrambled to get closer, his voice gargling on cooked panic, tiny clips of attempted screams the only other occasional sound over his crazed fear. The sedative had done little for him.

Mycroft sat up and braced Sherlock to his chest with his knees. "I've got you! I've got you! Stay awake. I'm here."

Mycroft's voice slowly leaked in through the panic. 

Sherlock managed to look up at Mycroft's face before breaking down into another hazy wave of fear. He clutched at his own clothes to keep them on, lips moving as he pleaded for help, still only managing to choke on his terror-swollen throat.

Miller stated to draw up another dose, afraid that Sherlock was going to hurt himself.

Mycroft did as he always had done when Sherlock was in panic, but now he was even more worried. "Please, it's over. It's over. You are safe. Completely safe."

Miller moved over with another syringe. "This won't knock him out, just help calm-"

But Sherlock had seen the syringe and suddenly reached out, grabbing Miller's wrist and twisting violently, elbowing Mycroft by accident, putting his focus on attacking the threat in the room. His dog sprung forward, but had yet to attack, growing but waiting for command.

Sherlock had hold of Miller's shirt front, driving the needle into Miller's bicep before shoving him away, nearly falling off the bed himself in his effort to protect himself, locked in full-body spasms of shuddering fear.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock back on the bed and held him there where he hopefully could not hurt himself. "Hey! SHERLOCK! It's MY! MY!"

Miller staggered back, pulling the needle from his arm and binning it, glad Sherlock had not thought to depress the plunger. Sherlock was giving his brother hell. Miller decided to help physically restrain him until he could truly understand that he was home and safe. He pushed Sherlock to his back and began to wrap him restrictively in a blanket as Mycroft held him.

Sherlock screamed and choked on his fear, fighting until his curls were stuck to his forehead, dripping with sweat and wheezing for air.

It took them nearly half an hour, but Sherlock's strength finally flagged, leaving him limp and weakly sobbing in Mycroft's arms. Finally though, he was able to look up at Mycroft, flinching in expectation of pain.

Mycroft had a bloody lip and a sore nose, but it was his chest that hurt with the most excruciating brilliance. "It's me," he said for the hundredth time that hour. "Just me. Just your brother who loves you. Nobody will hurt you. Never again."

Sherlock looked up at his brother, finally focusing on him. His pupils narrowed and he suddenly began to cry in relief.

"My, M-My they...my they hurt me," he sobbed, trying to get his hand out of the blanket to reach for him, "don't leave m-me! I'll be g-good, don't l-leave me!"  
"Okay. Okay. I won't leave you. But I need you to try to breathe at the same time as me, alright? You're doing so well. I'm not leaving you. I will protect you. I took you away from the bad people and now you are in my home. You're safe." 

Mycroft pulled the blankets up around Sherlock to give him a shell. 

Sherlock nodded frantically, heavy tears sliding down his cheeks. His first attempts were stuttering and a complete mess, eyes cutting to Miller before looking rapidly back to his brother, whining in fear, breathing at twice the pace of his brother.

"Y-Y-Y'll l-le-eave m-me...I'm n-not s-s-saf-fe...y-y-you'll l-leave a-and they...I'm n-not s-s-safe!"

"No, I won't. What happened was a mistake. It will not happen again. I will not send you away, and they can not come into this house. They can't get in. All the doors are locked and the windows shut. They can't get in, and I won't leave." 

Mycroft slowed his breathing again to try to give Sherlock a goal. "It's okay. Never again."

Shock kept trying to catch his breath. "M-My clothes! My..they...oh g-god I- I c-can't! I- J-John w-was on...He...M-My help m-me! Help me!" 

He began to scream again, feeling hands on him, losing himself. Mycroft hadn't kept him safe, the dog hasn't kept him safe, John...Greg...nothing had spared him.

"You were transferred from a hospital to a care facility. Nobody touched you in an inappropriate way. You were not physically injured or abused. What happened was horrible, terrifying, and they'll all hang for it, but you were being handled by professionals, not criminals."

Shock nearly immediately shut down on Mycroft, looking at him with open shock before his eyes unfocused and he withdrew, holding to his own shirt, biting on the tips of his fingers, breathing fast and shallow.

They'd held him down, taken his clothes as he'd screamed for help, took the dog and John, examined every inch of him, strapped him down and drugged him. And Mycroft...Mycroft called them professionals. He wasn't safe. He was never going to be safe. A small, hopeless sob cracked from his throat and he went silent.

"Shhh...shh....listen, it's okay. They're all going to have to appear in court for that. But I honestly believe they never intended harm for you. Believe me, I considered having some of them shot..." 

Mycroft shook his head and gathered Sherlock back up to his lap. 

"Please, try to understand. I won't let it happen again. They can not get you here."

Sherlock did not respond to his brother, retreating into his mind as much as he could, though it was mostly just a space of broken, scattered nothing.

Miller took the chance and gave another injection to Sherlock's line to calm him down.

Mycroft smoothed Sherlock's hair back and kissed his forehead. "I'm here. Please don't go away for too long. I'm here. You can come out whenever you want. It's safe. I'm here."

It demonstrably was not safe, not by any measure. He'd begged his brother to be there, but in the end, all of the promises were vapid, all his hope gone.

Miller ran a hand through his hair, watching as Sherlock faded away from them. "This isn't good. We might need Paul back...I don't know how to fix this."

Tears burned in Mycroft's eyes and he held Sherlock's head so his face was pointed at him. "Sherlock, look at me. Look! I know you're scared. I know. I'm sorry. But it was a mistake. Please do not go away. You need to fight, and stay, and understand! They weren't supposed to move you! I was supposed to be there! But you'll never see any of them again. I'll keep you here."

Sherlock had no choice but to look up at his brother. He blinked slowly at him, hazy and distant.

A mistake.

He slowly turned his eyes, sweeping them slowly across the room. Greg and John had left, causing something sharp and raw to spike across his chest. He'd been on the phone with John, but John had only called for help with Greg. Nothing was different. 

Mycroft had not been there and strange men had taken him. His dog did not protect him. He'd been stripped nude in front of a crowd...

"I w-want to d-die," he breathed, starting to numb out, fading back into his mind. "I'm...I'm the m-mis-st-take. I'm n-not s-saf-fe..."

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I don't want you to die. Things will get better. I promise. You are safe. You are! I will guard you with my life! I will never let anyone near you ever again. I will not leave this room." 

He'd find other ways to make money, dammit. 

But Mycroft always left him, and he always looked better for the separation. Sherlock stared at Mycroft's bleeding lip and reddened nose, lip trembling. 

"I-I'm...I'm s-sorry," he whispered, "I....I'm...I-" he'd tried so hard to get better, to not be a burden, to earn his way home. 

But that had ended in horrific, crushing failure. He looked away from Mycroft, falling back into tears, the stubborn articulance he'd developed some in hospital smothered out of him.

Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head and pressed his face into his curls. "I messed up. Please forgive me."

Sherlock was silent as Mycroft wrapped around him. He felt filthy, just as disgusting as when he'd first been discovered. Phantom pain slithered around his bones, reminding him of what hell had been like, closing his eyes and desperately trying to believe he was safe. 

"Th-They j-just… _took m-me_. Th-hey can s-s-simply...wh-what's to..." he shook his head, which was so much easier to do now that he was free of the tube in his nose, burrowing into the blankets. Anyone could just take him, and he could fight and fight and nothing could be done about it. There was nowhere to be safe. "M-My they j-just...I c-couldn't p-protect m-m-mys-self..." 

"They took you because they made a mistake. When you are home, nobody can take you. Please stay here with me." Perhaps now Sherlock would give up the notion that he needed to punish himself and earn the right to come home. "Please?"

Silence stretched for a long while as Sherlock tried to calm himself down. A mistake...it had been a mistake...but it had shown how vulnerable he truly was. "N-Nothing k-keeps m-m-me safe! I-It was....m-m-mis-st-take and they- they t-took my d-d-dog and- and m-my cl-lothes and I'm n-not s-s-safe!" 

He tried to wriggle out of the blanket, but could not manage it. "M-My! I'm n-not s-safe!" 

Mycroft was devastated by that. He'd done so much over the past few years to keep Sherlock safe, and in the end a little slip up with the charts had brought it to pieces. "If you're with me, you're safe. I swear."

Sherlock's entire focus was getting free of that blanket. He began to struggle against it in earnest, wanting out, whimpering as he tried to push the fabric away. He was drenched in sweat and freezing, but he wanted loose. Miller was at the side of the bed, keeping a careful eye. 

"M-My...l-let m-me out," Sherlock begged, looking up at his brother with watering eye, "I- pl-lease l-let me loose, _pl-lease_!" 

Mycroft pulled the blanket off of Sherlock, but kept him wrapped up in his arms. "I am worried you'll hurt yourself. Please stay calm."

Sherlock grabbed hold of Mycroft's shirt, immediately biting at his fingers with his free hand. He couldn't stay, but he couldn't leave either. Why wouldn't they just let him go? Desperately he tried to explain himself, sobbing behind his hands, his words unintelligible. 

Miller spoke softly to Mycroft as Sherlock carried on falling apart. "I can just put him under if you'd rather."

Mycroft sat up a bit and cradled Sherlock in his lap. "Hey, hey, Sherlock, could you listen to me for a bit?"

Sherlock stopped trying to talk, nodding as he kept a blanched fist in Mycroft's shirt. He was truly doing his best to keep himself as calm as possible, actively battling the blind panic that was only under control due to the sheer amount of sedatives he'd already been given. 

"You are safe in my house. Nobody can hurt you here. The doctors misread your chart and thought you were the patient to be transferred. I was not there because I had planned to come around lunch time, but I had taken the whole next day off to be with you for the transfer. The hospital made a mistake. It won't happen again because you aren't in hospital now."

Sherlock tried to speak around his fingers, deeply traumatized by what he'd been through that day. "I-I didn't...I- I'm s-s-still supposed....t-to be...i-in-n h-hos-spit-tal," he sobbed, openly terrified. He was still going to have to go back, and he'd been shown how powerless he was to his own situation there. 

"I say you're supposed to stay with me," Mycroft countered stubbornly. "Come now. Please? I'll try my best to make things better for you."

At his brother's words, Sherlock nodded, his panic slowing down somewhat. He had permission not to go back, at least not that day. Surely My wouldn't lie to him about something like that. 

But he'd said that Sherlock could always have his dog, that Sherlock wouldn't be alone when they took him. Both had been proven untrue. 

His next few breaths shuddered audibly in his lungs, leaving him struggling to master his breathing, exhausted by his physical state of panic. Over and over again he nodded, wanting nothing more than to be safe. 

"Would you like a panic button? Something that no matter what, if you press it, I will come? I won't let you go back to the hospital, but if I am in the other room or something, I'll come running." Mycroft snuggled Sherlock closed. "Is there anything that would make you feel safer?"

Sherlock nodded, finding that to be a brilliant idea. It could be taken just as easily, but it was a start, it would be something he could potentially use to protect himself. 

"I- I c-couldn't-t st....st-top th-them," he whispered as his teeth chattered on his fingertips, "t-tried. C-Couldn't. S-S-Sitting d-duck...I- I'm sc-scared, M-My."

"We'll get you up and walking more, then. And I'll only let people around you who are operating under my direct orders. You'll be safe."

Sherlock went very, very still. "W-Walking? They...th-they s-said I...that I c-could w-walk?" 

Hope flashed brilliantly across his chest, suddenly renewed. He'd only heard that he'd be in a wheelchair or perhaps with a walker. But My was implying he'd eventually be able to run!

"I- oh g-god they s-said I c-could w-walk?"

Mycroft swallowed hard. "Yeah, Sherlock, I think you can. We'll have to start out slow, at first. Naturally. You'll use a walker in the beginning. But we can work up to a cane, then work off that as well. I believe you can. I'll bring in the best physical therapists in the country. And you're so stubborn! You'll be on your feet. Of course, it will hurt at first, and I suggest painkillers. It's not good to work without them."

Miller was openly startled at Mycroft's words, knowing them to be false. But how could he take that hope, so visible and unexpected, from his brother right now?

Sherlock began to cry, pressing his face to Mycroft's shirt and weeping with relief. He could have something back, there would be something for him, even when everyone was gone, he'd be able to walk.

Mycroft knew he was making a mistake, but couldn't help but feel hope. He wanted there to be hope. He would have to speak with everyone around Sherlock that they were only to speak of his mobility with the utmost optimism. 

But, perhaps they could get him moving passably in a walker. For now, that would be Mycroft's rational goal, while walking was his ceiling goal. 

"We can start again with the physical therapy once you've had time to recover. It'll be okay. We'll start out slow and develop the muscles needed."

Stock spoke in a winner against his brother's shirt. "I....I d-don't have...h-have time to g-go slow! P-Pain m-m-medicine makes m-me...f-fuzzy...it hurts...god i-it hurts but I d-don't care, n-not if I c-can w-walk!"

He suddenly turned and looked at Miller, "h-how soon? If I r-really work, h-how soon?"

Miller balked, taking a moment to gather himself. He was not in the business of lying to his patients, but he would for Mycroft's sake. "I am not sure, Sherlock. Let's see how well you can do in a chair, and then we will try the walker?"

Sherlock shook his head, pulling at his brother. "N-No point...n-no point u-using the ch-chair. No more of...of that. I...no...o-only on my f-feet, I w-won't work in s-stages, I h-have to...to...I'm n-not s-safe."

"Sherlock, slow down. Listen to me." Mycroft put his hands on Sherlock's face and made him focus for a moment. "We will work on it, but I need you to cooperate with me. You need to pace yourself. You need pain medication. Pain stresses you, and the improvement is overshadowed by your distress. Please, trust me on this."

And just like that, Sherlock fell apart like an overtired child. He covered his face as he wept, "B-But I...I just w-want to b-be safe," he lamented, the road ahead stretching too far and the danger right at his heels, "I d-don't....don't h-have t-time! The ch-ch-chair is....d-different m-muscles and-" panic snagged him down as he shouted, "I don't h-have t-time!"

"We are going to start with both, then. You have time. We can start working out your legs without the chair. You can practice moving them. I can get an above ground pool set up in the backyard in three days, max. We can practice there." 

Mycroft needed to keep the hope alive, at this point. Also, he honestly believed walking in water would do Sherlock good. 

Sherlock was trembling at this point, terrified of the future. He had no idea how he felt about the pool. It could only be his brother, no one else could out him in water, only Mycroft, and the idea of the sun on his destroyed skin sounded dreadful.

But if it got him walking, he'd endure it. "I j-just want to b-be safe."

"I'll help you through it all. You only need to do what you are comfortable with. If you ever feel that something is too overwhelming, you have my full endorsement to back out." 

Mycroft doubted Sherlock would, though. After seeing him push himself so terribly, Mycroft feared he'd have to keep him from hurting himself. 

Sherlock knew his brother was lying now, but he'd leave it for a while. It was nice to believe that Mycroft would always be there, and he crushed the smarter part of his mind, refusing to know that My would always leave.

"Ok-k-kay," he wept.

"Would you be willing to work on strengthening your muscles in a pool? I can heat it, and put a shade up, and...I don't know...Curtains? If I get a small one I could screen it in and keep it private. I'll work with you. I just need to know if you're willing."  
Sherlock did not ever, ever want to be exposed ever, ever again. "C-can I k-keep m-my clothes o-on?"

"Of course. You can always keep your clothes on. And there's a bathroom on the ground floor just inside. I'll have it nice and heated so you aren't cold. I know the transition scares you when you're wet. I'll make everything comfortable. And if I miss something, you just tell me, and I'll add it."

"O-Only you," Sherlock whispered, suddenly clutching to Mycroft, "o-only y-you...no one e-else...no one e-else...I c-can't."

"Only me. I'll be the only one there. I promise you that. You'll get through this." Mycroft reached over and took the remote from the little bedside table. "I'm going to put on a nature documentary and have some cake brought up. If you want some, you can, but there's no pressure. Let's just relax for a bit, okay?"

"Soup.... c-can I h-have...it's...I don't w-want c-cake, I...j-just soup." He knew he had to eat or they'd drop that horrific tube down his nose.

Mycroft beamed at Sherlock. "Whatever you want. I'm very proud of you for asking."

He called for soup and cake to be brought up, and turned the telly to something calming about the ocean.

Sherlock turned his focus to the telly. He was cold, and exhausted, and dropped down into fear deeper than he'd been in a very long time. He held tight to Mycroft's torn shirt.

It dawned on him minutes later that he'd bloodied his brother. "I didn't m-mean...I didn't m-mean...I'm s-sorry I hurt y-you. I was sc-scared."

"It's fine," Mycroft hastily insisted. "Not your fault. It's truly nothing." And, compared to Sherlock's scars, it truly was absolutely nothing. 

Sherlock reached up and touched Mycroft's lip, staring at him for a long while, interrupted with the delivery of food. He flinched violently at the sound of the door, hugging himself to his brother.

"It's alright," Mycroft whispered, and Miller did the transaction so Mycroft could stay in bed with Sherlock. 

Mycroft helped Sherlock sit up a bit so the tray could sit across his legs. "It's okay," Mycroft reassured and sat flush next to Sherlock so he wouldn't feel separated. 

It took him a long time to get the soup down, eventually needing anti-nausea medication from Miller to overcome his nerves. All feeling of safety was shattered and gone, making him feel as exposed as the day he and John stood dotted with laser sights.

"J-John," he whispered after a very long time, soup cold and hair dry plastered to the side if his head from having sweat so terribly, "is he safe?"

Mycroft ate his cake just for the sake of trying to keep weight on him, and hardly noticed when it was gone. "Of course, John is safe. He is very safe."

Sherlock nodded, pushed his soup away, having taken in all he could. He leaned against Mycroft, picking absently at Mycroft's shirt. "I'm tired," he whispered.

Mycroft ran his hand absently up and down Sherlock's arm and tried even in his own weariness to keep Sherlock happy. "Then sleep. You're safe here."

Sherlock held on to Mycroft. "Ssh-she didn't...she didn't p-protect m-me...she didn't...I w-was...she d-doesn't l-like m-me. I c-can't keep h-her," the sadness was clear in his tone. Sherlock was simply starved for safety.

"No, I believe they just called her away before she knew you were in danger. We'll make sure it doesn't happen again. I promise." Mycroft would be sure of it. Sherlock was not going to be let out of his sight. 

Sherlock looked down at the mauve dog who'd been his friend when everyone else was gone. He posted the bed, watching as she came up and settled across his lap as had settled Sherlock before.  
"I'm s-scared t-to sleep," he confessed.

"Sleep is vulnerable. But I'm here. Nobody can hurt you in my house. I'd kill them." Mycroft pet the dog, and she did not respond. He didn't care. 

Sherlock grabbed hold of Mycroft and git as close as he could. "Pl-l-lease hold o-on to m-me. Please...M-My...please d-don't leave m-me." He pressed his face to Mycroft's chest, feeling much like a child. "Please."

Mycroft wrapped Sherlock up in the blankets and his arms. "Of course. I'm right here. I'll be right here when you wake up."

Sherlock fought against sleep for the next hour, finally dropping off against his brother's chest.

"He's never going to walk," Miller said to Mycroft when Sherlock was down. "Mycroft. His legs...he's lucky to even have them, he'll never walk."

"We'll get him as close as he possibly can, then." Mycroft held out stubbornly. "We'll get him moving around in a pool. Even if he never walks, he'll have mobility. This is the last you are to speak of it."

Miller stared at Mycroft, quiet for a while. "This is wrong. He'll find it his own failure. I won't tell him, but I formally object."

He got up and left the room, leaving the brothers to themselves.

Mycroft would not let it be Sherlock's failure. He'd get him confident and moving in a pool. He'd spend more time there than on land. It didn't matter. Sherlock had hope. Mycroft could work with hope. 

Soon after, he fell asleep under the weight of all that was riding on him. It was an uncomfortable sleep, but he was dead to it. 

Sherlock was able to sleep for the next few hours. He held tight to his brother and did not often move. He woke somewhere near four in the morning, terrified and silent. There was a body near him, and he was in tremendous pain. Down the hall, John was screaming.

 _John_.

He got himself slowly up off the body at his side and began to move, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. His slight weight made him silent as he hit the floor. His dog followed quietly as Sherlock dragged himself, following the sound of John's screaming.

....

"Mr. Holmes!" A panicked voice of one of Mycroft's house staff called to Mycroft, trying to wake him.

Mycroft jerked awake and reached out for Sherlock. His heart stopped when he was met with nothing, and he tore himself out of bed. "Sherlock! Sherlock!!"

"He's in the hall, Mr. Holmes," she said very quietly, turning in the side light.

Sherlock screamed out John's name, lost and confused.

Mycroft's heart galloped in his chest and he sprinted to Sherlock. "'Lock! 'Lock! It's me!" He dropped to his knees beside his brother and tentatively reached for him. 

Sherlock, already worn thin from his efforts, ducked his head and curled in around himself, guarding his ribs and covering the back of his neck as he felt someone touch him. He could still hear John as he wailed his fear against the floor, braced for pain.

A pathetic plea for My tore out of his chest, sobbing in fear.

Mycroft knelt down and gently placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm here. You're safe." And it was a lucky thing he was. Sherlock could have gotten himself seriously injured. 

Miller came skidding around the corner, once again staying at Mycroft's home in fear of leaving his unstable patient.

"Did he crawl out here," he asked incredulously as Sherlock dared to peak out to see the world around him.

Mycroft nodded and tried to gather Sherlock up in his arms. "Hey, 'Lock, look at me. Please. I'm here."

Miller swore under his breath as he stared at Sherlock, backing off so Mycroft could get him calm. This was so like the beginning. The doctor was glad he'd spent days building Mycroft back up physically.

"My?" Sherlock's voice had been small, hardly audible as he thankfully recognized his brother. He reached out with a trembling hand, his body freezing, wanting to be held, "h-he has J-John," he whispered miserably.

Mycroft's chest squeezed. It was that bad, then. They were all the way back at the beginning. But it had been a year! They'd been healing! 

"No, no he does not. John is safe with Greg. He's safe."

Sherlock said nothing as he crawled into Mycroft's arms, sure that he could still hear John though unable to do anything about it. He clung to Mycroft, shaking and limp. "Ok-k-kay," he breathed through chattering teeth.

Miller came over and very carefully helped Mycroft up off the floor, very much wanting to get a proper look at Sherlock. He couldn't believe Sherlock had moved so far on his own.  
Mycroft brought Sherlock back to bed and sat down with him in his lap. "Can we give you something to help you sleep? I'm worried about you. You should get some rest."

Sherlock nodded, gladly welcoming the idea of oblivion. He tipped his face to the underside of Mycroft's jaw, his chest turned so that he was cradled to his brother.

Miller very cautiously have a sedative, enough of a dose that would put Sherlock down for hours, and then waited, wanting to examine him once he was asleep.

Mycroft rocked Sherlock as he drifted off and the cold, icy slide of hopelessness covered him. "He's regressed," he whispered. "Horribly."

Miller began to look Sherlock over as his brother held him. "Not surprising. John did this several times as well. Devastating for Greg but John bounced back relatively quickly."

He stepped back after examining Sherlock's legs, "bruised, but I think he's alright. Let's not get discouraged, he's never managed to get out of bed and make it a good distance down the hall before. Can't really believe he managed that. Do you want something for sleep? It's still very early."

Mycroft tried desperately to find a positive. "So...John bounces back, it is worst for the caregiver, and the amount of strength and mobility he demonstrated was encouraging?" He looked up at Miller with some small glimmer of pleading hope.

"I wouldn't say worse for the caregiver, but it was very hard on Greg emotionally. They made it out several times though, so will you and your brother. And yes, weeks ago Sherlock did not have the physical ability to do that. He's improving. This is a painful bump in the road."

"Okay. Alright. I need to get him a pool. I think that having mobility will make him feel much better, even if it is limited. He's very strong. He's always been able to bounce back from injuries. He was injured frequently in his young adult life. Boxing, single stick, absolutely ridiculous risks on his cases..." 

Mycroft shook his head and slowly lowered Sherlock down to sleep on his own. "He'll be alright." 

Miller nodded, glad to hear Mycroft have a bit of hope at least.

"Take these, get a few more hours. I'll have someone draw up plans for a pool and you can look then over. Is Jared coming back?"

"Yes. I can call him in today. Vacation time. I understand. He's been on with us for....what...eight months? Poor bastard deserves it." 

Mycroft scooted just a bit away from Sherlock, then changed his mind and wrapped one arm around him. He wasn't as comfortable as he was sleeping alone, but the security of keeping Sherlock safe far outweighed it. 

Miller nodded, though was irritated that Sherlock's caregiver had taken off while Sherlock was in hospital. Any person watching over him would have prevented all of this.

"Sherlock could have benefited from him, if he's burning out, perhaps it's time to replace him. Greg and John have demonstrated the value of consistency. Get some sleep, we can talk about it later, but we do need to address how often he's alone."

Mycroft shrugged and turned his face over on the pillow. "I will speak with him about it. In my knowledge, there was no malice intended, simply that he isn't as clever as the rest of us." 

Miller nodded and left the men to sleep, going to handle what he could to lighten the load on the taxed elder brother.

John was a bit better the next morning, but still the nagging feeling of worthlessness and lack of energy followed him. Nonetheless, he was not one to let Greg assume it was his fault, and woke him up with a soft kiss to the forehead. "Morning."

Greg opened his eyes, giving John a slow smile. "Morning," he returned, returning the kiss. "How are you feeling?"

John shrugged. "I'm okay, I guess. You look wonderful. I can go set up the stuff in the kitchen if you want." 

Greg smiled and nodded his head. "That would be great," he said quietly, trying to give John the chance to feel useful. "I'll be in there in just a few minutes."

John jumped up and rushed to the kitchen. He knew the routine, and got out everything Greg would need. He even took the courage to put the kettle under the faucet and turn it on. 

When everything was set, the kettle was on the burner but not on, John walked back to bedroom and called for Greg cheerily. 

Greg was walking out of the bathroom with a smile on his face, very glad to see John in good spirits. "Hey," he beamed, wrapping John into a warm hug, "ready for me?"

John still felt low, but Greg was smiling, which helped. "Yeah. I can't turn the heat on for the kettle yet, but I still filled it. The water echoes....so I'm still getting used to that." 

Greg beamed at John, nodding. "You've done well, come on, let's go get you fed." For a moment, he was wildly grateful that it did not mean pushing a feed. They'd come so far.

John gave a weary smile, which fell as soon as Greg's back was turned. He walked behind him, so close he was nearly bumping into him, and stayed there even as Greg went to cook. 

"I think I need to get used to the kitchen when there's hot things," John whispered. He was too tired to care, though. It was a hard day, a work day, a day in which he was supposed to be chasing his goals and working on his fears. Usually, he was motivated. Now, he stood with his face between Greg's shoulder blades and his back rounded. 

Greg loved having John this close, regardless of the reason. He hummed as he turned on the kettle and shifted slowly do John could follow if he wanted, moving to put on eggs and toast.

"You are incredible," he assured, leaning slightly back into John.

John had his eyes squeezed shut and his face pressed between Greg's shoulder blades. He could hear the water in the kettle, and knew that the eggs were going on hot metal. He whimpered, but stayed put. It would be far worse if he broke away from Greg now. Instead of running, he clapped his hands over his ears and concentrated fully on the way Greg smelled, and the way he felt. 

Greg calmly carried on cooking, taking the kettle off before it screamed, and when the food was done he slowly turned, tagging John into his arms and hugging him tight.

"Alright, enough kitchen," he whispered with pride as he rubbed John's back, "you did so well. Let's eat in the sitting, yeah?"

John nodded and rested against Greg's chest. He grabbed his plate cautiously in case it was hot, which it never was, then scurried out of the room. 

John was quiet as they ate and made very little conversation. 

Greg allowed John to be silent as he ate. The point was for John to process, not avoid.

"You're doing very well, in case you were wondering," he said after he ate his food. He reached out and traced his fingers down John's cheek. "Will you talk to me about it?"

John put his fork down and leaned into Greg's fingers, then tipped over sideways completely and put his head in Greg's lap. "I feel sad." It wasn't much of an explanation, and he felt bad about it. "Sorry. I don't mean to be. I'm worried you'll think it's your fault, so I'm trying to be okay, but I'm still sad."

Greg trailed his fingers through John's hair. "Alright, let's make a deal then. You be honest with me, and I'll not think it's me making you sad? Thank you for considering me, I appreciate it. Tell me about being sad."

He kept his fingers gentle and his voice soft, doing his best to support John.

John curled up into a little ball and frowned. "Just...sad. Sad. Tired. I don't care. I don't care about getting better. I don't care how long I can walk without getting sore or if I'm ever able to cook on my own, or if I'm ever not afraid of water, or if I ever stop thinking things are my fault, or if I stop assuming I'm worthless when something happens. I just don't care."

Greg hated hearing this, but surely it was too be expected. John had been fighting a long time, and he'd personally done what seemed to be irreparable damage.

"You sound like you're tired," he said quietly, carrying on brushing his fingers through John's hair. "What if we took a week off?"

"Took a week off from what? I don't do anything." John sounded bitter at that, and scowled. 

"Bullocks," Greg said quietly, leaning over and pressing a kiss to John's temple. "You caught on to how serious it was with Sherlock a full day before we would have. You break your arse to overcome constantly. We can take a break from hard days for a week, you've more than earned it."

John breathed a slow sigh. "I should be happy about that, but I'm not. I have no...motivation."

Greg was quiet a few minutes after that, just rubbing John's head as he thought.  
"What was your motivation before you lost it," he quietly asked, knowing he likely didn't want the answer.

"I don't know. Getting better. Helping you. Helping Sherlock. First, it was getting better so I could die. Then, it was getting better to help Sherlock, then to help you, then sort of for myself. Now I get better to help you, and Sherlock, and myself."

Greg never stopped with John's hair, moving only to begin rubbing circles at the muscles adding his hairline.  
"Maybe...maybe we can find you motivation outside of us," he offered, trying to keep the heartache and self-loathing from his tone. 

He'd robbed John of his motivation. This was on him.

John shook his head, which turned into him nuzzling on Greg's hand. Greg was extremely comforting, and John wished he could do something in return. "I don't think 'us' is the problem. I think it's me. Just me. Not you. You blame yourself. I knew you would. I shouldn't have spoken. I'm sorry. I did't want you to think I was quiet because I'm mad or going to leave."

Fingers still working through John's hair, Greg shook his head. "I meant 'us' as in Sherlock and I. I'm glad you are speaking, it's much better than your silence, John. I know I...I made a mistake, one hell of a mistake. I hurt you, it's okay to admit that's a good part of the problem. It's okay to be angry with me. You should be."

"I can't be mad at you. You're the only good thing in my life that stays." 

He smiled over at Gladstone, who came over and set his chin on Greg's knee near John's head. "Except Gladstone. He stays too. But...you're my Greg. I think I want you and Sherlock to be alright, but...I just...I don't care."

That was universes worse than John being angry. John not caring at all?

Intolerable.

Greg closed his eyes and nodded slowly, knowing he deserved that.

"Maybe it...will pass. I'd...you are allowed to be angry, I wouldn't leave, not unless you wanted me to."

John shook his head. "I kinda felt like this after the war for a bit. When I would sit around on my own. Just...nothing."

"Sherlock," Greg said without hesitation, "you need Sherlock." He looked down at John, fingers stilling.  
"You can help him more than any of us can, he's what got you feeling something after the war."

"No, it was...I mean, yeah, but I have you." John reached up just to touch Greg's cheek. "I never had this with him. I was fine for those six months even without him. I just...I don't know. It was like this after...after they died. Even with Sherlock."

Greg resumed running small circles around John's hairline, trying to give him comfort despite failing so catastrophically.

"Then...then we just wait for it to pass. I'll care about it for us both."

John gave a lamenting groan and covered his face with his hands. "I hate this so much. Why did he have to do that? Why did...what sort of person wants to torture someone just for fun? He didn't even know me all that well! He didn't- I never did anything to him!!"

Greg shook his head. "Even if you had, nothing warrants what happened to you. I'm so sorry, I really am. I wish I could make it go away." 

He pulled John up into a hug, cradling him on his lap. "I've got you though, I have you and you're going to be alright. You will. This is going to pass." 

John wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and cringed as he touched his own wrist, which was covered in lumpy scars. "You're a very charitable man."

Greg closed his eyes as John returned the embrace. "At Christmastime, most years, yes. You are not charity though, nor is any of this. None of those thoughts." 

He leaned back and looked John over for a moment before speaking with hesitation again. "John...we could go ahead and get you started with a plastic surgeon, get those letters off your chest. Only if you're ready, but it might help. You know the work those blokes can do, it might...might help you feel better." 

That was an intensely difficult topic for John. "I want to. I want them gone. I haven't looked at them in...god, it's been months. I can't look. I hate it. I hate me. And I want the ones on the insides of my legs gone. And...and the spikes on the inside of my left arm... Those are bad ones too. But...I'm scared of surgery. I don't want that. I'd rather just...I don't know. Wear sweatpants and hoodies forever. A surgeon...Greg, I can't trust them."

Greg nodded, "Yes, you could. Miller could have you down here in the flat, you could wake up here in the flat, and I'd be with you until the actual surgery, and Miller would be in theatre with you. We could have that work done and I know you'd feel better. John...you took a razor to yourself. I think it's time. You are so much braver than you think you are. You could do this."

John whimpered and looked at his arm, which still had wrapping on it. At this point, he suspected it was more to keep him from damaging himself again rather than to allow the shallow wounds to heal. "They'll be over me and have knives and they'll take off my clothes. I want the ones...I want the ones between my legs gone. I don't care that I don't see them. Sometimes I can feel them when I walk. Usually not. But...I know they're there. Those and the initials. Oh, god, I want it all gone, but...Greg...I can't let them put me under and use sharp things."

Greg took John's face in his hands and tipped their foreheads together. "Slow down, love. Breathe. I know I've messed up, I know I have, but John, do you still trust me to at least keep you safe?" 

John's expression grew even more pained. "Why've you got to say you messed up? What does that have to do with my scars?"

The look on John's face cut right through him. "I am not assuming your trust, I'm asking if I still have it. I'd never let anyone hurt you, John."

Greg pressed a soft, lingering kiss between John's brows. "Of course, I didn't mean to imply you wouldn't be scared. I'll stop, I don't mean to push. I just believe that you will feel...far, far better once it's done. Would you let me take you for a consultation? Or let Miller bring someone in? That way we could know how the process would work, surely they couldn't do it safely all in one go." 

John wanted the horrible things off, but the idea of a surgeon, even one he knew, was terrifying. It represented a loss of control he absolutely could not stand. Tears burned his eyes at the thought of it, and he closed his eyes. 

"No, no, I don't think I should."

Greg gathered John closer and held him tight. "Okay, that's okay John. Too soon, that's okay." He slid his fingers through John's hair and tried to comfort him, "completely alright. Later, we will talk about that later. Do you want to watch telly or anything?"

John absently began to scratch at one of the scars on the back of his hand. Maybe that was what he could do. Maybe he could just scratch them all off. "I don't want scars but I'm...God, I'd rather have his fucking brand on me than have someone with a knife...just...and I'd have to take my clothes off..." 

Greg covered John's hand with his own. "Don't do that, love, stop." He inhaled deeply and then spoke again, "You would go to sleep dressed, and come home dressed. I know we could arrange it. You know Miller well by now. No one would do you any harm. It wouldn't be someone with a knife, it would be a surgeon in an operating theatre intent on helping you. You would be safe, and the scars would be much improved. They wouldn't be _his_ scars anymore." 

John's breath hitched and he whimpered in acute distress. "I don't feel good. You'd have to stay with me. Would you stay with me? And let me come home after even if I'm still ugly? You won't leave me there if they can't fix me, right?"

Greg began to slowly rock John. "I will stay with you and you'll come home no matter what." He kept a tight grip on him. "Let's go back to bed, it's okay John. This isn't today, we are not doing this today. Want to lie down with me?"

John covered his face in shame, then remembered the state that the back of his hands were in and tucked them under his arms. "He didn't scar up my face," John said absently. 

"Something about...he said...It had to do with Sherlock recognizing me. He wanted it to be my face. My fear. That sort of thing." 

Sure, there were nicks and thin lines on his face, as well as places where his lips had split, but the major scarring present on the rest of his body was absent on his face. 

"Maybe it would have been easier for Sherlock if he couldn't recognize me."

Greg shook his head, "No, I don't think so, but I'm glad he left your face alone." He hated that John had endured any of this. "You know I don't find you ugly John, right?"

John gave a half smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, you've said so. Thanks."

 

Greg dragged a blanket over them and just trailed his fingers over John's back, trying to soothe him. "I didn't intend to upset you, John. We can talk about all of this later. I love you, you don't have to get the scars taken care of at all if you don't want, this is all about you and how you feel, it's not about.." he didn't want to try and explain himself, he was terrible at it. 

 

"I'm still so proud of how you helped Sherlock. That was incredible."

 

"That was all really scary. I like Sherlock's dog. She's nice. I like my dog best though, of course." John tried to sink in to the comfort he was being offered, but his mind refused to accept it. "I'm sorry I'm being...stupid. I'm trying. I feel bad. Could you give me tasks or something? Something so I'm not just dead weight all the time? I'm supposed to sweep and walk Gladstone. Anything else?"

 

Greg hummed as he carried on rocking John. "What sort of things make you feel good when you do them? You always seem like you feel...stronger, when you help Sherlock."

 

"This isn't about Sherlock!" John's voice rose and he scowled at his hands. "I don't know what's wrong! I just feel sad! I don't...I don't know! Ask Paul or something. I already tried to figure it out."

 

Greg eased off on his grip, instantly chastised. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make it about- I won't bring him up again, that wasn't smart. I'm sorry. I- I'll see if Paul is still working with us. I'll- I'm sorry." 

 

He kept his eyes away from John, feeling like an idiot and absolutely lost on how to help.

 

"Ah, no, no, sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to." John sat up and pressed a hasty, frightened kiss to Greg's lips. "I'm sorry!"

 

Greg allowed John to kiss him for a moment before he backed off. 

 

"It's okay to be angry with me. I'm not very good at...I want to help you and I don't know how. I made you sad, I wish I could help you feel happy again. I know you don't want to talk about him...but you called him for help. Did...did he help you before all that happened?" 

 

He didn't even want to say Sherlock's name at this point, eyes downcast, hating himself for what he'd done, very much wishing he could take it all back and tell Mycroft to fuck off.

 

John shrugged. "I don't know! It's always nice to have a goal, but...even though I know I should be helping him, I still feel bad. Very bad. And..." John turned and, still sitting in Greg's lap, faced him more fully. 

 

"Listen. You need to stop blaming yourself. It's not good for either of us."

 

Greg looked at John and took a moment before speaking.

 

"My goal in the start had been to help you in Sherlock's place, and to keep him safe and alive until you were well enough to see him. Then...then I attached to you so deeply and he was gone..." 

 

He cleared his throat, looking down at his lap, "I lost focus, and you...you became my entire world. There...John you...you're the center of my life. So much so that I..." Shame burned deep, as it should.

 

"I don't really care what happens to him anymore, I just want you safe and happy. I know how much he changed your life, how deeply the two of you cared for one another, and I thought I was wrong to stay with you. Now..."  
He looked back to John, open and honest, "I made it so you never ever need to see him again, but you get sad when I say that. I don't know what to do, and I ended up hurting you. If I don't accept blame, how am I ever going to stop doing the wrong thing?"

 

It hurt John to come to terms with the fact that Greg had never intended to stay, but what had he expected? 

 

"I loved him. He was my best friend. My world revolved around him for quite a bit of time. But it just doesn't anymore. Moriarty won. He took me away from Sherlock. He broke us. I give up. I've hurt Sherlock. Moriarty wins. Moriarty-" John's voice broke and he tried to regain his composure. 

 

"I'm sorry you ever got attached to me. I'm sorry I made you suffer for so long. I didn't know what I was doing. I was just scared, and confused, and...God, I can hardly remember a time when you weren't there. I'm sorry. None of this is your fault."

 

Greg shook his head and took John's face between his hands again.

 

"John. No. Stop. You have been...you being here is brilliant. You've saved me. If you don't want him involved anymore, then that's it, it's fine. You gave him his dog back and helped him, and that's a perfect goodbye. He saved you, you saved him. I want you here so badly it hurts, so badly I can't tolerate the idea of you gone. I'll change my number, we'll break contact, you and I will live our lives. That's why I was so relieved. I finally secured this option."

 

"I don't want to break contact! That's not what I want at all!" John was having an intensely difficult time explaining himself. "I just...I just want to be happy."

 

Greg just gathered John back to his chest, trying to calm him down. "Okay, okay. Calm down, John. It's your choice, let's not talk about it right now. I'm sorry I am not understanding you very well."

 

John pressed his hands over his eyes and ground his teeth. "I don't know what to do! Just tell me what I need to do."

 

Greg nodded, leading down to gently kiss John. "You need to go get back in bed. We are going to get comfortable, you are going to take your meds, and we are going to relax for right now. That's what you need to do."

 

John always craved affection when he was sad, and leaned into Greg's lips. "I'll do whatever you want me to. Honestly. Just tell me what to do."

 

Greg eased John off of him, still holding his hand. "Come on, come with me. This is what I want you to do. We don't have to talk, and you don't have to try and feel any different. I just want to hold you."

 

He slowly led John back to the bedroom, reading them into bed, where he gave John his normal round of medication, heavy on anti-anxiety and adding a pill for pain that John might not realize he was feeling.  
He lay on his back, propped up with pillows, and patted his chest. 

 

"Let me hold you?"

 

John had appreciation and love clear on his features as he crawled up into bed next to Greg. He settled in with one arm under Greg's neck, the other on his chest holding his shirt, and one leg thrown over his hip. It was exceedingly comfortable, familiar, and safe. 

 

"Greg...." He could not find the words, and instead nuzzled his face on Greg's chest. "Love you."

 

Greg hummed as he began to ghost his fingers over John's back, one hand wrapped around John's neck and resting there with warm weight. Gladstone hopped up and rest his head down along John's side.

 

"I love you, too," Greg assured, wanting John feeling safe and secure, "nowhere else I want to be. No where. Just with you. I love you."

 

John was glad for that. No matter how apathetic he grew, he'd still have this. Besides, it would pass. It would have to. John ran his hand up and down Greg's chest and relished the feeling of someone warm and kind. 

 

"Do you think it's going to be alright for us in the end? Do you think you can keep doing this? I know it takes a lot out of you."

 

Greg was quiet for a long time before he dared try to answer that.

 

"Do you think you'll love me again?"

 

John's chest gave a painful twinge, and he opened his mouth to give dozens of confirmations that he did love Greg. But he'd said them all before. Clearly, that wasn't working. 

 

Instead, John propped himself up on one elbow and stared down lovingly at Greg. His eyes were soft, expression calm, and he trailed his fingers up Greg's cheek then through his hair. He would have told Greg that he loved him a thousand times in a second if he thought it would help, but instead, he bent down and kissed him. 

 

John lingered. When Greg had had enough affection and believed him, he would break away on his own. 

 

It had been John's proclaimed apathy that had told Greg he'd lost John's love. Not caring...that was the very definition of falling out of love. It was the opposite of love. Greg had inadvertently broken John's trust in an effort to save him, and John had shut down on him since.

 

So this sudden affection was both a shock and deeply welcome. It touched Greg so deeply that even as their lips were together, he lost hold of a pained sound, eyes stinging as his throat swelled up on him. He wrapped his arms around John, returning the unexpected kiss.

 

John's damaged heart was wounded further by Greg's sound of pain, and he thought perhaps he had been the cause of it before Greg returned his affections. Encouraged by it, John turned his head to the side and continued with his effort to convince Greg that he was loved. 

 

When John turned away from him, Greg eased his grip, afraid he'd done too much. A hot tear burned its way down the side of his face as he spoke softly.

 

"I want this to work with us. I'm doing every single thing I can to protect us, to make you as comfortable and happy as I can. If you still love me, then we will always be alright." He wasn't sure what other answer to give. He seemed to endlessly mess up, and the consequences for each mistake were staggering, without fail.

 

John caught it as a mistake when Greg began to cry, and his own expression shattered. 

 

"I'm trying," he gasped, "I promise. I do love you. I do." 

 

Unable to articulate properly, he caught up Greg's lips again. _Please believe me._

 

Greg did not understand what John meant. The gentle kiss settled him a bit, allowing him to get control of himself after a few minutes.

 

When John said that he was trying, Greg didn't know if that meant trying to still love him, or something else. It was frightening to think of John having to work on feeling affection towards him.

 

He pulled back slightly, dragging a hand over his face, ashamed that he'd let a few tears get past him. "I...I'm doing everything I can to make it okay, John. Please don't give up on me." If John was willing to give up on Sherlock...what chance did Greg have?

 

John was hurt when Greg pulled away and covered himself. "No, no, _please_ ," he whispered and reached for him. "I love you. I'm trying to be good and show you. I'm so sorry. I love you. Please. How can I show you?"

 

Greg gathered John back to him, panicked at his continuous missteps. He pulled John into a kiss, sinking his fingers into John's hair at the back if his head, slowly daring to move his lips over John's, pulling him closer.

 

John sighed softly and mimicked Greg's movements. He was confused and worried, but this was grounding. Greg, this wonderful man, was kissing him, and therefore he loved him. John's racing heart slowly calmed and the tension bled from his shoulders. 

 

John's reaction made Greg relax pointedly. He carried on with his actions, for the first time kissing John with more than the chaste, immobile brush of lips. His fingers curled slightly in John's hair as he adjusted, bringing their lips more fully together, inhaling softly through his nose.

 

John's heart picked up again, but not in fear that he'd wounded Greg. It was a nervous flutter to which he paid almost no mind. Instead he dared again to move his lips against Greg's, which changed the dynamics of the action altogether. It was new, but the overwhelming familiarity and safety of Greg made it seem commonplace. 

 

Greg was incredibly slow with John, his own heart abruptly kicking up its pace. He hummed so quietly it was hardly audible, but something warm and massive bloomed I'm his chest for John, a flooding, overwhelming sensation of a new sort of feeling as he carefully guided John with him, nearly ending the kiss before shifting his lips slightly and pulling John back in, one hand spread across the center of John's shoulder blades, fully walking them into new territory.

 

John was beginning to grow nervous by the time they broke away, and a myriad of concerns clouded his mind. First, he continuously questioned whether or not this was actually crossing some sort of new line. 

 

Second, if it was, why the hell would Greg want to step in that direction with him? 

 

Third, he couldn't recall having a single gay thought before this, and now, he was leaning in to Greg's lips and trailing his fingers through his hair. Perhaps he was overthinking it. John forced himself to exhale slowly. Of course he was overthinking it. So, instead of worrying about all the issues in his mind, John decided he would appreciate the affection while it lasted. He tilted his head to the side and deepened the kiss just a bit. 

 

Greg's breath hissed quietly through his nose as John reacted to him. A soft sound of contentment bubbled up from his chest as his lips very slightly parted, just a small bit, allowing the kiss to deepen slightly again.

 

He held gently to John's hair, hugging him close, deciding that kissing John like this might be the most wonderful feeling ever. His mind shut off, simply reacting to the man above him.

 

John was conflicted now. Clearly, this was something more than the usual chaste, comfort driven kisses they'd shared in the past. But, oh, Greg seemed so happy. Greg felt warm and content. John hadn't heard him make those small happy sounds in ages.

 

But this was also terrifying. What would Greg expect? What if John couldn't give it? How would he handle that? 

 

But Greg was happy, so John was happy, and he tried to react to the love he was being shown rather than the nerves that bothered him. 

 

John settled his weight down on Greg's chest and put one arm on either side of his head where he could rest on his elbows. Greg _was_ incredibly beautiful to John, and he was warm, and soft, and strong, and kind. Perhaps John was simply over thinking it again.

 

A shock of adrenalin kicked through Greg's chest as John settled in, inexplicably reacting with enthusiasm. He groaned quietly, no longer brave enough to progress things on his own, keeping exactly with John as he properly kissed him.

 

John's weight settled fully on him, coursing a long dormant feeling of want through Greg, making him acutely aware of how starved for this diet of affection he was.

 

John was heavily startled by Greg's groan, but took it as a good sign. It was encouraging. John thought, then, that this wasn't really about himself. 

 

This was about Greg. That frame of mind helped him greatly, as it was already an accepted truth in his mind that he was supposed to always consider what Greg wanted. And even though John did not feel very sexual towards Greg, he did love him, and this was safe and warm. It was the escalation he was worried about. But, this was comfortable. This was nice. John sank his fingers Greg's hair at the nape of his neck and ran his other hand down his chest. He'd thrown his leg over Greg's hip nearly an hour ago in preparation for sleep, and now he was worried about it. Should he move?

 

Greg very sternly did not allow himself to move, except for his fingers in John's hair, mirrored by John's now in his own, blooming goose-flesh across his body. He shivered at the slide of John's hand down his chest, forcing himself to simply focus on the warm feel if the kiss. He was not about to pull away from John, but it was nearly too much, allowing him to consider John in ways the man surely would never want.

 

John was comfortable where he was, were it an isolated moment. He could tell Greg was allowing him to set the pace, which was all well and good, but by definition a _pace_ required constant movement forward. 

 

John was comfortable with the _place_ , not _pace_. He could exist where he was comfortably, but to go further might be frightening. But, still, Greg was happy, so John continued. He parted his lips more, as Greg had done, and trailed his fingers back up his chest to the side of his neck. 

 

Greg slowly followed John's lead, his heart thundering in his chest as John explored him. He did not want to stop John, not for a second, but he was deeply worried that this was going to go wrong.

 

Another soft sigh left him as John parted his lips, and Greg instinctively brushed the very tip of his tongue across John's lower lip, a brief flash of contact before it was gone.

 

John's mind struggled to factor in the new information. Feeling Greg's tongue made it very clear that this was no longer straight, platonic comforting. John couldn't ignore that any more. He had to consider what this meant, and how to proceed. 

 

John knew that if he reacted negatively, Greg would be wounded by it, and if he encouraged it, Greg would likely take that as a sign that John was comfortable. So, instead of either, John let out a soft sigh, somewhere between contented and happy. 

 

John was happy, though, because Greg was happy.

 

Greg lingered there, softly kissing John as they were, forcing himself not to advance them any further. This was delicate, and John always swore to heaven and back that he was not attracted to men.

 

He could not help but repeat the motion, brushing his tongue along John's lip again, very slightly tightening his fingers in John's hair as his breathing picked up.

 

John's heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept the tension from eating at him. But what did he do with his tongue? True, he knew what to do from a literal sense, but he did not want to escalate things further. He did not want to have to say no to Greg, and was grateful for his security that Greg would never push the subject. But this couldn't hurt. Just a little bit more, then perhaps Greg would slow on his own. John tentatively brushed his tongue over Greg's lip, then lightly over his tongue. 

 

Greg nearly fainted as John's tongue brushed asking his own. It was a solid, irrefutable bit of evidence that John wanted this, was in tune with Greg all along. Greatly encouraged, he slid his hand down John's back, resting it above his hip, while adjusting his fingers in John's hair. His breathing kicked up noticeably, and he made yet another pleased sound, hugging John to him.

 

This was about John's limit, and he tried to keep them at it. He was acutely aware of everywhere he was touching Greg, from his fingers in his hair, his hand on his side, and his leg still hooked over his hip where he always had it when he slept. It felt good, and were John not so nervous, he might have been enjoying himself greatly. 

 

John broke the kiss for just a fraction of a second, which he took to look down at Greg and confirm that he was happy. He seemed pleased, and John settled back down into the kiss. He knew Greg's body very well, as he'd clung to him for so long, but he still let his curious hands sweep up and down Greg's sides, up his chest, and over his shoulders. 

 

Greg had to break the kiss, breathing fast, Running his hands down John's back and through his hair.

 

"John...John are you okay?"

 

John dropped his head into the crook of Greg's neck and kissed lightly there before closing his eyes. "Yeah. I just...bit confused."

 

Greg lay there, gently rubbing his back, saying nothing. He was upset with himself for doing that.

 

"John...that...I didn't plan on...I don't expect anything, yeah? I love you."

 

John was very tempted to just say it was okay, then continue his regiment of stalling and avoidance. But that wasn't how he was supposed to do things. 

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Greg's neck so he wouldn't have to see his disappointment. "I don't know what you want, and I'm nervous that I can't give it. Could...could you be clear? I can't...mind games are...I can't do those anymore."

 

Greg kept rubbing his back, trying to calm John down. "I don't expect anything. I'm sorry, that just...got away from me. I don't expect anything from you, John. If you never want to kiss me again...I'll...that's fine. It's fine. I didn't mean for that to happen, I'm sorry."

 

"I just want to be clear on...things." John's heart hammered and his bottom lip trembled involuntarily. 

 

"I don't want to have...I can't have sex. Especially with a man. And...I love you, but...that wasn't bad! I enjoyed being...being close...I am just... I don't want to...to disappoint you or tease you or anything. I'm fine with that...that level. It's just...Greg, I'm...I'm scarred, and disfigured, and I don't want sex. I know that's probably not what you were thinking about...but if there is a more...more physical element to this...I just...everything needs to be spoken out loud."

 

Greg closed his eyes and took one hand off of John, covering his eyes as deep, smothering shame slid over him.

 

"I know, I'm sorry, I know. I...I don't know what's wrong with me.. I'm not expecting more. I'm fine just as we are," his voice cracked under the weight of guilt, "no games, I promise, no games. I won't do that again, I took it too far. I'm sorry."

 

He'd never been so lonely in his life. "I'm sorry."

 

"Oh, god," John whispered, "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm so, so sorry. I do love you. I did enjoy...Uhm....that...but it just can't escalate. I'm sorry. If it escalates we need to talk about it."

 

Greg wrapped John into a hug and kept him close. "No, you always, always talk to me about things like this. Never let me do something that makes you scared." 

 

He had to pause for a minute, choked on self-loathing.

 

"I didn't mean for that to happen, that will never happen again. Not ever. I...I know that's not what you want, I'm sorry I crossed...I thought...it didn't matter, I'm- not again, I am so sorry."

 

"I know, I know, and..." John looked at Greg, who just a moment ago had been sighing happily beneath him, and now looked completely devastated. 

 

"You're trying so hard. I know. I'm so sorry I'm like this. I am not upset. You didn't go further than I was comfortable with. But...You've made it clear that you are...are attracted to me..." 

 

John found that very _very_ difficult to say. It was abhorrently contrary to the ugly thing he viewed himself as, and introduced an entire new element to their peaceful life. 

 

"And...and we should...I know, god, I _know_ you would _never_ do anything I'm not comfortable with." 

 

John took Greg's hands in his and held them against his chest. "I know that. You're a wonderful man. You have nothing to be sorry about. I just...what do you want? What...I mean...if you want a...a relationship...I mean...that's...that's not...we already do most stuff...and...I just can't have sex with a man. Ever. I'm sorry. Please don't let this make you sad. I didn't know. I tried. I did. I tried. I just need you to tell me what you want. Not what you think I want to hear, or what you think is best. Just...I need to be aware of what you want."

 

Greg could not look at John. "I...I just want you to be happy, I want us...I wasn't thinking, I was just...I was just reacting. I..." 

 

His lower lip trembled and he turned his face away, the rejection painful even if it shouldn't be. John had responded, he'd thought...what the hell had he thought?

 

"It won't ever go further, it won't happen again. I don't want anything from you, I'm sorry, I...I just want you to stay, that's it."

 

"Okay. My fault. My fault. I shouldn't have started it. I kissed you first. It's my fault." John was very quick to accept blame, as he was with all things. 

 

"I"m sorry. Listen, love, you want me to be happy. I am happy with you. I love you. Please, just..." John leaned over so he was in Greg's field of view even though he tried to look away. 

 

"Don't shut me out over this. We just need to talk about it without you blaming yourself. You say you were reacting, right? Just reacting to me? If I were to stop kissing you, would that make you feel better, or worse?" 

 

John was fairly certain he would miss it, and he rested one hand on Greg's shoulder. "I'm going to guess worse."

 

Greg refused to allow John to take blame for that. "You've kissed me many times and I never- no, no this isn't your fault. I don't know what's wrong with me. I...I don't know...I...you can kiss me, I won't do that again. I know that you don't want a relationship."

 

He looked back to John, feeling incredibly guilty.

 

"I mean...we sort of...sort of already have one." John swallowed hard. 

 

He did not want a sexual relationship with Greg, but he wanted physical comfort, and he wanted the affection. Perhaps that was a compromise. 

 

"I mean...we can...you sounded so happy. You sounded so content and pleased. I haven't seen you that happy...Nothing I've done in ages has made you that happy. If you can promise me it won't escalate, I don't mind that. None of that was bad. I was just nervous since we didn't talk about it first."

 

Greg shook his head and held John tighter. "You don't have to do things like that too make me happy, you make me happy all the time. I...I don't want to risk...you make me happy without-"

 

It had been so...so comforting to feel a physical connection with someone...not just someone, but John himself. What had he been thinking? 

 

"You....I don't want you to think you need to...no I- I don't think we should do that again.

 

"But that's not what you want, is it? Listen...Greg...I'm scared right now, but not about what happened. I'm scared I've hurt you. Now, I need you to listen to me. It made you happy. That made you very happy. If you need to be physical with someone, I might not be your best bet, but...I mean..." 

 

John wanted to state that he was not gay, based now only on the principle that he did not want to have sex with a man, but he wanted just about everything else that constituted a relationship. 

 

"If what just happened is...you know… _enough_...then I don't really have a problem with it. I'm just worried I'll disappoint you. I can't give you everything you might want."

 

Greg wanted to melt away and hide from this. The price was far worse than the temporary joy.

 

"You- this isn't your job to- I thought it was making you just as happy. I can't- no, what you want matters, and you don't want this. No. Absolutely not. I'm sorry. Please can we just rest?"

 

"Hey, hey, it's alright." John embraced Greg for a moment before holding him just in front of himself. 

 

"Listen. I love you. I'm not sexually...god...you know. Not...no. I'm sorry. But I do enjoy feeling close to you. I don't mind if things get the way they did. I just need to know ahead of time." 

 

John pressed a chaste kiss to Greg's forehead. "I do enjoy being close to you. I do. I swear. It just caught me off guard. That's all. You know. I'm fragile and don't adapt well anymore. Now that we've spoken, it's not as big of a deal."

 

Greg just pulled John back down to rest on his chest as he'd originally intended. That was never, ever going to happen again.

 

He ran his fingers through John's hair, nearly in tears, so viciously angry with himself that he wanted to cause himself physical pain.

 

"Let's just rest," he said quietly, each breath feeling like broken glass in his lungs.

 

John did not want to rest. He'd not gotten any conclusive answers! 

 

"Please," he whispered, "don't end the conversation. I love you. I thought..." 

 

That was the first time in ages he'd heard Greg that happy and content, and John had just ripped that away from him. 

 

"I...I want to try again. I was just nervous. Maybe...I don't know. If I know it won't escalate...and I know it's going to happen and we've spoken about it...I...we can just try again, right?"

 

Greg pressed a hand over his eyes, doing his absolute best to keep himself from crying.

 

"I only- I thought it was- I don't want to try again, John. You don't have to be like that with me to make me happy." 

 

He'd just not realized how lonely he was until the possibility came into play that John had a shadow of....of feeling for him like that. It meant nothing, was not at all comforting, if John was just...humoring him.

 

"I'm fine, you with me is- that makes me happy, alright? You make me happy. Just a- just me being-" another misstep, as always.

 

John's chest felt like it was caving in and he abruptly drew away. He tucked his knees up and dropped his head down onto them. 

 

"I shouldn't have _fucking talked!_ " He'd done one damn thing right in months, and now he'd ruined it. 

 

"That wasn't bad! It- I never said-" John ground his teeth and pressed his head against his knees. "Damnit! I only said something because I wanted clarity! Because I'm neurotic and damaged and I need everything spelled out like a fucking child. I will do that again! I just needed to know it wouldn't turn into something I couldn't handle!"

 

Greg felt John pull away as though someone had torn his skin from his body. He closed his eyes as crushing sadness settled over him, sitting quietly with John's anger and disappointment.

 

"I can't spell it out because I don't understand, either," he finally said, very, very quietly. "If you want that from me, you can have it. If not, then that's fine as well."

 

He dragged his hand across his eyes and tried to steady his lip, hating himself for being so weak. "I'm...I'm sorry. Again. Always. I'm sorry."

 

John ground his teeth into his cheek and thought it through. He did not feel sexually attracted to Greg, but that was not his only motive for kissing him. The comfort was nice, and the passion, and the love, and the happiness it brought Greg. He felt loved and cherished. 

 

As long as things were out in the open, there was no pressure for him to be a sexual partner, and John did not feel he was disappointing Greg, it might be alright. 

 

John looked over and slowly made his decision. Yes, Greg was beautiful. Greg was wonderful. Greg was his entire life. He was asking for so small of a thing. And, perhaps, John would learn to enjoy it for other reasons.  
Cautiously, John came closer. 

 

Yes, Greg was the most amazing thing in the world. Greg would keep him safe. Greg wouldn't hurt him.  
John reached out and took Greg's face in his hands. "I'd like to try again. Just...now that things are clear."

 

Nothing but cold dread dripped down into Greg's gut. He was grateful John had not caught on to his arousal. But now he knew he'd grossly misread John, and this would never again be anything more than a desperate attempt at making Greg happy with him; a stressful, joyless act for John.

 

He did not resist him, but he'd not less them into it. "Okay," he breathed, though kissing John like that again was the last thing he wanted to do.  
John knew he'd ruined things, but still wanted to try to fix it. "I love you. I really do. Please, I'm sorry I ruined things. Let me try again, okay? I know it won't escalate." 

 

He settled next to Greg with one arm looped around his waist and slowly leaned in. He stayed for several moments with his forehead touching Greg's before he finally brushed their lips together again. 

 

Greg's heart felt as though it were trying to shift cement through his veins. He allowed John to kiss him, mirroring what John was doing, but he knew now that this was just stress for John. He didn't feel loved or wanted in the act any longer, now it was just one more thing he should try very hard not to mess up further.

 

John tried very hard to be gentle and loving. He deepened the kiss when he felt it was appropriate, and found that it was far less nerve wracking than the first time around. But, Greg didn't seem happy. 

 

_Maybe you're just a shitty kisser._

John actually laughed at that, and had to sit up a bit. He felt like a bloody teenager! He knew how to kiss. He'd been good at it. Why the sudden nervousness?

 

Greg drew back along with John, not understanding the laugh. He was too afraid to do anything else. "John?"

 

John shook his head. "I'm fine. It's just...I feel like a bloody teenager!" 

 

He looked over at Greg as if sizing him up. 

 

"I mean, in the army, I had the nickname 'Three Continents' Watson for reasons I'll let you puzzle out on your own. I haven't second-guessed my kissing since I was a teenager."

 

Greg stared at John for a moment before speaking, "You're...nervous over kissing...me?" What the he'll did that mean? He shook his head, sitting himself up alongside John, not saying to speak again.

 

"Well, yeah. It makes sense, doesn't it? You're my entire life, I depend on you for everything, I owe you my life, everything I own, and even my _sanity_. And I love you, and I want to make you happy, and I think this might be a nice thing for us, but I'm nervous about so many things. That being one of them. True, it is the literal least of my worries, but...ah, hell." 

 

John slid his fingers into Greg's hair and pulled him into a kiss. 

 

Greg closed his eyes and leaned in, heart rolling over as he wrapped an arm around John, kissing him in return.

 

Okay. Okay. He could do this. This was a fine thing. He now knew the limits, and while he was still devastatingly worried that he would do something wrong and lose Greg's love, he had come to peace with his own safety. 

 

John stayed sitting next to Greg, but wrapped one arm low around his waist and rested his hand on the small of his back. "You're beautiful," he whispered when he turned his head to the side and their lips parted for an instant.

 

Greg leaned back when John broke away. It had been...nothing compared to the start, far from comforting or fulfilling, but at least John wasn't in the foetal position sobbing.  
"You are, too," he said quietly, hoping that it was over and they could eat and forget about it.

 

John smiled at Greg and saw that it wasn't quite working yet. Greg needed to feel loved and wanted. John gently pushed him back down onto his back, then curled up next to him as he always did. Internally, he was analyzing. How did he make Greg feel wanted while still keeping to his own personal boundaries? 

 

John ran his hands down Greg's chest, over his stomach and down his sides, then back up, over his shoulders and down his arms. "Beautiful," he insisted again and dipped down to press another slow kiss to his lips. 

 

This was supremely confusing to Greg. He wanted so desperately for this to be real, feeling closer to John than he'd ever felt before, only to know that John would never, ever want him like this.

 

He let John kiss him anyhow, completely lost on how to behave. His hands wavered until he just rest them at John's sides without touching him, wishing they were just watching telly as goose-flesh bloomed where John touched him.

 

Even though it worried him, John was quietly glad that Greg didn't touch him. His skin was so horrible, and he hated the idea that Greg might find him disgusting. John closed his eyes and dipped his head down to the crook of Greg's neck, where he hesitated for a moment before pressing a few feather light kisses. 

 

If John's plan was to show Greg all the beautiful things in a relationship he'd forgotten he so desperately wanted and would never have again, he was succeeding. He closed his eyes and rubbed John's back, swallowing hard as his eyes burned.

 

"Are...are you tired," he asked quietly, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

 

John shook his head and felt physically pained by the question. "No...but if you want me to stop, I will." But, in lack of fairness, he didn't give Greg much chance, as he caught his lips up again in a deep kiss. 

 

Greg heard the man before he could stop himself, reacting to being kissed like that. He wrapped his arms around John, pulling in a deep breath through his nose before remembering himself, pulling his hands away from John and trying to keep them to himself, though he seemed to be falling at that.

 

John compartmentalized that action as correct and began to move his lips more skillfully over Greg's as he remembered himself. _Make Greg feel loved_. That was the goal. 

 

But...this was nice. It wasn't nearly as terrifying as it had been when he had no idea what to expect, or when he was failing. John let out a soft breath and leaned more fully on to Greg. 

 

Greg's chest twinged as John began to fully, properly kiss him. He could not help but to wrap John into his arms, doing his best to hide his sharp want. It was wrong to think of John like this, wrong to desire him, but oh god that didn't matter, not when John was kissing him like that. His heart raced in a combination of want and fear, dreading where this would go.

 

John didn't think about it _going_ anywhere. He was content where he was, and Greg was responding nicely. He tried to think of it as making Greg 'happy' instead of 'horny'. It was much easier to deal with that way. 

 

John kept as he was, kissing Greg with love and passion.

 

Greg was doing everything in his power to consider this as just a kiss, nothing more. But John was damned good at it, and Greg was a healthy man who'd not paid his body any attention in literal years. He sank his fingers in John's hair as clipped sound of stifled pleasure slipped from him.

 

Ultimately, those sounds made him break away. "I'm sorry," he panted, "I'm sorry...I...I'm-" he kicked his lip, pupils blown wide and heart racing as he looked at John imploringly for forgiveness.

 

Well...that was...something. 

 

John's cheeks flushed red and he backed off enough to sit up and fold his hands tightly in his lap. 

 

"I- sorry, sorry , I didn't, I mean, I did, but...Ah, I'm sorry." 

 

But, amidst the hot red cheeks and embarrassed posture, John was still slightly contented that he'd managed to make Greg happy at all. 

 

Greg tore his hands through his hair, eyes burning, taking John's posture to mean that he'd frightened him. 

 

"Please," he whispered, so soft John may not have heard it at all, swallowing hard as he abruptly scrambled out if the bed and rushed to the lav.

 

It was, by far, the strangest three minutes of personal time he'd ever had, finding release with his face soaked with tears, sagging against the wall as his toes uncurled. He'd never been more disgusted with himself.

 

He walked back to John's room, washed and changed, in six minutes. He wanted to take so much more time than that, but did not dare leave John to himself so long. He came back with his arms crossed and his head hanging with shame, tears actively falling.

 

"Please...forgive me, John."

 

John was curled up in a small ball, trying to process. He'd text Paul. He'd gotten Greg's phone and sent a simple, _I might need some help. JW._

 

When he heard Greg coming back, he did not look up. He was absolutely disgusted with himself, both because he could not give Greg what he needed and because he'd teased him with the idea. 

 

"You would never be happy with what I could give you," John whispered. "You need more. You shouldn't love me. You should go find a girl or...or a young man and just..." 

 

Greg moved to go to John, reaching for him before he considered that John might not want to touch him. He stood there, breath hitching. "I don't want anyone else," he whispered, voice heavy with tears. "Please forgive me, I don't need anything else, please." He was openly begging, desperate to undo this.

 

"But...but I can't...I can't give you what you want!!" 

 

John kept his back turned to Greg. He did not want to see his disappointment.  
"And you can't say you don't want...that...because...you just ran off and-" John covered his face and a sob tore from him.  
"I shouldn't have started this! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You seemed happy. I felt loved. I'm a _fucking idiot!_ "

 

Greg sank down as his knees threatened to give out on him, sitting beside John without touching him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands and falling apart.

 

He cried until his head pounded, until his face was a complete mess, guilt flooding out of him until he was left with nothing else.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice torn to shreds, "I honestly don't want that from you, I've just....no one...it's been a long t-time and-" a little sound of futile anguish cut him off. What was the point? There were no words that would fix what he'd done. 

 

"Please don't....don't hold this against me....John ...please..."

 

John turned and looked at Greg with a look of pure devastation and grief etched onto his face. 

 

"I can't. The mind games. I can't. I can't. I...I mean...You say you don't want these things, and that we should just forget it, but...I try to make you happy and you run off into the bathroom to-" 

 

John clamped his jaw shut and pulled the covers up over his body, even though he wasn't cold. "Y-You need a...a sexual outlet...and it can't be me. I'm willing to do what we've already done, but...that isn't enough for you."

 

Greg nearly vomited right there. He was up off the bed and into the lav, barely managing his knees before he was white-knuckling the bowl heaving into the basin until he was seeing stars.

 

He took a minute to wash his face before going back to their room, falling into a chair in the corner and dropping an elbow to the armrest, covering his face. John was going to punish him for this, and there was nothing he could do about it. He sat in the corner, crushed and in tears, saying nothing at all.

 

John was struck with the intense desire to physically _maim_ himself. He tightened his hold on the pillow he was wrapped around, and rocked himself in an effort to self soothe and come up with a better plan. 

 

Punishing himself wouldn't help Greg, but oh, god, he deserved it. Slowly, he moved his hands together, then crept his right arm to the thin bandage covering the places he'd tried to take his scars off with a razor. He didn't want to just dig his fingernails into the places that were already damaged, and instead pressed into the edge of one and tore at the skin that he'd not gotten to. He did so slowly, with his face pressed into the pillow, and tried to think. 

 

Greg needed to be intimate with someone. He wanted to be intimate with John, but did not want to do anything John did not want to do. John did not want to have sex, but was willing to be more intimate than they had in the past. But, if John was a little intimate, then it would start a cycle that would be difficult for a healthy man such as Greg to ignore. 

 

John felt blood making his arm slick, but it was small, and he deserved so much more. 

 

"I just wanted to show you that I loved you."

 

Greg spoke from behind his hand. "I know. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't. We even talked about it. My stupid body-" he talked off his tone flat and defeated, unaware John was hurting himself. "I- you were doing something nice for me and I ruined it." His voice cracked then, crushed with his own failings.

 

"This isn't your fault. I- I didn't think this would h-happen, I am so sorry, John. I'm so sorry. Do you want me to go?"

 

John shook his head. He was suddenly very worried that he might get blood on the sheets, and pulled his bandage all the way off to put it under his arm as he tore at his skin. 

 

"I don't know what to do. I'm willing to give you what I've already stated, but...I don't know what you need. I don't know what you want. I'm confused. I am worried now I'll just be leading you on if I'm affectionate at all."

 

Greg turned his face away, curling his knuckles against his lips, tears falling heavy down his cheeks.

 

"That's not fair," he managed, voice ragged, "I didn't expect anything from you, I knew you were not wanting that. I pulled away when it got too m-much for me. That's not fair to say, but I'll go, you clearly want me to go."

 

His body was heavier than he'd felt it be in a long, long time, heart crushed and deeply betrayed.

 

"Nothing is fair!" John dug into his skin and flinched. 

 

"Nothing! What do I do? It's happened. That just happened and no amount of us not wanting it to have will change that. What do you want to happen? Do you want me to back off entirely? Do you want me to go back to the way I was? Do you want me to continue with what we just recently began? I need to know what is best for you. I don't care. As long as you are aware that I can't give you everything you need, then I'm fine with whatever we do."

 

"Why! Why did this have to be some massive thing?! I didn't ask anything of you, I didn't ask my fucking body to react, I left and took care of it! I didn't cross a line or push you, I didn't- why are- I didn't ask for this!" 

 

He shouted, so defeated he couldn't stand it, preferring anger to hopelessness.

 

"You talk about head games?! I tried to stop this! Now you're accusing me of toying with you?!"

 

"No, no, I need things to be black and white! I need you to...Jesus...I thought it was making you happy. I didn't know it was just your body reacting. I'm sorry to have affected you that way. I'll stop. I will stop. We'll go back to the way things were, if that is what you want. I'll be more careful not to...not to make you _react_ like that." 

 

John accidentally tore at a place he'd already cut on his arm and flinched again. 

 

"Greg, I love you. I don't want things to be strained. I thought I was doing a good thing and now I know that I was wrong and only made things harder for you. It was stupid to think that we could just stay in my boundaries. It's much easier if we just stop altogether." 

 

He was horribly disappointed with himself for ruining something good he'd tried to do. 

 

Greg was going to _scream_. These games with John were exhausting, he was so _tired_ of them. "I- goddamn it," he breathed, tearing at his hair as he looked at the floor, trying to breathe, needing to calm the fuck down before he made another mistake. 

 

"I _was_ happy! I was happy! That just...happened too. I'm _sorry_!" He'd never felt so filthy in his life. Shame colored his cheeks and the back of his neck, burning red across his pale skin, making his hands shake. 

 

"I'd only ever kissed you to help you feel loved," he said very quietly, anger giving way to grief and rejection, "I won't ever do it again. I've never thought of you that way, I've never been tempted. Just in case you were wondering. But if you don't want me to be near you, I sodding won't be." 

 

How many times could his heart break? How many times was he going to ruin this? 

 

John sat up abruptly and stared at Greg. For a moment, he dared to allow himself to consider what it would be like to be in an actual relationship with Greg. What would be different? They would be open about their feelings. They would profess love. They would hold hands, and cuddle, and do things together. They would kiss and be kind and hug. 

 

But did they not already do all those things? 

 

John cringed and curled back down. He would not have sex, though, and that was a major part missing. 

 

"Is there any way it can still make you happy? What would make you happy, love? Tell me what it is, and I will not hesitate. I enjoyed that. I enjoyed kissing you once we talked about it. It...I'm really trying hard not to hurt you. I'm really trying so hard to make you happy, and I just don't know how. I want you near me. You're the only good thing in my life. Tell me how to make you happy. You know my range of comfort now. Pick where you want to stay in it, and I'll be perfectly happy. Truly, I will."

 

 _Lies_. 

 

Greg turned his red-rimmed eyes to John, his face pale and blotchy from emotion. He was about to answer him, when he realized John's fingertips were bloody. His focus swiftly went to John's arm, hissing as he nearly fell from the chair, hitting his knees beside him as he pulled John's sleeve up to look at the damage. " _John_ ," he breathed in pained frustration, pressing the bandage to the new wound and holding it there. 

 

His throat swelled up on him as he tried to speak around it, "Did you do this because I-" he couldn't even say it. He'd been relieving himself while John had been taking off his own skin. Greg was sure in that moment that he was surely one of the worst humans in existence. 

 

John's bottom lip trembled and he hung his head. He knew he'd done something wrong by hurting himself, but it was grounding, and he couldn't help it. "Sorry," he whined, and scooted closer to Greg. He leaned forward and put his head on his chest, but was careful to keep his hands to himself. 

 

"I got scared and sad and I thought...I just messed up so badly and...I hurt you...and I made things bad, and..." 

 

_Still doing your best to ruin people, I see? Good boy, Pavlov. You're horrible._

 

John hadn't heard Moriarty's voice so clearly in ages, and it startled him enough to make him jump nearly out of his own skin. 

 

Everything was immediately forgotten as Greg grounded himself, remembering that for however much he was suffering, John had it worse by unimaginable magnitudes. He wrapped his arms around John, turning his hips so that there could be no way the position was mistaken for anything other than protection and comfort. 

 

"It's okay, love. It's okay. I'm not angry. I understand. I've hurt myself when everything was too much, I understand. You didn't make things bad. We are learning to do this one step at a time, little by little. Breathe, we just had a bump in the road, it's not the end. We have gotten past far worse. It's okay. You're alright."

 

John held a bit of Greg's shirt to his face and cried. "B-But it hurts y-you when I hurt myself! And I-I led you on, and I hurt you, and-" John sobbed in wretched despair. "I don't know what t-to do!"

 

Greg shook his head, speaking clear and even. "You did not lead me on, not at all. You told me exactly what you did and did not want. I was not confused, John. I wasn't confused. I didn't think you were going to do more. I wasn't wanting more, John. It was just biology.It was just a physical reaction. You did nothing wrong."

 

"Okay. Just biology." John could understand that, but still he felt wretched. "Did...did I do anything wrong? Should I not do that again?"

 

Greg rocked John slowly, trying to keep him calm. "You did nothing wrong. Please don't hurt yourself anymore, I know you are trying but please, don't do this." 

 

John rolled his wrist back, which stretched the damaged skin and have him a nice burn. "I can't control it," he muttered. "And...I n-need an answer. What should I do?"

 

Greg closed his eyes for a moment and then spoke softly. "I want you to do whatever makes you feel happy and comforted. You are in no danger of leading me on." 

 

"Making you happy feels good. I feel loved. I feel happy when you are. It gives me worth to give you something you want. And I like the closeness. I just can't handle it as an overly...overly sexual thing. So...you decide. Please don't make me decide." 

 

John continued to move his wrist in circles and used to burning to placate the horrible guilt that burned at him.

 

Greg leaned back and took John's face in his hands. He leaned forward and brushed their lips together, careful and tender with him. He leaned back and brushed his thumb over John's lip. "Okay, okay...I've got you John. We are going to keep on like this. It's not sexual. It's not. I never thought it was going to be." 

 

He took John's hands in his own and tipped their foreheads together. "Let me take care of your arm?"

 

John breathed a long, slow exhale and his tense body relaxed. "Okay. Okay, Greg. I just...All I wanted was to do something so you felt loved. You didn't feel loved. I know how bad that is. It's horrible to think nobody likes you, and you're forgotten or hated or abandoned. None of those are good. And I just wanted you to know I love you, but I...I let it get out of hand, then got scared. I'm sorry. I really, really love you. You're my love. But...if that is the sort of relationship you want with me...just...just talk to me about it, okay?" 

 

Greg dropped his eyes down and to the side, defeated. He'd gone round and round with John on this, and still it did not matter, John was not hearing him. John's words made it sound as though Greg had taken advantage of him. He inhaled slowly and spoke to the floor. 

 

"If- if you feel like it got out of hand and- and that I was-" he closed his eyes. If John had become scared, it was because he thought Greg was going to _do_ something to him. 

 

"You don't need to kiss me to make me feel loved. I-" he cleared his throat, honestly trying not to cry, "if it's just for me, then no more of it, okay? If you don't get anything out of it, then we don't kiss again. You don't need to do that to make me feel loved. I don't ever, _ever_ want to be a source of...that sort of fear for you, ever again." 

 

"I'm not afraid of you," John said hastily and took Greg's face in his hands. "I never thought- God no! I never thought you'd go further than I was comfortable. I know you. You'd never do that. You're a far better man than that. I was afraid I would disappoint you. I enjoyed that. That's fine. But I was worried it would naturally progress further and I wouldn't be comfortable, and you'd be sad."

 

Greg searched John's face for duplicity, wanting John's words to be true more desperately than anything else. "John...you- even if you were as gay as Elton, I'd never expect- I'd never expect-" he shook his head, deeply upset with himself. What the fuck was wrong with him that a _kiss_ had gotten him so physically worked up? Tears brimmed, blurring his image of John, and he spoke with honest desperation to him. 

 

"I'm so sorry, I don't know why that happened," a sob hitched his breathing as a tear streaked down his face, "I am so disgusted with myself. I don't know why that happened, it was only a kiss, I shouldn't have- I don't know why I-" he closed his eyes, forcing several more tears to drip down his cheeks. He'd been so deeply lonely, but he'd never realized it was this bad. 

 

John looked up to Greg and brushed the tears off his face. "Love..." He stopped himself. He did not deserve to call Greg his love. Not when he couldn't give him what any basic lover could. "I am so sorry you feel this bad. You didn't hurt me. You never did. You were so careful. I just...I didn't expect you to have such...such a strong reaction. It's my fault. I should have figured. Please, don't blame yourself." John gave Greg a proper hug, and rested his chin on his shoulder. "I love you."

 

Greg returned the hug, though he knew something was forever different between them now. He felt wrong hugging John, as though he were violating him without intending to. He'd looked at John sexually, unintentional or not, and John had given him the most incredible kiss of his life. John had touched him and carded his fingers through his hair, John had sighed into his mouth and clung to him even when Greg was reluctant. 

 

And then John had destroyed him with it, taken him apart for his body's reaction to long-needed attention. "Why should you have figured," he whispered, still holding on to John, hating that John's arm was bloodied, "why should you have figured I'd have reacted like that? I- it was just a _kiss_. You had no reason to figure I'd-" god he was _disgusting_. 

 

He tucked his face down to John's shoulder, dragging in a shaking breath, "I'm so sorry." 

 

"B-Because I've seen you for almost every second of every day for...what, two years? About? Jesus, I would have died by now. If I was..." John was about to say _if I was still a man, and not so broken_ , but assumed that would start an argument.  
"All I mean, is it's...understandable. You've got a lot of pent up...energy. I just accidentally triggered it. My fault. Not yours."

 

Greg decided to just let it go. They could go back and forth on blame distribution for days, it still wouldn't change anything. Greg was going to blame himself, and John would blame himself, and either way their relationship was changed. 

 

"I've not been feeling… _energetic_ , so it's not...been a problem." Greg's voice was still very rough, feeling terrible about the entire event. 

 

Was John still going to let him hold him? Would he need a new bed now? He had no idea how deep the consequences of this would go. 

 

Kissing John, before he'd made it something _more_ , had calmed him so much, and now Greg had taken that away from him. 

 

"I'm still so sorry," he whispered, holding John tight for another moment before easing away. "If you need space from me, I fully understand," he added on a pained whisper. 

 

John did not want to put his head in Greg's lap, as he often did when tired and confused, nor did he want to crawl in his lap. He did not want to curl up around him as he had a few minutes ago either, so he only wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and breathed slowly. 

 

"So, things go back to normal, yeah? And...and if you want to do that part again, I'm okay with it. Can that...can this be resolved now?"

 

John was already more distant. "Yeah," Greg answered with an unsteady lip, heart heavy and terribly sad, "it can."

 

He eased John down to his side on the bed and then got up, taking the next few minutes to get John's arm and fingers clean and cared for. He then dragged the chair over from the corner and sat down beside John, keeping off the bed.

 

"I wanted to give you a nice week," he whispered through his swollen throat, reaching for John and then changing his mind, drawing away. He had no right to touch him anymore.

 

John slowly began to sink into bitter self loathing. 

 

_Stupid fucking John. Can't even be a proper lover. Who gives a shit if you're gay or not? You love him! You enjoy being close and intimate. Now, you wind him all up just to make him feel bad when he has to take care of himself because you're too useless to._

 

John was physically shaking with the weight of his mistake, and after several moments of stillness, he abruptly dug his hands in his hair. _You aren't even attractive! That's how desperate you've made him! You keep him busy with your selfish needs all fucking day and he never gets any time to take care of himself._

 

John wanted to argue to himself that that wasn't true, that he devoted entire days just to emotionally building Greg up. But the voice hammered at him still.

 

_Now look at him. He knows you're uncomfortable. You've made him hate himself over something he can't control. Good fucking job, John._

 

John flinched hard and abruptly reached out for Greg. "Bad things," he whimpered in a childish voice and pressed his hands to either side of his head. "Bad things, Greg." 

 

Greg reached out then and took John's hands, running his thumbs in small circles on the backs of them. 

 

"You're safe," he promised, watching what his idiotic behavior had done to John with supreme guilt, "I promise you're safe. I'm not going anywhere unless you want me to. Can you tell me what the bad things are," he asked, prepared to hear what sort of terror he'd put in John's mind.

 

"Mad at myself," John said in his choppy, childish mode of speaking that he slipped into when scared, sad or guilty. 

 

"I hurt you. I tried...I love you and I didn't want to hurt you. I thought...Greg, I love you. Please, I want to go back to the way it was. I promise I'll not do it again unless you start it. You're such a good man." 

 

John was absolutely confident about the last part. A lesser man might think that after two years of constant companionship, sacrifice, and love, that he was entitled to sex, that he'd earned it and deserved it. John was aware of that mode of thinking, and was grateful it was not Greg's. 

 

"C-Can you t-tell me what the e-end is? What w-we're doing? J-Just l-like b-before, but with more kissing, or...or like before...or...I don't want you to be far away from me."

 

Greg moved closer to John. Wanting to comfort him. "It can go back to just like before, if you want. I don't need anything else. I don't think we should have more kissing...I...I'll...I'm only sitting here to keep you feeling safe. If you want me to hold you, I will. You don't need to be mad at yourself."

 

"I wasn't afraid of you!" John didn't know how many times he would have to say it. 

 

"I was not afraid of you. I was not afraid of you. I was afraid of disappointing you. I love you. You're a good man. You wouldn't hurt me. I'm not afraid of you hurting me. I'm worried I'll hurt you. You know my comfort range. You decide based on what you want, not what you _assume_ I want."

 

Greg flinched, still holding John's hands. 

 

"Please don't," he whispered, "please don't be upset with me for trying to guess your needs. I've spent...a very long time having to do just that. I'll try and stop, I've been trying to stop, it's just a protective habit. Please don't be angry with me over it." 

 

He took a deep breath and pressed on, "And when I say 'feeling safe,' that means that I'm trying to keep you comfortable, not in a position where you are having to second guess yourself. I was worried that if I was in the bed with you, that you'd worry over how to lay with me, and I wanted you to be able to relax. Please, you've every right to be, but I'm going to ask you not to be angry with me right now."

 

"Well...Yeah. I am worried about that. But I'll just..." John waved his hands in the air. It didn't much matter, did it? "Look, we've gotten over bigger things. But right now I feel like I had a chance to do something that would make you very happy, and I ruined it."

 

Greg felt his chest twinge at the confirmation that John no longer felt comfortable with him. He tightened his grip on John's hands for a moment before shaking his head.

 

"I don't need that to be happy," he said very quietly, though it had been bliss for a few precious minutes. He made no move to get on the bed with John, now uninterested in trying to hold him. "You don't need to beat yourself up."

 

"You don't need it, but if it would improve your quality of life, why not?" 

 

John sat up and looked at Greg at eye level, even though he still felt very childish. "If a bit of kissing makes you feel more loved, and better about yourself, why avoid it?"

 

Greg firmly made himself hold the eye-contact John was giving him, though his voice was small and sad despite himself. "Because it's not the same for you, and it- it was only like that for me, when I thought it was like that for you."

 

John's lower lip trembled and he looked away. Right. It seemed he'd disappointing both Sherlock and Greg by not being _in love_ with them. John carefully measured his breathing. "I...Because I'm not...not interested in it...sexually? Can't...Can't I have other reasons that are still valid?"

 

Greg nodded, "Of course you can. Sex is not on the-" he stopped himself before he said 'table,' remembering the videos of what was done to Sherlock, "that's not being discussed, John. But it causes you distress, and that's not anything that I want, I can't enjoy it at all if you are distressed." 

 

"I was distressed because I didn't know what to expect. The next time was better because I knew what was happening and I wasn't worried and you were happy. I only got worried when you ran...I thought..." 

 

First, he'd thought he'd done something wrong, then after realizing he'd been absolutely humiliated and hid in the sheets. "But it does make you feel more loved."

 

 _Did. Past tense._

 

Greg held quiet, feeling very boxed in. He couldn't even comfortably touch John at the moment, and they were discussing intimate _kissing_. "I want to be open with you right now, but I'm worried it will just hurt you and do more damage," he said quietly, hit by a long dormant longing. 

 

He missed _John_. Terribly. He'd not pined for him in...months, but here, in this, with his own heart so badly broken, he ached for his old friend to help him. 

 

John nodded to that. "I'm not at my best right now," John admitted. "It might be best for it to wait maybe...an hour or two. Just give me time to emotionally recharge. I'll have an anti-anxiety, rest up, then you can be open with me. It'll be more constructive that way." 

 

He was a tiny bit proud of himself for knowing that fact, but it was overwhelmed by the guilt he had instead. 

 

Greg got up and gave John his medicine, sitting back down in the chair at his side. He was proud of John for knowing when to stop, but it still left his chest aching that John needed to rest up and prepare just to speak with him. 

 

He leaned back in his chair, watching John as his broken heart beat behind his ribs.  
John grabbed a pillow and wrapped himself around it. He pulled the covers up high and sank into his own mind, where he would be able to work for some sense of clarity. 

 

_He loved Greg._

_Greg loved him._

_Those he marked as solid truths and worked upward._

_Greg would never hurt him._

_Greg would never try to do anything John was not comfortable with._

_Greg was attracted to him, even if it was in a small degree._

_Greg had a physical reaction to John's intimacy, which he did not direct towards John._

_John was worried about losing Greg and perhaps willing to push his own boundaries to keep him happy._

_But Greg knew his boundaries, and wouldn't let that happen._

_John did enjoy kissing Greg._

_He enjoyed some small amounts of intimacy._

_Greg enjoyed them in a different way._

_But in the end, it had made them both sad._

 

It took John nearly two hours, but he was finally at some functioning level when he sat up and pulled up the small, never used desk chair in front of Greg. "Alright. Tell me what you need to."

 

Greg shook himself out of the daze he'd slipped into, not particularly thinking of anything at all. He blinked several times, surprised to find John in front of him. He dropped his hand away from his cheek and cleared his throat, looking at John for several minutes before finding the words to say.

 

"I love you," he started out with, his voice heavy and sad. He tried to make eye-contact, but he couldn't manage it. 

 

"I am feeling boxed in right now, John. I'm unwilling to risk losing you over this, but you seem very....committed to the idea of us carrying on. If I refuse, you will be upset. If I agree, I'm incredibly afraid this will happen again. I feel trapped."

 

"What I am clinging to is the fact that it's the first time I've made you that happy in months. Happy about yourself. You've been excited about breakthroughs with me, but those aren't you. It's been ages since I've seen you that happy. And I hate to think that something that makes you happy is being taken by you because I don't like it for the same reasons you do." 

 

John reached out and took Greg's hand. "You will not lose me. I'm here with you either way."

 

Greg closed his eyes as John took his hand. "It's not about...it wasn't about the actual kiss," he tried to explain. This was a conversation he did not want to have.

 

"Uhm...okay?" John clearly did not understand, and he raised one eyebrow. "Please explain?"

 

Greg ran a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. "It...I was...it was about connecting with you. That's all."

 

"Do you not feel close to me?" John hadn't ever felt closer to anyone, save perhaps Mary. But his closeness to Greg was different. He'd loved Mary romantically, and sexually, and as a friend, and while some of those traits were lacking in his current state, he would stop breathing without Greg. 

 

Greg thought about that for a moment. He felt protective of John. He knew John's needs and wants. He would pull the moon out of the sky for John. But he'd lost John as a partner, as a friend.

 

"I- yes. I do. It was just...different."

 

"It's because I'm different now, isn't it?" John dipped his head. "Because I'm...below you. Not on your level. Not... Not your friend. I'm a dependent." 

 

"You are not below me. You are not. Don't ever- you are my friend, you are still my friend. We've just- it's been different, and that's okay. I just- please don't be upset with me. John please. I love you no matter. We- I just thought- I just...I misunderstood."

 

"No, I understand. I feel below you. Sometimes, I feel like I've gotten up to your level. Just three weeks ago we had a long stretch of it. I felt...back. Like I was me again. But I get sad, or scared, or stressed and my mind just...stops. I'm sorry about that."

 

Greg shook his head, "You don't need to stress about it. I know it doesn't feel good to you. You've been doing so, so well. I just...I don't want to hurt you."

 

"I want to be more on your level, but it's hard when I get stressed. I'll try more. I will...I want you to feel close to me. I had...I had no idea you didn't." And it stung horribly. 

 

Greg sighed gently, rubbing his thumb over John's knuckles. "I do feel close to you, John. Closer to you than anyone else. I just....I was below you, you know? You were my advisor, and sometimes I miss that. But it's mostly because I'm a coward, and I am afraid to be on my own with something so important.”

 

John leaned forward and gave Greg a soft, quick kiss. "I'm getting better. I love you. When I'm better, can we try this again, maybe?"

 

Greg nearly jumped backward when John kissed him. He held his posture, relieved when John drew away.

 

"If you want to," he said quietly, absolutely sure that day would never come.

 

John almost cried when Greg flinched. "Okay. I'll...I 'll talk to you later, then?"

 

Greg stared at John in open shock. "Oh...yeah...I...do you want be to...leave you be?"

 

John closed his eyes. "I think...I love you, and I need to talk to Paul about some of this. He always gives me advice about how to help you. That's what we talked about most of the time."  
Greg allowed several times, staring at John for a moment before shaking himself.

 

"Oh...I right...right...I'll..." He got up, holding out his phone, "he's not working for us anymore but he'll likely take a call."

 

With that he headed to the door.

 

John looked sadly after Greg, but decided it was best if he make the call. 

 

He had no idea how to explain what had happened, though, and prayed Paul would understand. 

 

He pressed the contact, then waited nervously. 

 

Paul answered on the third ring, his voice warm and gentle. "Greg, it's good to hear from you! I was just thinking of John. How are you?" 

 

Down the hall, Greg cracked open a beer and stood in the triangle of light from the icebox, downing it in one go. The bottle rattled in the bin before he cracked the second, taking it with him out on the patio, sitting down on their bench and staring blankly ahead, completely destroyed. 

 

John walked out of earshot before beginning. "It's John. I'm coming along fine. For the past six months I've been improving my ability to be independent. I just snogged Greg and he had to run off to the bathroom. He is apparently physically....restless, or something. I don't know. Something about closeness. We were just kissing and things got...more...and...ah. Things are very tense now. I need help."

 

Paul took a moment before speaking, keeping his same warm, friendly tone. "John, it's wonderful to hear from you. You sound as though you've made some remarkable progress. So...you said that Greg has kissed you, and then left you to manage his own arousal, am I understanding you properly?" 

 

He kept all of the intense shock out of his tone. 

 

"Uhm...yeah. He...I kissed him, and he kissed back...and then... He was so happy. I feel horrible. We just didn't talk about it and I got scared that I would disappoint him because...I don't want...I mean, not with a man...and...and it's... I just got nervous...and...but we talked about it and sort of...tired again...then he ran off to the bathroom...I-I got upset with m-myself and I...I had tried to take off some of..." He was disgusted with himself now. 

 

"I had tried to shave off some scars, and I opened the wounds back up, and I was bleeding...and I'm... I'm scared now...and worried...because I can't sleep without...without being...and..." John pressed his hand over his eyes and let out a short sob. 

 

"Please help me."

 

The sound of keys on a ring sounded over the line just before Paul spoke. "John, I am going to help you. You are going to help me help you, alright? I need you to remain calm. Where are you right now?"

 

"Uhm...in our bedroom. Greg's...I think he's drinking." John knew how bad it sounded, and pressed his face into the pillow.

 

Paul was glad to hear John complying. "Is this the first time Greg has come on to you? Do you feel threatened right now?"

 

"No! No! You don't understand! I'm not threatened. Greg is...he is disgusted with himself. It was my fault. I was kissing him. It just got a bit too...heated. Too heated for me. And...god, he won't even hug me now. I think I ruined it. I don't feel threatened but I want to...I hate myself."

 

That calmed Paul and he eased off the gas, still keeping his voice calm and even. "Alright John, I think I understand. I cannot help you if you harm yourself, you did the right thing in calling for help instead of hurting yourself. You say you think you ruined 'it.' What is 'it,' John?" 

 

"He flinched when I hugged him. I ruined things. And now I know that...I didn't know that he'd been with men before, and he told me, and I didn't care, because, I mean, it's Greg, but now...I can't give him that. He doesn't want that from me. But...he had to run into the bathroom. That sort of thing makes me feel...inadequate. I shouldn't have led him on when I can't give him...other things."

 

Paul spoke quietly to him. "John, I'm at your flat. Is it alright if I let myself in and come speak with you? I am very optimistic that I can help you both, if you'll allow me to."

 

"Oh...no, no, Greg will think I'm scared and called for help. You have to leave. I don't want to hurt him."

 

He took a deep breath on the other end of the line, keeping his car running. "Alright, John. I won't come up right now. Did Greg make any indication to you that he expected more from you, or was disappointed that you stopped him?" 

 

"No. No. It was my idea to try again. I'm...I haven't been able to make him happy...I feel useless and...he's...I love him so much...and...I just wanted to make him happy. He seemed so happy. Now he's sad. I'm...god, I hate this."

 

"John, I'm going to do my best to help you, but it is very difficult without hearing Greg's side of things. So far I understand that you and he shared a...more intimate kiss, that Greg became aroused and removed himself for a while, and now he's hesitant to touch you. You said you were hurting yourself while he was...indisposed? Can you walk me through what happened when he came back to your room? Was he angry?" 

 

"He was sad," John insisted. "He isn't the bad guy! He was sad, and he was worried when I was hurting. He loves me. I love him. I'm just confused. Would it be better if I just...he's sad because I didn't respond the same way he did. I didn't hate it, I like being close to him, but..." 

 

John let out another short sob and his whole body shook.

 

Paul was shaking his head as he responded, "John, absolutely not. If you are suggesting that you try something sexual with him simply to appease him, I highly advise against that plan. He's likely sad that you are hurting. I cannot imagine he's upset over a lack of physical relationship with you. Are you concerned over sleeping tonight? Is that why you've called for help? I know he's typically slept in your bed." 

 

"I hardly sleep on the bed! I sleep on him! With one leg over him so my hips don't hurt." John rubbed his face with his hands. "Which is how we were when it started. The same way we are when we sleep."

 

Paul's voice was a bit quieter, "I see. And you are no longer comfortable with that arrangement." He paused for a moment before speaking again. "He can be replaced with pillows, and you've Gladstone. You can take your medication to help you sleep, until you are more comfortable with him, or you decide you prefer to sleep like that." 

 

"I'm comfortable there. I am. I'm just...I am not afraid by any stretch that he will make an advance. I'm just worried I'll do something to trigger the...the reaction...that he had. He said it was just biology."

 

"And has he given you reason prior to this to be concerned? Or has he told you he'd no longer wants to be in contact with you?" Paul was gentle as he asked the questions. 

 

"No...no...why...maybe you should come in, and we'll all talk about it. I'm just worried I've hurt him."

 

Paul shut off the engine. "Thank you, John. I think that would be far more helpful for the both of you. Would you like to speak with me with Greg in the room, or would you rather I come in alone? We will do this however you are the most comfortable." 

 

"Would you talk to him for a few minutes? I'll come in and sit, but please help him. I'm scared for him."

 

Paul opened the main door, speaking softly to John as he closed it behind him. "Let me speak to him alone for a few minutes, and then I'll come speak with you. Can you promise me you will not harm yourself while you are waiting?" 

 

"I'm not at risk of self harm," John said curtly, then hung up. He stuck his head under a pillow after that, and tried to be silent.

 

A full forty minutes passed before Paul knocked lightly at the bedroom door, calling out to the man. "John? May I come in?" 

 

John stood up and opened the door for him. His eyes were red and puffy, and his cheeks were wet. "Is he okay?"

 

Paul nodded, "He's still here, out on the sofa. I wanted to speak to you in private first. Is that alright with you?" 

 

"Tell me he is alright first," John insisted and tried to look around Paul to see Greg.

 

Paul gave ground, trying to demonstrate that John was free to move as he liked. "He's alright, a bit upset, but alright. He's sitting calmly on the sofa." 

 

John looked to Paul for a moment in apology before running over and dropping to his knees in front of Greg. "I'm sorry!"

 

Greg made a clipped sound of surprise before he instinctively leaned down, pulling John up off the floor before his body began to hurt from the position. He sat John on the sofa at his side, speaking to him quietly. 

 

"You don't have a reason to be sorry, John," he said very gently, drawing his hands back, still unsure if he was allowed to touch John or not. "I'm not upset with you. I'm glad you called for help, I'd much rather you call for help than do yourself harm." He was i preternaturally calm as he spoke. 

 

John leaned over and wrapped his arms around Greg. "I'm so sorry. I'm making this into a big deal. We just...we just kissed! That's all! I-I shouldn't be so insecure."  
Greg closed his eyes as John wrapped his arms around him. "You don't need to be sorry," he breathed, rocking slightly in sharp, breathtaking relief that John was still willing to have contact with him. "You don't need to be sorry. It is a big deal. You were right to call for help." 

 

"If you want that sort of relationship, we can work something out. But... I mean, Greg, what comes first and foremost is that we are comfortable with each other. I am sorry you don't feel as close to me as you would like. But I do love you."

 

Greg drew back nearly instantly, reacting as if John had burned him. 

 

"Why- god _why_ are you- I didn't-" he pressed his hands over his face as Paul jumped in, "Alright, alright, let's take it easy. Calm down, Greg, talk to him." 

 

Greg looked to John, wounded. "I've never asked you for that! I have told you over and over- I'm not asking you for- why can't you let it _go_? I don't want to work something out! You feel how you feel, same as me, there is no working it out. There is nothing to work out. I-" he tore his hands through his hair, "I do feel close to you, I'm _always here_ , without fail, I never, ever leave you and I never would! Why are you doing this?" 

 

"Because how else am I supposed to make you happy??" John looked at Greg with such an open, vulnerable look of despair and grief that his face seemed to shatter and fall apart. 

 

Greg stared at John in paralyzed, startled shock. 

 

"Have- oh god- have I-" he looked desperately to Paul before looking back to John. "Have I, in all this time, given you the idea that your value to me is in _sex_?" He could hardly breathe, sure his heart had stopped.

 

"I-" Greg hadn't, but John's self worth was so low that he couldn't recount any time he had made Greg as happy about himself as he had kissing him. 

 

"Not...not _sex_...but..." John covered his face and turned away. "I've never been able to make you happy like I want to, and...and that...I thought... What else do I have to give?"

 

Greg couldn't do this. How could- "John it wasn't about kissing you! It was about getting closer to you, it wasn't about- my body just- oh my god, how have I failed you this terribly?"

 

"Your body just reacted. I accidentally triggered a reaction I couldn't handle because I'm an idiot." 

 

John put his head down and breathed slowly. "I'm sorry. I just- how can we be close, then? How can you feel close to me if kissing like that affects you? I like feeling close! I like you being happy! I like those things! I just- I don't know. I don't know. I should not be trusted with these decisions." 

 

Greg honestly did not understand what was happening. "I have lived two years without- I never- I never reacted like that before and I won't again, are you saying you think I can't handle being near you without trying to-"

 

Tears slid down his face as sharp betrayal burned in his gut. "Are you leaving me too, John," he whispered through his grief.

 

"No! No! That's not what I'm saying at all!! I'm just wondering if we can just...I don't KNOW! You tell me! You have a full mind. You understand things. I'm not afraid of you. Not at all. I'm sad I messed up something that could potentially make you happy, and that I overreacted." 

 

Paul spoke softly to Greg, who looked ready to crawl out of his skin or put a gun in his mouth.

 

"Okay, okay, that's enough for tonight. Let's just try to decide sleeping arrangements, and work through this after some sleep?"

 

"Sleeping arrangements?" John's heart crumbled and he abruptly began to cry. "I'm sorry! I'm SORRY!" 

 

Greg pulled John back into his arms, glaring at Paul. "Don't be stupid, John sleeps with me." 

 

He looked to John with hesitation. "Right?"

 

John pressed his face into Greg's shoulder and held his composure for another four seconds before he broke. He broke apart hard, shattering at every seam. He clung to Greg with everything he had. 

 

Greg rocked John, running his fingers through John's hair. "It's okay, it's okay. You stay with me, please. I want you with me."

 

John was openly sobbing, unable to articulate anything other than a cute distress. "What d-do I-I do??"

 

"Sleep?" Greg suggested carefully, "I- I just want us to go to sleep. Can we do that? Please?" Had he done this much damage?

 

John nodded and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. "Please, d-don't hesitate to...to touch me. I need g-good touch. It makes things in my brain hurt less." 

 

He looked over to Paul as if for validation that his claim held some merit.

 

Paul spoke softly, "John has just confirmed he is still comfortable with you, Greg. Can you accept that?"  
Greg nodded as he held tight to John, trying to keep him safe. "Let's go to sleep, please god can we just go to sleep? I love you, just how you are, please I want to sleep. Please."

 

"Wait," John stammered through heavy years. "I-I was supposed to t-talk to Paul about it."

 

Greg lost it when John resisted him. At 'wait,' he let go with a hopeless sob, getting up off the sofa with his hands in the air in surrender, going to the bedroom without a word. It took everything in him not to slam the door at his back.

 

Paul looked to John in surprise, crouching in front of him. "Hey," he said gently, "what's this about?"

 

"Tell me what to do." John grabbed hold of Paul's shoulders with a wild, unrestrained look in his eyes. "Tell me what I need to do to fix this. Tell me honestly what would make him happiest."

 

Paul spoke as slow and calm as he could. "John. Would you allow me to give you something for your nerves? I really think you need to sleep, you're exhausted and you were just ready to go to bed. We are not going to fix this tonight, you and Greg are too raw. Are you comfortable sleeping like you normally do with him?"

 

"No. Do not placate to me. I have made great progress mentally and I will not be spoken to like a child. I don't care if I'm acting manic. Tell me what would be best for Greg's health. I'm linked to him. These past six months of happiness started when I decided I was going to dedicate every spare second to making him feel useful, loved, and appreciated. When he is happy, I am happy. Tell me what I should do. I will not back down on this."

 

Paul nodded seriously at John, "Alright, I'll not placate you. I understand why this would have triggered you so badly, absolutely. But nothing has happened, John. Nothing. The pair of you are shifting what sort of kiss you engage in, and now you are treating Greg as though he is incapable of being near you without lust. He told me he feels like a rapist. He's deeply suffering. If you want to help him, then let me give you something for your nerves, get up, and go to bed as normal. This is entirely unfair to him, he's actively suffering in that room right now-"

 

He was cut off by the sound of the door opening, a sobbing Greg crossing the hall to go into the lav. Seconds later the shower started up.

 

"Okay, we have a few minutes then. Do you feel safe with Greg? That's the most important question. If the answer is still yes, then John, you need to let this go. You are a doctor, you know that even victims of forced contact can become aroused. Arousal itself means nothing. You need to forgive him."

 

"I do forgive him! I'm not worried at all! I've said so many times that I feel safe, and that I love him...he is misinterpreting it!! I never said I was afraid of him! Why doesn't anyone HEAR ME?" 

 

John shouted at Paul then sat down. "I don't feel nervous around him. I don't blame him. It's...at the most it's a bit awkward. But now he hesitates before he touches me, and my MAIN PROBLEM is that I am SAD that I could NOT MAKE HIM HAPPY." 

 

John spoke as if to a slow child. "I'm not upset about him getting aroused, even though it is a bit strange for me to consider. I'm sad that I couldn't make him happy. Jesus! Fucking understand!"

 

Paul did not flinch at all. He kept eye contact with John. "Be that as it may, you are drastically compounding it by reacting like this. John he's not asking you for a sexual relationship. He has just told me that he felt a different sort of connection with you for a few minutes, and that had been nice. If you want to make him happy, keep healing. Keep trying to allow your rational mind to guide you. He's devastated, you've a perfect opportunity to help him."

 

"So why don't I go back and try to give him the same connection again? That's what I did! We said it wasn't going to go anywhere, then I just sort of calmed down and we went back to kissing nicely. Then he had to run off. I'm not worried about kissing him. I don't have a physical reaction to it. I don't care if he does, really, though it is sort of awkward. And I have been healing!! It never makes him feel as happy as kissing him did."

 

Paul kept his voice calm as he pointed to John's arm. "He took your skin off," he said gently, "his words, not mine. John he had a physical reaction and you had an extreme emotional one. Why do you imagine he does not want to go back and try again?"

 

"Well it's not my fault I got nervous!! I was more upset that I couldn't...he ran off, and I assumed he was off...wanking or...and I was mad at myself because I got him going without...and I can't...it was never about him! I was only upset with myself! I felt rude and mean and embarrassed and inadequate." 

 

Paul continued just as he had been. "John, you caused yourself bodily harm. In the past, you've done so out of extreme fear and what else? Has it ever been out of such innocuous emotion? Not to discredit how you felt, those are all valid things, but John, focus outward for just a moment if you can. He spends his entire existence trying to keep you safe and happy. He kissed you in a passionate way, then had a reaction that horrified him, did his best to handle it, and came back to you bleeding. Allow him his feelings, he's horrified with himself. Of course he does not want to try again." 

 

"Guilt!! I was h-hurting myself b-because-" John nearly screamed. 

 

"It is ALL my fault!! I don't blame him f-for ANY of it!! Do you HEAR ME? Can you hear me saying that? Greg is the most wonderful human being in the entire world and I am to blame!! It was j-just biology and it's not his fault!! It is MY FAULT! I am not blaming Greg!! I'm blaming MYSELF!!" 

 

John had his fingernails digging into his skin in the next second in a desperate attempt to remove some of the emotional pain he was in. How much would he need to maim himself to remove this guilt?

 

Paul reached out and pulled John's hands away from his skin. "No, John stop hurting yourself. Stop. I hear you. I hear that you do not blame Greg. I hear that you blame yourself, that you feel guilt, that you feel inadequate and small, I hear you. You want to do something for Greg and you thought this would be a good way to help him, because he seemed very happy. I hear you." He held John's hands to keep him from hurting himself. 

 

"John, you are not hearing Greg. This is not the way to make him happy. You are not hearing him. It does not matter who's at fault, though I don't feel either of you are. There is no point in assigning blame." 

 

When Paul finally said he understood, John seemed to relax just a bit, but he still ground his teeth against the insides of his cheeks. "That's why I-I called! I need help! I need advice! Just tell m-me what to do."

 

Paul let John's hands go, per their arrangement long ago that he would only touch him without permission to keep him physically safe. "I've been attempting to tell you, John. Tonight, you need to wrap up with him, show him that you are not scared of him, and in the morning when things are not so raw and emotions not so high, _then_ you both can work on this. John, I know you are both hurting, but he's in a hell _you_ can pull him out of, not me." 

 

Once he was given clear instructions, John seemed to calm further. "Okay. Okay. I can do that. I'm not afraid of him. Not my Greg. I was reacting to my own failure, not to him."

 

Greg was still in the shower as Paul got to his feet. It had been quite some time. He looked with worry down the hall and then back to John. "Please take something for your nerves, I suspect that he's going to be in a highly emotional state, and the best way for you to help him tonight is to remain calm and as rational as you can. He needs someone to lean on, and if that can be you for a little while, it will be the best gift you could give him." 

 

He walked down the hall, leaving John on the sofa, knocking loudly on the lav door and calling out to Greg. There was no response from the other side of the door. 

 

John nodded and fetched his pills. "Someone to lean on," he muttered to himself. "We'll wrap up in a blanket, watch a movie, and things'll be alright. Show him I'm not afraid. Which I'm not. Should be easy." John took his pills then got his Baker Street blanket, which smelled heavily of Greg and his flat, and waited outside the bathroom door with Paul.  
The shower shut off, and after a few minutes time, a great rush of steam signaled the door opening. Greg stood there with his hair damp and tousled from the rough toweling he'd given it, dressed in a tee and soft cotton trousers, feet bare. His skin though, was scrubbed raw, brilliant red as though he'd been out in the sun for hours on end and bleeding in places where he'd obviously dropped the washrag and simply gone at himself with his nails. He was still in active tears, looking at the floor. 

 

"I'll...c-could I j-just...the s-sofa for t-tonight and I'll f-find somewhere e-else to go in...i-in the m-morning?" His voice broke apart more and more with each word, leaving him sobbing with an arm around his middle a hand pressed over his eyes as he finished speaking. 

 

John rushed to him and wrapped his arms around his chest. "Oh, god, Greg, I'm so sorry. I am SO sorry! I wasn't upset about what happened! I was upset with myself! I was upset that I didn't handle things better! Please don't sleep on the couch. Let's watch a movie. God. You've hurt yourself." 

 

John stepped back for a moment and held Greg's face in his hands with worry in his eyes. "Love, I'm sorry. I'm not afraid of you. Please, you would never hurt me. Let's go watch a movie, okay? Please."

 

Paul left the pair to go fetch lotion and medication to soothe Greg's skin.

 

Greg leaned into John, tears flooding uncontrollably down his face, pooling over John's fingers, falling constantly off his chin. 

 

"I'm s-so...so..." He could not catch his breath, completely falling apart on John, struggling just to breathe.

 

John knew in his core that this was all his fault, and while there had been a major misunderstanding of why Greg was distressed, he was still the cause. John wrapped one arm around Greg's waist and took a few small steps to the couch. "Come sit down. Please. It's okay. You're okay. I love you. Let's go sit down."

 

Greg's stomach dropped as they headed to the sofa. "Pl-l-lease," he stammered, "please can't- I thought-" another pathetic sob hitched up out of his chest and he just gave up, figuring the offer to go to bed was one again off the table. He allowed John to do as he liked, glad to even be near him at this point.

 

John flipped the telly on and sat down next to Greg. "I'm sorry I've done this to you," John whispered and wrapped the blanket around himself and Greg. "Lean on me, if you need to. I love you. I love you so much. You're beautiful, love. You're wonderful. We can get past this, and things will go back to normal."

 

Greg did lean against John, ignoring Paul as the man picked up his arm opposite John and began to slather the lotion across it. He swallowed the pill put in his hand without a word and stared at the screen without really seeing what was on it. He didn't understand how John could bear to touch him, but he was glad he could regardless. 

 

"I- I w-wasn't- I w-would n-never a-ask you f-for..." he began to try and explain just minutes after Paul finished tending to his raw skin, having to stop as he gagged on disgust towards himself, slapping a hand over his mouth and closing his eyes as tears fell over his hand. If he ever managed an erection again in his life, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Sweat broke out along his hairline as he struggled to keep himself from sicking up right there, feeling as though he'd committed an unspeakable crime against John. 

 

Paul decided to step in then, trying to break the constant cycle Greg and John were locked in. "Greg, breathe. John does not feel as though you've done anything of the sort. He was disappointed in himself. You both are misunderstanding the other. Let's get you calm. I want you to take something for your nerves as well. John has been very cooperative, I hope you will be also." 

 

John pulled Greg closer to him and swept his hands back through his hair. "I love you. You're okay. I love you. I wasn't upset with you. Never. You and I are having a misunderstanding. I love you. I don't feel like you overstepped any boundaries. I feel disappointed in myself. Could you breathe for me? Just slow down. I know you never asked me for that. I know. I understand. Could you breathe a bit slower?"

 

Comforted by John's affirmation of Paul's words, Greg reached out and swallowed the pills, leaning back on John and closing his eyes. "Ok-k-kay," he whispered, trying to breathe slower, wanting to do as John asked. He kept his head back on the sofa, working over the next several minutes to calm himself down. 

 

"I w-would never- never- I...I w-would n-not h-hurt y-you...n-not e-ever...n-not ever h-hurt you...n-not ever-" he said again and again, needing to hear the words out of his own mouth as well. For the next fifteen minutes he kept repeating himself, telling John that he would never ask for anything sexual, that he loved him, that he would never hurt him, only slowing when the anxiety medicine finally began to slide through his veins, leaving him sweating and wrung out, hands trembling. He looked over to John when he was a bit calmer, staring at him with bloodshot eyes. 

 

"Y-You didn't l-let me down, John," he whispered, pained that John would ever think that, "I'm so sorry you thought so. You- you constantly surprise me every single day, surpassing what I could e-ever dream from you. You've never let me down, not- not ever, John." 

 

John wrapped his arms around Greg and tried to hide him from the world. "I know. Listen. I know. You would never ask me for anything sexual. You do not want a sexual relationship with me. You would never hurt me. You would never hurt me. I was not scared of you. I was upset with myself. I was never upset with you. I hurt myself because I felt guilty. It's alright. It's okay. Just lean on me. I've got you."

 

Greg stopped talking then, absolutely worn out, nothing left in him. He leaned against John and closed his eyes, asleep in less than five minutes. 

 

Paul dimmed the lights, figuring the pair would end up sleeping out on the sofa. Very softly he whispered to John. "Is it alright with you if I stay? Or should I come back in the morning?" 

 

John wrapped Greg in his arms and slowly leaned back a bit so Greg would have something to comfortably rest against. 

 

"You can stay," he whispered. "Could you give me a list of things I can do to make him happy tomorrow?"

 

Paul simply nodded, not ready to get into this with John at the moment. "Yes, we will work on it tomorrow. Let me help you get your feet up. Will you drink something before you sleep? Can I get you anything else? I'll bring you some pillows. You've done very well with him, I'm sure that was stressful." 

 

"I don't deserve Greg," John lamented. "And someday I'll hurt him really badly. I made him hurt himself. I made my beautiful Greg hurt himself." 

 

Tears fell down John's cheeks and he kissed Greg's forehead. 

 

"I'm doing just what he wanted. Except, he said I would be doing this to Sherlock. Greg shouldn't even be involved like he is. My Greg. He shouldn't have ever started loving me. My Greg. He's so beautiful, and I'm ruining him. I'm doing what Moriarty wanted."

 

Paul pushed an ottoman under John and Greg's legs, shoving pillows around them to help keep them supported. "Nope, sorry, that's not the truth of it at all. You only do what Moriarty wanted, when you give him credit. Stop giving that monster any credit, John." He sat down on the coffee table, hands laced between his knees, speaking softly to keep from waking Greg. 

 

"Greg should be allowed to love. He was alone in the world without you. He should be allowed to have love, yes? I know you are angry with yourself, but let's focus on what you are angry about, and not go into this, no one should love me business. That's not fair to either of you, and will only hurt you both." 

 

'I'm happy that he loves me. I don't discourage it. I just...I feel so bad. I'm always hurting him. I make him suicidal and drive him to harm himself when my brain gets fuzzy and I get sad. I can- I try! I fill the kettle now...I know it doesn't sound like much...I sweep! I sweep the house and I dust and I can sometimes help with the washing up. I take care of Gladstone and I try so hard to keep Greg happy. But, Paul..." John leaned down and pressed his lips against Greg's head. "Of all my efforts, and he was still lacking in closeness. What am I doing wrong?"

 

"John, all of those things are absolutely wonderful. As the psychiatrist who treated you at the start, I can honestly say you've made far more progress than I ever expected. You've got it in your mind -understandably- that you need to serve a purpose for Greg to love you. That's not true, but it's what you believe. Therefore, you feel like a failure when he is sad. He does not harm himself when he thinks _you've failed_. He only does so when he believes he's catastrophically harmed or lost you. It's never your fault when he chooses to harm himself, just as it's never his fault when you do the same." 

 

He looked over to Greg and paused for a moment for John to absorb that. "Greg has experienced a great deal of loss in the last few years, just as you have. Most recently has been Mycroft and Sherlock. It's only natural that he feels a bit alone. You two are very close, but in some ways, do you not feel very distant from Greg? There are some things he will never understand, will he?" 

 

"I don't feel distant from Greg!" John insisted. That was absolutely impossible. "Greg is all I have. I love him. He t-tried to push me away a few days ago and I thought I was dying."

 

"John, keep calm," Paul said with sympathy in his voice, trying to keep him from waking Greg, which would likely lead to chaos. He was as gentle as he could be while trying to keep John from losing himself to distress. 

 

"We will talk about that tomorrow. I want to hear about that. All I'm saying, is that Greg will never understand what it is like from your experience with Moriarty. You've told me as much. This naturally creates some level of distance, through no fault of you or Greg. Does that make sense?" 

 

"No." 

 

John turned his face away and pressed his face on the top of Greg's head. "Greg knows about all the things that scare me. And if he doesn't he learns and remembers. Like the vacuum. I don't like them. They sound like drills.The vacuum at Baker Street scared me and now we don't even have one in the flat."

 

Paul took a deep, slow breath and leaned back. "Alright, John," he said quietly. If John was unwilling to see any separation between he and Greg, they truly were in trouble.  
"Do you need something to help you sleep tonight? I don't think there is anything more constructive we can do today. Sleep is the very best thing you can do for you both right now." 

 

"Do you think I'm bad for him? I honestly try. I really do." John brushed his fingers through Greg's hair and nuzzled the top of his head. "I love him. I find it difficult to not maim myself when I hurt him."

 

Paul waited until John was looking at him to answer. "I absolutely do not think you are bad for Greg. Not at all. I'm very glad you resist harming yourself most of the time. There is no good in that. The pain you feel when Greg hurts himself, is the same pain he feels when you hurt yourself." 

 

"It spirals," John whimpered pathetically. "I do something wrong and feel guilty, so I get sad, which hurts Greg, then I feel even more guilty, then I hurt myself, and it hurts him, and I feel guilty... It's not as bad as it was, though, when I'd slip back into thinking I deserved....all that." 

 

John looked at his scarred arms for a moment. "But it's times like this that I start to lose hold of that a bit."

 

Paul nodded, "This is the process of healing, John. It is never a constant march forward. There are always times when backsliding will happen. But you've done very well here. You've called for help. You've assisted Greg. You are trying healthy solutions instead of going into your mind and hiding, or harming yourself, or sending him away. This is still progress, even if it doesn't feel like it, John. Give yourself credit, you deserve it." 

 

"I don't deserve credit! Look at what I did! I made Greg try to take his skin off! I know what causes that. It's when you're disgusted with yourself. I did that. I'm going to be very kind to Greg. I'm going to be affectionate and kind to him. I'll get better at being in the kitchen. Maybe I'll be able to cook. I just..Have you ever felt so disgusted with yourself that you wanted to tear your skin off? To the point where you actually did it?"

 

Paul took a slow breath to try and keep the mood in the room a bit calmer. "John, I don't believe he was trying to take his skin off, I think he felt dirty and was trying to scrub himself clean. He- that is more consistent with what he was telling me. Either way, _you did not do this_. You both misunderstood the other. He could argue that he made you feel like an inadequate failure. You absolutely deserve credit for the work you've done to get to this point, I don't care if you are willing to accept the credit or not. Now, please John, you need rest. Being rested enough to talk to him calmly tomorrow is the best thing you can do for him. Are you willing to do that?" 

 

"I need a painkiller if I'm going to sleep like this. And something I can take in the middle of the night when I wake up so that I am not sore in the morning. He'll notice and he'll think it's his fault."

 

Paul nodded, "Good. We can do that. Would you rather that, or would you like to move? I'm sure he'll go right back to sleep." 

 

John took a slow breath and shook his head. "I don't want to move him. Thank you for helping us."  
He was not comfortable, but Greg seemed to be, and that was what mattered. "Should I stay awake? I have more nightmares when I'm fragile, and I don't want to hurt him."

 

Paul shook his head. "No, you should sleep. I'll sleep out here as well. How do you do with sedatives? Might help you dream less, I can give you an injection, they are stronger."  
He set a box of juice and two of John's painkillers beside him for the night.

 

"Sedatives upset me unless being awake is worse," John stated simply. "But I'll take one if it'll help me not dream."

 

Paul shook his head, "let's not then, if you're not sure. I'll be right here, and hopefully it won't be so bad. Just remember you're home and safe, and so is Greg."

 

John leaned his head against Greg and closed his eyes. "I love him. Does he know that? Does he know I love him?"

 

Paul was getting his feet up, settling in. "I'm sure he does."

 

John fell asleep about a half hour later, when he was exhausted enough to let go of his worries.  
It felt like just a few seconds later when he snapped awake. The first thing he noticed was that he was a bit sore around his hips. Then he moved, and found he was very sore. He was often stiff in the mornings, though, and paid it no mind. Instead he checked Greg over in a silent panic to make sure he hadn't bled himself in the middle of the night. 

 

Greg shifted as John's hands moved on him, mumbling under his breath, "John," he asked in question, catching one of John's hands.

 

John wrapped his arms around Greg's head and held it to his chest. "I love you," he gasped. "I never meant to hurt you. I wasn't scared. I felt guilty. Not scared. Not of you."

 

Greg shifted again, coming more awake. "John? Hey," he shifted in John's arms, trying to get free so that he could see him, "I know you were not trying to hurt me, you've never in your life tried to hurt me." His voice was thick with sleep and exhaustion, but he was trying to shake it off for John's sake

 

"Okay. And I know the same. You never tried to hurt me. I wasn't upset because I was afraid of you. I was upset because I thought I had failed." John pulled Greg in again and kissed his forehead. "I'm just fine. I'm just guilty."

 

Greg felt the shock of shame at knowing John couldn't say that Greg had never tried to hurt him. He had. Though for the reasons of trying to spare him worse pain. It didn't matter. He blinked at the clock, finding it to be half one, with Paul blinking awake in the chair at their side. He was so incredibly tired. 

 

"I- you're not guilty of anything," Greg said quietly, pressing a hand to his pounding head, "I'm glad you were not scared, I thought you were scared, and then I thought...I still think, you feel obligated." 

 

"To make you feel loved? Yes. But to have a physical relationship? No. All I ever wanted to do was show you love. That's all. I thought I'd failed. I still feel like I failed, because I made you think that I felt like you wanted sex. I just needed things to be spoken. I don't know. It's a thing. Just... How about this? I'll go back to normal, and we can just kiss a little bit more. I do like the closeness, and I am not afraid. But we keep all the everything the same. No change. If there is anything else I that I can do to make you feel loved, let me know. This can be easy. We can bounce back today. No problems, yeah? Let's have a good day today." 

 

John gave Greg a casual kiss on the cheek. "Right back to normal."

 

Greg nodded, just wanting to go back to sleep. No answer would be right and he no longer wanted to even try. "Back to how it was, that's fine," he said quietly, realizing they were still on the sofa. "Want to go to bed?"

 

John nodded and nuzzled under Greg's chin. "Yes please. Can we cuddle? I'm tired still."

 

Greg closed his eyes in relief. "Yes, of course. It's only half one, we've hardly slept."

 

He tried to stand, finding himself still very groggy with the medication. It took a few tries to get steady on his feet. "I don't feel well," he slurred to Paul as the man helped them up.

 

John whimpered and tried to help Greg up. "I'm sorry you're tired. Thank you Paul. Thank you."

 

Paul helped them to the room, trying to comfort John as he kept an eye on Greg, who was prone to illness in times of intense stress.

 

Greg pulled John to him as they got into bed, shivering slightly, tucking John's head to his heart and stroking his fingers through John's hair.

 

John got right back into his usual sleeping position, and even put his leg over Greg's hip, though he worried about if Greg would have a problem with it now. He took hold of a bit of Greg's shirt and held it over his nose and mouth, which he did when he was stressed or needing of comfort. "You're a good man, Greg."

 

Greg rubbed gently at John's head, feeling dizzy and cold. "You are, too," he breathed, hands still shaking. Paul left the door open and went back down the hall, keeping an ear out for them both.

 

John reached one hand up and held on to Greg's shoulder. "I love everything about you. I feel very close to you when you hold me. Thank you."

 

Greg hummed at him, shifting slightly and breathing through pursed lips to try and feel a bit better. "I am glad you'll still let me," he whispered, hating that he was awake, just wanting more rest. "Are you alright," he asked as his own skin crawled, irritated with the vicious scrubbing he'd given it. 

 

"I'm alright, my love." John was far from alright. Guilt was eating at him to his very core, and he wanted to beg Greg for forgiveness, to tear at his skin, and explain himself over and over. But Greg did not need him to beg forgiveness. Greg needed him to be strong. 

 

"You just rest. I'm comfortable. You're doing so well. I love you so very much." John sat up just enough to give him a quick kiss, then snuggled back down.

 

Greg dropped back off to sleep with a pounding head and shaking hands not long after, his body too overwhelmed from the day to do anything else. He was still medicated and he was unable to resist sleep. His fingers trailed off, slowly stilling on the back of John's head as relief of unconsciousness finally came.

 

John wept silently on to Greg's chest. He would have to start a new regiment. He would make sure Greg knew that he was loved, and that John felt close to him. He would have to make sure he was helping and actively improving. He would have to make sure Greg knew the improvement was a personal success for him.  
John nuzzled Greg's chest and slowly his cramped muscles began to relax.

 

Greg stayed down for the next twelve hours. Paul kept in the flat, choosing not to let Mycroft know he was there.

 

John drifted in and out of sleep. He was hungry, sad, sore and depressed, but that didn't matter when Greg was hurting. He was asleep for about three hours towards the end, his head tucked against the side of Greg's neck and his face against his collarbone. 

 

Paul came into the room a few minutes before Greg woke up, a bit of toast and fruit on a plate with more juice for John.

 

Greg shifted under John, groaning and pressing a hand over his eyes. "John?"

 

John wrapped Greg up in his arms and kissed his cheek. "Hey, love. Are you feeling okay?"

 

Greg shook his head, keeping his hand over his eyes and almost whimpering. "No," he whispered, close to tears as his his head pounded so hard he was sure it would crack in half.

 

"And I made you think you were a bad person. That was my fault. I reacted to my own insecurities and failures and you thought I was reacting to you." 

 

John gave Greg a little squeeze. "If you can forgive yourself, then maybe I can forgive myself too."

 

Paul frowned as Greg's chest hitched on a quiet sob he was clearly trying to mask. That was physical pain, perhaps in addition to psychological. He clicked off the lights, remembering Greg's predisposition to migraines, and whispered to John, "I believe he's having a migraine, I'll get something for him."

 

Greg did not move, pale and breathing far too fast. He kept trying to speak, ashamed of himself, sliding the hand at this eyes over so that the bend of his elbow covered them instead, fist balled tight and shaking at his temple. "Sorry," he managed breathlessly as a tear slipped down his cheek, "I- I'm sorry."

 

John brushed his fingers through Greg's hair and scooted up so he could kiss his cheek. "It's alright, love. I forgive you. I forgive you. It's okay. I love you. I'm here."

 

Paul ended up giving Greg an injection for pain, finding Greg too nauseated to swallow pills. Greg could not find it in him to even try and speak, dozing off soon after the flood of pain relief.  
"John," Paul said quietly, "have something to eat, it's been a long time. I've your morning meds as well. Let's keep you up so you can still help him, alright?"

 

"I made him sick," John whispered in horror and wrapped him up in his arms. "I'll eat. I'm sorry. Keep me sane, alright? Tell me if I'm doing something wrong."

 

Paul nodded, unwilling to discuss anything further with John compliant to eating. He waited until John finished his food to speak.

 

"Greg has a history of stress induced migraines. He'll be alright, John. He allowed himself to become as worked up as he did, I'm not surprised by this at all."

 

John felt a bit better after eating, but was still horribly worried about his Greg. "I never meant for this to happen. I've only ever tried to make him happy."

 

Paul nodded, "Of course," he said quietly as Greg shifted beside John, tucking his head down and covering his neck in his sleep, seeking more relief from the pain he was in. After the medication Paul had given him, he figured it to be more tension than anything else. "you two have been through far worse, John. It's going to be alright, it really will be."

 

"I hate this," John whispered and pressed his lips to Greg's forehead. "I always end up hurting him. That's all I do. He told me I'm unfair to Sherlock, too. I feel bad about that. He said that Sherlock had it worse so I shouldn't judge. I try not to. I really try to be a good person. Most people don't even try to be good and they're better than me."

 

Paul blinked at John, completely taken aback. Greg was in worse shape than he'd thought if he was saying such things to John. 

 

"Greg told you Sherlock...had it...worse. That's what-" he stopped and cleared his throat, trying to consider what the hell scenario Greg would have been in to say such a thing. "that's a useless road to go down, regardless. What Sherlock experienced has nothing to do with what you went through, or how you feel. What is your relationship with Sherlock right now, why was Greg saying that you were being unfair to him?"

 

"He was trying to make me defensive of Sherlock by saying mean things about him so I'd leave him and go to Sherlock. Then he told me to take a shower but wouldn't stay with me and I got...I was an idiot, and I saw my arms...I ended up trying to take my scars off with a razor. Then doctors came and...and took m-me away and I woke up...I-I woke up in a hospital next to Sherlock and Greg was gone." 

 

John tightened his hold on Greg as the ache of loneliness gripped him once more. "And they brought him back in bloody handcuffs because he tried to die." 

 

John nuzzled the top of Greg's head. "It was all very stressful. It was... Four or five days ago? I'm not really alright yet. I overreacted and kept screaming until I passed out until he came and got me."

 

Paul was quiet as John gave him a clearly abridged version of unexpected events. He leaned back after a moment, looking between the pair, everything coming into better focus. 

 

"I'm sorry all of this has happened to you, John. It sounds as though you both have had an incredibly difficult week." He was keen to get the full story, but would work with what he had for now. "He tried to die? That tells me that he didn't want to see you go. I'd be interested in his reasoning for trying to send you to Sherlock. Surely, John, you can see that anything he said to you in that time was under duress and not his actual feeling on the matter."

 

"Yeah, he didn't want me to go, but he thought I would be better off with Sherlock. But he was just...he didn't talk to me about it first and... and I didn't understand why he was being mean. He was only doing it to try to help, but I didn't understand and panicked." 

 

John closed his eyes and focused on the fact that Greg was here now. "He didn't mean them, but I still think the things he said were true."

 

Paul's voice was calm and steady as he spoke. "You often are swift to believe any unkind statement about you is true, John. That doesn't mean it is. What is your relationship with Sherlock at the moment?"

 

"I think I'm not allowed to see him. I don't know. There was a mistake at the hospital and he was transferred without Mycroft there and I called and found out and Greg and I went there. But before that was when Greg left me at the hospital and I just screamed the whole time. I feel bad about that."  
John had started to cry again, but quietly so. "And I don't know what to do. I want to help Sherlock, and I want to see him, but I don't help. I don't know. I'm really confused."

 

There was so much missing information that Paul was having a very difficult time putting together what was going on with this collection of men. "Alright, well, let's just focus on what we know for now. We have to accept Greg at his word, yes? So what has Greg told you since I've been here?"

 

"He doesn't blame me?" John ventured. "He feels bad? I don't know. I'm confused. I'm hurting."

 

Paul nodded, "I know, John I know. But yes, those things are true. Do they mean anything to you?"

 

John shrugged. "I know they should, and I understand them, but...who cares? This isn't about me. This is about Greg. If I am thinking about caring for myself, it's based on how my health will effect Greg. I love him, but I can't love myself."

 

Paul shrugged, "Then you can't love him. Sounds counter-intuitive, but if you can't love yourself, you can't love anyone else properly."

 

John looked up in shock and horror. He'd heard that statement before, at counseling and some sort of Sunday school, but he'd ignored it. "That is not true! I love him! You can't- how can you say I don't love him?"

 

Paul held up a hand to settle John back down. "Easy, easy. I'm not saying you don't love him to the best of your ability. But John, this is part of why that connection feels so...unstable. This is why you feel like you need to do things around the flat for Greg's love, and why that frustrates him so much to hear. You love him as well as you can, but if you are on empty for yourself, how can you pour into him?" 

 

John set his jaw and tried to hold on to the crumbling pieces of his world.

 

If he wasn't capable of loving Greg, then the only thing he'd ever been able to give meant nothing. He could do no good, and had been neglecting Greg terribly.

 

John abruptly grabbed the sides of his head and ground his teeth. Everything was shattering. He could feel the seams of his mind cracking apart. If he could not love Greg, then he offered him nothing. He'd been hurting him.

 

Tears began to pour down his face, even though he stared unblinking at a fixed point on the bed. John shook, lightly at first, but then more violently as the cold knowledge that he truly had absolutely nothing to offer settled in.

 

He tried to open his mouth to ask for help, but his jaw was clamped shut.

 

Paul watched John and, not for the first time, began to wonder if John had experienced abuse as a child. His black and white thinking was very indicative of it. 'If not A, then B,' with no alternatives in the middle. 

 

He spoke very softly to John as he fetched up his anxiety medication. "John. I need you to stay with me here. Focus. I'm going to help you, I think you are misunderstanding what I'm saying. Take these, let's keep talking."

 

John took deep gasping breaths as his false dilemma played itself out in his mind. He had nothing to give Greg but his love, and since he could not love Greg, he was worthless. "H-Help m-me," he whined. "H-Hurting him! I only wanted t-to love him!"

 

Paul took John's hand and put the pills onto his palm, "Take these," he instructed calmly, looking at Greg and then back to John, very much wanting to separate them until he had John in a better mindset. "I will help you, keep focusing on breathing." 

 

"I-I h-have nothing!" John exclaimed and gathered Greg into his arms. "I can't even love him properly! I-I am s-so damaged I-I can't even l-love the m-most wonderful m-man in the world. I c-can offer nothing!!"

 

Greg made a small sound of pain and distress in his sleep as he was shifted. Paul spoke softly to John, "I need you to calm down so we can talk, John. He's in pain, let's let him rest while you and I sort this, okay? Can you put him down for me? Let's go talk. You have misunderstood me, and you're not thinking rationally right now. John, let me help you, okay?" 

 

John began to cry over Greg, but he eventually lowered him back down onto the bed. "I can love him," John insisted in stressed denial. "I can. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" 

 

Greg was starting to wake up, responding to John's stress. Paul looked to him, nodding. "Okay, then show me that. He's in pain and needs to sleep, let's go in the other room and you can tell me all about what I don't know." He was hoping to use John's anger to help their situation. If Greg came up in tears, John was going to be impossible. 

 

John looked sadly at Greg, then slid out of bed. "He'll be scared if I'm not there when he wakes up, and he'll try to get up and find me. It's what he does." Nonetheless, John was up and leaving the room with Paul. "I don't like this."

 

Paul got John's attention, "Look," he said, leaving the door wide open, "we are going to be within earshot. If he calls out, we'll hear him. If he wakes up, he'll hear us talking. I'm not trying to take you away from him, not at all. I just want him to rest, he was in a lot of pain." He wanted John's trust, it would be impossible to help him without it. "Is that alright?" 

 

John sat down on the couch, then decided against it and flopped sideways. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought I-I loved him. I do! I DO! How can you say that? How can you take that away from me? Loving him is a-all I have to offer!!"

 

Paul sat down and gave John a moment to settle. He looked him over, taking in how he'd gained weight back to a healthy amount, how faded the scars he'd not dug into had become, how his hair had regained some bit of color aside from the sickly grey. He'd done an incredible amount of healing. 

 

"John," he said very softly, knowing the medication would soon help John think a bit clearer as well, "I've not taken anything away from you. I can't change how you feel. All that I mean when I say you can't really love him, is that you can't really love anyone to the full until you can love yourself. The metaphor sounds absurd, but it's perfect. Love is a giving situation. If you are empty of it for yourself, how can you truly give? You love him to the best of your ability, you offer him everything you have. I'm not debating that at all."

 

"But my everything isn't enough," John said sadly. "Seems to be a reoccurring thing, doesn't it? Moriarty did that a lot. He made things harder and harder and when I couldn't do it even if it was my best...bad things. And...and I wasn't enough for Sherlock, now I can't even love Greg properly. That...that hurts a lot."  
Paul hummed, tapping his lip before speaking. "When did Greg tell you that you're not enough for him?"

 

"Never. The opposite often. But I can feel it. I hurt everyone." John scowled at Paul, then his eyes softened. "Sorry. I'm not mad at you. I'm just scared and sad."

 

Paul's lips turned up in a very gentle smile for just a moment, "No need to apologize, John. You've made...frankly stunning progress since I last saw you. I wish I could let you see what I see. It's natural to feel...inadequate, but you are not. Have you tried to think of this with roles reversed? You were not able to do that before. If Greg were in your position, and you in his, what do you think you'd feel towards him?"

 

"Oh, hell, I'd try to explain. If I were Greg...I'd have told him that I didn't feel close, or tried to find other ways,  
I think. I would have told him what I was doing before stuff like that. I would...I wouldn't blame him for anything. I know. I get the point. I am supposed to see that Greg doesn't blame me, and that it's probably not my fault. But, you forget that my basic rule that my mind follows right now is that Greg is inherently good, and I am inherently bad. I'm having a hard time getting past my binary labels."

 

Paul nodded. "I'm not forgetting how your mind works, I'm trying to help you see the flaws in your binary. You just pointed out massive failings on Greg's behalf, I mean massive, John. And you've shown issues with your own. I'm hoping you can be brave enough to examine them. Greg is not inherently good. You are not inherently bad. You will be amazed how much life improves for you both when you are willing to see that."

 

"Mentally, I am willing to address it, since I brought it up." John was practically shaking. It was absolutely horrifying to move towards self-awareness. 

 

"And there were no massive failings on Greg's part. None ever. It was just me failing to communicate, or a little mistake. What did I say that was a failure?"

 

Paul listed back what John had told him. "He failed to communicate before he was sexual with you. He's apparently been placing blame on you. He's failed to tell you how he feels. It sounds like emotionally he's failed you constantly, John. I'm very sorry to hear that, and I think that's something we can work on with him to fix."

 

"No, no, I said it wrong. Greg just reacted to what I was doing. Not his fault. I went along with it. He's wonderful. He never places blame on me! I do that to myself." John ran his fingers back through his hair, then took a deep breath. 

 

"I'm not an unbiased account. I imagine blame. He never blames me."

 

Paul shook his head, "John, you said that you'd have told him if you were not feeling close enough, that you'd have found any other way than that to do so. Even if it's his only mistake, it's a very, very big one."

 

"I didn't say it like that!! I didn't mean that! I meant...I mean...I couldn't tell he didn't feel close. It's my fault." John felt immensely defensive. "Stop."

 

Paul leaned back a bit to let John feel more in control. "My mistake. Could you help me understand? I don't mean to twist your words, John. Truly."

 

"Greg is a miracle," John insisted. "I failed to communicate. I messed up. I ruined it. I should have known! I'd heard that before, that you can't love others if you don't love yourself. I should have known."

 

Paul shook his head. "John, take a deep breath. We are trying to move away from this sort of thinking. Greg is fallible. He's a man. He makes mistakes."

 

"Not big ones! Greg makes mistakes like turning on the vacuum and not realizing it sounds like a drill, then never does it again. Small mistakes. Small things."

 

Paul nodded, "Okay, that's fine John, that's fine. That's very good that he hears you when you tell him these things."

 

"I didn't even need to tell him, really. I didn't see the vacuum and thought it was an actual drill being started up. Not a pleasant way to be woken up for mornings on end, is it?" 

 

John looked over to Gladstone, then called him up onto the couch. He curled up around him and rested his head on the dog's shoulders with his face in his fur, which muffled his next words. "Do you think I'll be able to help Greg?"

 

Paul watched him for a few minutes, not responding. This was incredibly complicated, and he needed to understand what had occurred to make Greg try and put John with Sherlock. If Greg was so defeated that he was suicidal all the time, he might not be able to help him. 

 

"I think you help him far more than you realize, John."

 

John let out a short laugh and kept his face hidden in his dog. "I would have to disagree with you. I don't feel well in my mind right now. I promise you I was clearer before. I've been making progress. I even try to do push ups and I walk all the time now and the stairs don't bother me. And I did manage to stand in the shower with the water on my legs before I panicked."

 

Paul nodded swiftly, though John wasn't looking at him. "I believe you. You appear much healthier than the last time I saw you. It's clear you've made measurable progress. I'm afraid though, that we are getting stuck on Greg. You continuously ask if you can help him, but resist nearly everything I advise or tell you. Perhaps if you could be more specific on what exactly it is that you want to do for him?"

 

"What have I resisted? I've made a list. I need to be strong so he doesn't have to feel alone. I need to find a way to be closer to him. I need to stop breaking down as much as possible, but still clearly express my emotions. I need to be someone he can lean on. I need to try to love myself so I can love him." 

 

John tightened his hold on Gladstone. "I can do the first ones. The last one..." He shook his head. How could he _possibly_ love himself? He could hardly _stand_ himself!

 

"Ah," Paul murmured with no surprise, watching John's hands tighten on the dog. "That last bit is a big one. Let's break that one down much, much smaller. Let's just start with this: You did not deserve what was done to you. How do you feel about that statement?" 

 

"Mentally, I accept it. I can say that I agree. But it feels very wrong." John was ashamed of that fact, however, and quickly moved on. "What else?"

 

Paul shook his head. "Can't gloss over that one, John. We need to hone in and focus on it. If you feel a disconnect between your mind and your heart, that's a clear sign that there is an issue there. Talk to me about it. Tell me what feels right."

 

John did not want to talk about this, but he'd injured Greg so terribly, he deserved the discomfort even if it didn't help. 

 

"I know...logically...that Moriarty was insane. But he was always so...fair. I know he wasn't, but he felt fair. If I did things right, he was even kind. He was never mean without a reason. He never hurt me without me deserving it. Sometimes, he was kind for no reason, like the time with the chair and morphine and blankets." 

 

John tensed and Gladstone turned to lick his face once. 

 

"Good boy," John whispered. "You're a good boy."

 

Paul hummed as he listened to John. Still very little progress on that front, which would not do at all. They absolutely had to get past this. "You've told me all this in the past. I find it interesting that you still say 'deserving it.' You don't strike me as the sort of man who would believe anyone alive, human or animal, would deserve such treatment. Am I mistaken?" 

 

"Yeah, I know, I've...I used to not be able to say it at all! I used to shout that I did deserve it! I can _logically_ say that I know I don't. Isn't that enough? Why does it matter what I feel? What I feel is wrong. I'm used to that." 

 

John focused on Gladstone again. 

 

Paul kept his voice gentle, allowing John his frustration. "It must feel bad though, feeling as though you deserved it, even if you know that's not right. We can get you past that. It doesn't have to always feel like this. You've made progress, I'm not trying to take that from you." 

 

Paul responded in the same tone he'd been using. "Did you feel like this about yourself before Moriarty tortured you?"

 

"Not this bad," John sulked. "Not nearly. But I wasn't perfect. Never. Not perfect at all. But I didn't...I failed so horribly. Sherlock, then my wife and child, then Sherlock _again_ , then Greg, Greg again, Sherlock again, both of them..." John was going through a timeline, a very painful but very well kept one. 

 

John's pain was valid, but it was something they could work on. "Obviously no one is perfect. I'm not asking you to believe that you are. You've put a hell of a lot of weight on your shoulders, John. It's remarkable you're still moving under all of that burden. Hardly any of it as actually yours, either. You're just collecting it as you go. Let me ask you a hypothetical question. What would happen if say...half of those things were never your fault at all, never your failings?"

 

"Nothing would happen," John snapped. "This is in the past! Gone! There's nothing I can do about it." He rolled his eyes then. "Emotionally, then? I suppose I'd be a bit relieved to know I'm not a complete fuck up. I don't know how you're going to make me just realize that some things aren't my fault. I wish they weren't!"

 

Paul jumped onto the anger, wildly glad to hear it. "Not a complete fuck up. It must be so frustrating to try so hard and still have such a record. Is it?"

 

John sat up and nodded. "I have tried to be a good person forever! As a doctor and soldier and human being! I always try to do what is good. I always have. I'm not a saint, but I just...and I held out for so long, Paul." 

 

John's eyes were heavy with all he'd seen, and he breathed a slow sigh. 

 

"I held out for far too long. I couldn't hurt Sherlock. I knew by breaking and fearing him I'd hurt him. I held on to it. I made that my whole mind. I sort of willingly sank into obsession to keep myself sane. I will not hurt Sherlock. I will not hurt Sherlock. All I could think. But I guess it didn't work. Moriarty just made me fear him anyway. I tried. I guess that's why I didn't ever shoot him even when I thought he was still hurting me. Still couldn't hurt him. That part sank in too deep."

 

That hadn't been where Paul was going, but it was progress. "Well, that perfectly explains why you did not hurt him. Perhaps that helps to give you some understanding?"

 

"But I did hurt him! I do all the time!" John grabbed handfuls of his hair and tried to stay calm. "And how is this helping Greg?" 

 

Paul gave John a minute to compose himself. "John, you didn't shoot him. That's....remarkable given what happened to you. Why do you gloss that over? You very easily could have killed him and you didn't. And you've done your best to aid Sherlock when you could, even when it was supremely stressful to you." He was very glad John had the dog. 

 

"I don't want to talk about Sherlock with you right now, I want to bring you back to Moriarty. Why did you resist him if he was fair and just?"

 

"We're glossing over it because not shooting my friend shouldn't get me a fucking merit badge." John turned away and back to Gladstone. "And I resisted because that's what humans do. We try to escape things that hurt. And at first, I was angry. I wanted to escape."

 

"Why," Paul asked, latching on, not wanting to give John any resistance at the moment. 

 

"Because it was hell! And I wasn't trained to be afraid of leaving yet!!" John found himself shouting, and curled back into a small ball around Gladstone.

 

"But he was fair!" Paul responded with a raised voice of his own, feeding the tiny spark of anger from John, "and you had done something wrong, hadn't you? You tried to be a good man, and good men own up when they have to pay, right? He was fair, so you say."

 

"Criminals still try to escape prison, don't they? The law is fair! I wanted to die! I was trained to be afraid of killing myself! They left out fake pills and-and guns with blanks and so many things! So many tricks! I never said I wanted it! I said it was fair!"

 

Paul shook his head, "Not all criminals try to escape. You try to help Sherlock because it's the right thing to do. You try to get better for Greg because it's the right thing to do. You are not the sort of man who would run from what was right. If it was fair, then it was right. You'd not try to run from it at the start. Why did you resist him?"

 

"Because I'm a coward and it hurt! And I KNOW in my brain that I didn't deserve it! It just still feels like I did. Arguing is pointless! My head already knows! But emotionally... I feel like I could show you the tapes and you agree with me, that I am horrible."

 

"Why," Paul pressed, intentionally making John provide answers. John knew he'd seen the tapes, but they were not talking about logic. He wanted John to say _why_ he felt horrible, what was at the core of it. 

 

"What did he tell you was the reason you are so awful, John? Why would I agree?"

 

"Because I was weak!! I broke even though I KNEW it would hurt Sherlock! I hurt myself yesterday even though I KNEW it would hurt Greg! I try not to be selfish but I can't stop!" John felt a massive block in his mind, and he steered clear of it. 

 

Paul shook his head, "No. You said if I watched the tapes I'd agree you were horrible. You were not in contact with Sherlock or Greg at that time. You never broke. You had a gun in your hand and Sherlock in easy range, and he's alive. You've just told me two falsehoods. Tell me why, John. Why are you horrible?"

 

"I just AM! Look at all the havoc I've wrecked! If I'd died before meeting Sherlock, everyone would be better off. Okay. Okay. Fine. Sherlock might not be good, but he wouldn't be an invalid screaming and crying all day. And I wouldn't have hurt Greg, and he'd have found some other friend, and I wouldn't be constantly causing everyone pain. I tried so hard to die. It got to the point where it wasn't even for me anymore. I wanted to kill myself the same way a shepherd wants to kill a wolf. I wanted to protect everyone from myself and what Moriarty said I would become."

 

Paul shook his head, calmly speaking to John. "Nope. I'm not buying it. Not a word. That's some good hedging, but that's not what we were talking about. Why are you horrible, John? What made it fair?" 

 

John whimpered and shook his head. "I don't know! I'm just bad!”

 

Paul quietly gave John a moment before nodding. The man still wasn't going to work with him then. "Alright. Alright. For the record, John, you are a good and selfless man. You're not willing to work with me yet. I cannot help you if you won't push through this."

 

"I am trying! I am willing to work with you. I just don't believe any of it. That's all. I can't help that." John absently rubbed one of the scars on his hand. "I don't know how to believe those things."

 

"You also don't know why you believe what you do. You already know how to understand what I'm telling you, you've just got to look at it. God knows I understand why you don't want to look, John, but you've just got to. You know you're a good man, you tell me you are all the time and you're right. On some level, it must feel wrong for you to say this was fair. Don't answer that quickly, give yourself a moment to think on it."

 

John dropped his head into his hands and tried to calm the pain in his chest. "I don't want to look," he whispered. "I know what I'll see. Who I'll see. I'll hate myself even more."

 

"Why do you think that, John?" He asked quietly.

 

"Because it's true! I was horrible and selfish and weak and pathetic. I did selfish things to escape pain and I inflicted pain on myself to escape abuse. If I look back, that's all I will see. If I look back, I'll see things as I did before. I know I will."

 

"Then the worst you still feel is as you do now, if that's true. But it's not true, is it John? You've put all that responsibility on yourself, for naturally understandable reasons while in captivity, but nite it's hurting you. You're wrong about what you will see, John."

 

John shook his head and rocked himself lightly. "If I look back I'll just see it the way I was trained to! I'll panic!"

 

Paul spoke quietly to him. "John. You don't have to look back at it all at once. I want you to look back at when you were still angry, right at the start. Look with me. You are safe here in your home. You can do this. Think back to that anger. Why were you so angry with him?"

 

John covered his face with his hands. The beginning was difficult to remember specifically. It had been hellishly traumatic. 

 

"I don't want to," John whimpered, but pushed his mind back anyway for his love of Greg. 

 

_"You're not just going to hurt Sherlock," Moriarty continued pleasantly and grabbed John by the chin. "You're going to burn the heart out of him. Foolishly, he decided to put his heart in you, which really is a wonderful thing for me."_

_He gestured for Moran, who stepped forward with canister of steaming, boiling water._

_"What is lovely is that now I have a physical thing to burn. But I'm not going to kill you, John. No, no. You'll be self destructive when I'm done. You'll hurt yourself and Sherlock and everyone else who comes near you."_

_John growled low in his throat, but his hands were bound behind him and his body already covered in bruises and whip marks, and he couldn't formulate a reply for his extreme exhaustion. Still, he glared and growled, which got his stubborn point across. Moriarty clicked his tongue._

_"Oh, John, I wish you hadn't have done that. I really wish you'd just been good. Now I have to punish you. I didn't want to, but you need to learn the rules."_

_"F'ck you," John breathed through cracked, bleeding lips._

_"Sebby, dear?" Moriarty gestured him forward then pointed to John's shoulder. "Pour it there."_

 

John shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut as if preparing for pain. "Don't like it. I was stubborn. Always too stubborn."

 

"Don't go back there, John. Open your eyes, remember where you are. You're home. You can get to those memories without going back there. Open your eyes and stay with me, you're doing very well."  
He then address what John had said, "Why were you stubborn? What were you resisting?"

 

"If I had just been obedient, things would have been easier. I know that's wrong, but I could have avoided so much pain just by not being an ass."

 

"Exactly. It would have been easier to do as he wanted. So why didn't you?" John was so close.

 

John ground his bared teeth and focused on a spot in the coffee table. "I don't know! I was stupid and stubborn! I needed to learn to not be stubborn!!" He did not want to go down this road. No. No, it was far too painful.

 

"Just drop it!"

 

"John, you are so close. Stay with me, please stay with me. You do know. Why were you resisting him?"

 

John wanted to shut down. He could feel it; that childish safety he could sink in to by shaking his head and turning away both mentally and physically. But that would hurt Greg. He could not hurt him any longer.

 

John asked himself the question over and over. "I...he said it was because I was stubborn and bad."

 

"And what does John say? What does the man who was resisting Moriarty say about it?" 

 

He was soft and careful in his tone, knowing they'd pushed at this dangerously.

 

John was struggling valiantly to keep the mind numbing fear at bay. "I-I can...I w-was stubborn before. I was- I've always been stubborn! And I kept hurting people and being stupid. Moriarty was trying to-" John shook his head. Moriarty had not been trying to help him, no matter what he had claimed. 

 

"I don't know!"

 

"You're right there John, right there. What was Moriarty trying to do?" 

 

Paul leaned forward, trying to urge on, "You're right there. What was he trying to do? Keep on with it, John. You can do this. What was Moriarty trying to do?"

 

John pulled at his hair. "Hurt Sherlock. It...it never had anything to do with me!! He was after Sherlock through me!" John looked up in shock and horror. There was a chance, a small one, that perhaps it hadn't been earned training and discipline. 

 

"Moriarty was trying to ruin me!"

 

Paul kept him with it, keeping his expression steady even as his heart jumped. "So why were you trying to resist him, John? Why were you being stubborn? Why didn't you just behave and do what you were supposed to do?" 

 

This was debilitating. John couldn't see straight. The entire framework of his mind was shattering and falling into his chest where it bled his heart dry. 

 

"H-He wasn't being fair," John ventured. "I wanted to get away so he...so he didn't hurt Sherlock through me!" 

 

How had he not seen that before? He'd known so solidly that Moriarty had done what he did to hurt Sherlock, and yet, he'd also thought him fair. The reaction when the two ideas touched was explosive.

 

Paul knew this was incredibly stressful, but it was absolutely crucial. "So, John...who in that scenario who was being horrible, and who was being selfless and brave?" 

 

His voice was gentle and very quiet, knowing John could not handle much stimulus at that point. 

 

John began to see it now. "I was being stubborn to...to protect Sherlock!" The reason for his supposed 'badness' lifted an immense amount of weight off his shoulders, and John drew in a hissing breath. "And Moriarty was only ever trying to hurt Sherlock! I was being 'bad' because I was trying to protect him!"

 

Paul leaned back, nodding as he allowed John's mind to work. "That's exactly right, John," he whispered, going quiet again to let John process, intensely thrilled with the colossal breakthrough they'd just had. 

 

John's breath hitched on a sob and he covered his mouth. "I-I was only...only b-being stupid and stubborn to...to protect Sherlock. I must not hurt- oh, God, I...I thought...it was just to save Sherlock." 

 

The knowledge that he hadn't been inherently bad that entire time was massive. It did not fit in his mind, but he was suddenly aware of it. 

 

"I was just trying to help someone! I-I wasn't being a bad man!"

 

Paul looked up as Greg appeared in the hallway, hair tousled and far too pale, but he was wildly glad to see him anyhow. He nodded to him and pointed to John without saying a word. 

 

It was a matter of seconds before Greg was gathering John into his arms, budging the dog off the sofa.

 

John cried out in relief as Greg came to him, and he wept on his shoulder for a moment before attempting to explain. "H-He was always trying t-to hurt Sherlock! He w-wasn't fair! Never fair! I-I w-wasn't being b-bad I was t-trying to p-protect Sherlock!"

 

Greg's eyes went wide as John spoke, looking to Paul as he gripped John tight. For a few seconds he could not find his voice, utterly stunned at the breakthrough. 

 

"Oh god, John that's right. That's right, John. That's absolutely right. That's right. You've never been bad, you've always just tried to protect us." He rocked John slowly as he stroked his fingers through John's hair, astounded by the massive break. 

 

John shuddered in Greg's arms and all the fight left him. He had his victory, and he'd pushed himself to the breaking point, but now he was exhausted. "I-I feel confused a-and sad," he whimpered. "I don't like this. B-But...I-I wasn't being b-bad, Greg."

 

Greg gathered John up as John went slack. "You weren't being bad. I love you. I love you, you've not been bad, that's right. You've just done some incredible work, I am so proud of you. I am so, so proud of you." 

 

He brushed his fingers through John's hair and rocked him, trying to soothe him. 

 

"That's all for now, that's all. You've done so well, let's rest. That's all. You've done so well."

 

John began to cry in earnest when Greg said he loved him and he his his face in his shoulder. 

 

"Paul s-said- h-he said I-I-I- said that I-I-" such a horrifying statement he simply could not finish. How could he be incapable of loving someone who was the center of his entire world?

 

Greg looked to Paul as he carried on rocking John, running fingers through his hair. "Breathe...breathe John. It's going to be alright. It's alright. I love you, you're safe, and you've done so incredibly well. Breathe."

 

"H-He said I-I can't l-love you because I-I don't love m-myself!" John clung to Greg harder then in fear that he would leave in disappointment.

 

"Hey," Greg whispered against the side of John's head in response to him clinging tighter, "hey...easy...it's alright. It's alright. I don't think that means what you think it does. Easy. I love you, I know you love me. It's okay. Shh...John...you've just made an incredible breakthrough. I'm so proud of you."

 

"Paul s-said that it w-was the w-way to help you," John explained in response to his breakthrough. He was driven by the idea of helping Greg, and it was evident that he had pushed himself. "I love you. I-I _know_ I do. H-He said I-I don't l-love m-myself s-so I don't have any t-to give you."

 

Greg closed his eyes, rocking John as he tried to comfort him. "Thank you," he whispered with as much as he could put into it, so grateful for the work John had done he could hardly find the words. He was swiftly bordering tears himself, pressing his face down to the top of John's head, 

 

"You did all that for me? I- g-god, John that's- thank you, _thank you_."

 

"H-He said it w-was the only w-way t-to help," John whimpered and nuzzled the side of Greg's neck in an effort to feel closer to him. "I-I keep hurting y-you and I am s-sorry. I'm going t-to do better. I love you. I feel bad right n-now. I don't...Moriarty was...it d-doesn't go in m-my mind right."

 

Greg drew John in closer, trying to comfort him. He rubbed his back with one hand, the other curled tight around his arm as he cradled John to his chest. 

 

"Shh...shh...John you've just pushed through something really massive. Let's rest, let's just rest. It will be easier to see when it's not so new. I know it all feels wrong, I'm sorry it's so hard. You are so brave. Such a good man. I- I don't know how to thank you for this. Let's rest? It will feel better soon."

 

"Thank me?" That did not make sense. "I-I'm only trying t-to love you. You don't need...I thought you would be sad or disappointed with me. I...Could we get in bed for a bit? I'm scared and I-I don't feel good in my head."

 

Greg shifted John so that they could get up, still a bit unsteady himself but it didn't matter. He spoke as he stood and pulled John to his side. "I'm so- I don't even have the words for how proud of you I am," he explained as he began to move them down the hall, "I know it hurts to think about those sorts of things, and you did that for me. So of course I'm thanking you. I love you."

 

He pulled John gently into the unmade bed with him, calling the dog up too. "Come here, I've got you. I've got you," he assured, wrapping his arms around John and holding John's head over his heart, thumb stroking along John's temple, "That was the most remarkable thing to do for me. I can't thank you enough. I'm so proud of you." 

 

"Proud of me?" John rested his head over Greg's heart and took immediate comfort in it. That made it all worth it, even if he didn't understand why. "I didn't deserve...that makes m-me sad, Greg. It hurts." Loss of control was always a horrible thing to try to accept. 

 

Greg scratched his fingers through John's hair, gently rubbing his scalp, doing everything he could to soothe the man. "No, you didn't deserve any of it. I'm so sorry it hurts. I love you, you're not alone." 

 

He pressed a lingering kiss to the hair at the top of John's head, whispering again in a voice thick with emotion, "I'm so proud of you. So proud."

 

John reached up and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. "I love you so much. I was so...so powerless." 

 

He wiped tears from his eyes and kissed Greg's cheek before settling back down. 

 

"You're so beautiful a-and I love you so much." Before, John had held out in his torture to protect Sherlock, and he had stayed alive to keep from hurting him, and he did difficult things with Sherlock in mind, but now it was Greg at the center of his mind, and he made progress for him. 

 

Greg stroked his fingers down John's back as he carded them through his hair as well. "You were far from powerless. I think you drove him mad with how strong you were. All his tools and all his vicious energy, and it took him everything he had to get to you. And in the end, he lost anyhow. You took all his power away in the end. I'm so sorry this happened to you, John. You never, ever deserved it."

 

"I'm going to d-do everything I can to m-make you happy. I'm going to make things good for us. It's as important to me as not hurting Sherlock. Please, G-Greg, love, tell me if you don't feel close to me. I'm here for you. Y-You can tell me anything. I want to help." 

 

John's energy was fading and he pulled some of Greg's shirt to hold to his face. "I love you, okay?"

 

Greg curled more around John and held on to him, rocking them gently. "Okay...okay love. I hear you," though he'd never, ever be completely honest with John. He'd had far too many horrifically painful lessons to make that mistake again. "Sleep. John just rest, I've got you, I'm right here. I'm right here. I love you. I just want you to rest right now." 

 

"Okay, love. Okay. I love you." John fell asleep just a minute later, though his breath still hitched lightly even in sleep. 

 

Paul and Greg exchanged a look, before Paul nodded and went back to the sitting room. Greg curled around John, holding him in close and trying to shield him from the pain he knew John must be in. But it was the man's mind against him, what could he do?


End file.
